As I write today, which is probably a month or more before this posting, we are approaching three years since Mama left us for a better home. It took over a year before I stopped thinking, "I need to call her and tell her about this." It took even longer before the car stopped veering to that particular exit on the interstate. And even now, friends still tell me they miss her as well, and share funny stories and a tear or two.
We moved her up here when she was 87. We were already dealing with our own age, health problems, and increasing disabilities so a five hour round trip to see about her even just once a month was becoming difficult. Then after three years here, when living alone (her preference) even so much closer to us, was no longer safe for her, we had to go the assisted living route. Her doctor said we lived too far from him and the hospital—about thirty miles out in the country. Due to my Daddy's careful stewardship, we were able to find a good place in town, and between us and her church family, she was the most visited resident there. We were told that she received more visits in a week than the rest of the community did in a year. How sad is that for them?
We stopped by no less than twice a week, took her to every doctor appointment, and brought her out here for every holiday, Mother's Day, birthdays, and a few others days for good measure. Let's be honest here: it was wearing; it was time-consuming; it was inconvenient; it was expensive—especially the gas! But so was I, not for a mere four and a half years as it turned out, but for 20! Which doesn't count all the continuing worry parents feel after you are out on your own.
When, after two weeks, it became apparent that particular hospital stay was going to be the last, I had only one last thing I could do for her. I moved myself into her hospital room for four days, and then into her hospice room for the final four. Sleep was impossible. Eating depended upon whether anyone had brought something by. I talked to her. I answered the hard, almost impossible questions. I held her head up for a sip of water and fed her yogurt—the only thing she could stomach—a quarter teaspoon at a time, a couple of bites at a time. In the end, I just held her hand and waited for the last breath. It was my final gift to her and I will always be grateful I could give it.
But she gave me a final gift as well. In those last four and a half years, I got to know her as a person, not just Mama. I found out what a marvelous sense of humor she had. She kept people in stitches—sometimes in the middle of church services! She was full of compassion, especially for the people everyone else look down on. She was friendly—I could leave her in a waiting room while I paid the bill and made her next appointment only to come out and find her chatting away with a perfect stranger, then wishing her well in her upcoming surgery as we left! That's how close she had gotten in five minutes. She shared with me stories I had never heard before—about her childhood, dating Daddy, and her early married years, a treasure trove I will always have.
And now I have great memories—of a person, not just a parent. Perhaps too many of us expect perfection from a parent and cling to their mistakes, while we might more easily forgive a fellow human being for simply being "human." In those last few years my mother apologized again and again for not being her idea of the "perfect mother." I had to shush her with constant reassurances. All those years ago she had to learn to be a Christian, a wife, and a mother all at the same time without the blessing of "growing up in the church." Mistakes she made were more than understandable.
As she lay on her deathbed, she still worried about me. "Get some sleep," she would say, not realizing that she had her days and nights turned around and I was up with her every 15 minutes all night long. And she asked if I thought Daddy was still waiting for her.
"Of course he is," I told her, "and right now he's getting pretty excited."
All those gifts I would not trade for the world. Don't throw away your chance to receive the same. You will never regret it.
When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home (John 19:26-27).
Dene Ward
We moved her up here when she was 87. We were already dealing with our own age, health problems, and increasing disabilities so a five hour round trip to see about her even just once a month was becoming difficult. Then after three years here, when living alone (her preference) even so much closer to us, was no longer safe for her, we had to go the assisted living route. Her doctor said we lived too far from him and the hospital—about thirty miles out in the country. Due to my Daddy's careful stewardship, we were able to find a good place in town, and between us and her church family, she was the most visited resident there. We were told that she received more visits in a week than the rest of the community did in a year. How sad is that for them?
We stopped by no less than twice a week, took her to every doctor appointment, and brought her out here for every holiday, Mother's Day, birthdays, and a few others days for good measure. Let's be honest here: it was wearing; it was time-consuming; it was inconvenient; it was expensive—especially the gas! But so was I, not for a mere four and a half years as it turned out, but for 20! Which doesn't count all the continuing worry parents feel after you are out on your own.
When, after two weeks, it became apparent that particular hospital stay was going to be the last, I had only one last thing I could do for her. I moved myself into her hospital room for four days, and then into her hospice room for the final four. Sleep was impossible. Eating depended upon whether anyone had brought something by. I talked to her. I answered the hard, almost impossible questions. I held her head up for a sip of water and fed her yogurt—the only thing she could stomach—a quarter teaspoon at a time, a couple of bites at a time. In the end, I just held her hand and waited for the last breath. It was my final gift to her and I will always be grateful I could give it.
But she gave me a final gift as well. In those last four and a half years, I got to know her as a person, not just Mama. I found out what a marvelous sense of humor she had. She kept people in stitches—sometimes in the middle of church services! She was full of compassion, especially for the people everyone else look down on. She was friendly—I could leave her in a waiting room while I paid the bill and made her next appointment only to come out and find her chatting away with a perfect stranger, then wishing her well in her upcoming surgery as we left! That's how close she had gotten in five minutes. She shared with me stories I had never heard before—about her childhood, dating Daddy, and her early married years, a treasure trove I will always have.
And now I have great memories—of a person, not just a parent. Perhaps too many of us expect perfection from a parent and cling to their mistakes, while we might more easily forgive a fellow human being for simply being "human." In those last few years my mother apologized again and again for not being her idea of the "perfect mother." I had to shush her with constant reassurances. All those years ago she had to learn to be a Christian, a wife, and a mother all at the same time without the blessing of "growing up in the church." Mistakes she made were more than understandable.
As she lay on her deathbed, she still worried about me. "Get some sleep," she would say, not realizing that she had her days and nights turned around and I was up with her every 15 minutes all night long. And she asked if I thought Daddy was still waiting for her.
"Of course he is," I told her, "and right now he's getting pretty excited."
All those gifts I would not trade for the world. Don't throw away your chance to receive the same. You will never regret it.
When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home (John 19:26-27).
Dene Ward
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