No Gift Can Equal

"No gift to your mother can ever equal her gift to you - life."

~ anonymous

I need to remember this when I feel like I'm sacrificing so much for her. Really, it is nothing. Nothing. She has done so much for me; and if I care for her for thirty more long, difficult years, it won't be enough to repay my debt to her. Yet, she doesn't feel like I even have a debt because she did it all for me out of love. May I do likewise for her.

Watching Her

Tonight as Mother said good night and left our house to walk down the slight hill to the gray cottage in which she and Dad live, I found myself doing something that I often do these days: watching her as she walked. I stand at our front door, usually on tiptoe, so that I can see clearly out the windows at the top of the door; and I stay that way until I see her go into her house and turn her lights on. I do this because, even though she is very active and capable, I know that having a fall is always a possibility. These days, darkness falls by the time she heads to her home after supper; and the ground is uneven and could cause her to lose her balance. I would hate for her to fall or otherwise be in distress and for no one to know about it for some time. At least this way, if anything did happen, I could rush out the door and come to her assistance very quickly. Chances are, nothing like this would ever come to pass, but still I watch...and she doesn't even know it.

My thoughts during those watchful moments run in several directions. First, I am acutely aware of the fact that, more than likely, the day will come when she isn't here to make that familiar walk. I need to store up these times of watching her because someday she won't be here on earth for me to see her; and when that happens, I know I will long with all my heart for just another opportunity to stand silently at my door, delaying for a few minutes the tasks that lie before me for the sake of gazing at her retreating back and the reflective strips on her tennis shoes as they go further and further down the hill.

Second, I think of all the times that my mother watched me: immediately after birth, all the times she nursed me and changed my diaper as an infant, first steps, first words, so many other firsts, going to kindergarten, playing in violin and piano recitals, singing in choirs, playing basketball, graduation from high school, graduation from college, wedding, giving birth to my children (she's been present for three out of the four births), and so many more. Even more than the biggies--the once-in-a-lifetime moments--I think of how she watched me during daily life, during ordinary routine days. Whether I called to her excitedly, "Mommy, watch me!" or didn't even know she was observing, she paused in her activities, gave me her attention, and watched me.

The least I can do for her now is to watch her in return...and maybe, by so doing, to somehow be a shield for her.

I Mourn Every Day

The mourning.

The grieving that went on and on, prolonged indefinitely by the mostly slow progression of the disease, by the lack of knowing what to expect as far as when the end would come. The sadness that came from watching a once strong, competent individual descend into a second childhood, an unwanted, unnatural second childhood. This isn't how things are supposed to be. Death is expected, but not this--this loss of ability for the individual, this mourning that drags on and on for the family.

I remember this from my granddad's experience with Alzheimer's Disease, and now I'm confronted again with this as my mother walks the same path as her father once did.

Tonight I mourned as my parents walked in our door for dinner without a roast in their hands, and I knew she had forgotten it. Yesterday we ate together--a delicious meal of roast beef and vegetables that she had made--and after we finished eating, we decided that there was plenty of food left over for tonight's dinner. I should have reminded her today that she had agreed to bring it. I should have written it down and sent a note home with her to help her remember. But I didn't, and she forgot. The forgotten roast was no big deal; my dad simply walked back down the hill to their house to retrieve it, and we heated it in the microwave and ate it. But the knife that's always present in my heart twisted a little more as I saw again how different she's become from the mother I once had: the mother who could successfully juggle multiple roles and responsibilities, the mother who was always there for me and took care of me so well, the mother who could be counted on to remember a simple thing like "bring the roast!" That mother is only present sporadically. I miss her, and I mourn.

Every single day.