My college roommate's mother was a gifted teacher, in many ways -- she taught gifted children, she had many gifts herself, and she gave wonderful gifts. One of her favorite teaching devices was what she called "a story with a hole in it." She would tell a one-line story, and it was up to her students to figure out the back story. The process of watching minds at work gave her great joy. One of her "stories with a hole" was:
He was afraid to go home because the man in the mask was waiting for him.
The back story for this one? A baseball game.
I've been thinking about this story with a hole in it quite a lot lately, because I am afraid to go home. My mother, who used to walk three miles a day and who would always tell me to hurry up since I walked too slow, broke her leg in November. More than 35 years of fighting the ravages of diabetes has put a toll on her body and healing comes slowly now. I am eager to see my family, but a large part of me does not want to see this energetic, active woman struggling with a walker or riding in a wheelchair.
Mom has made a lot of progress with physical therapy, and she is determined to meet this challenge as she has met every other challenge throughout her life, persevering until she conquers. I suppose I should be happy that just her leg was broken, not her spirit, and that her mind remains active even though her body fails to cooperate. When I think of her reduced in her range, at least physically, though, it is an inescapable, unpleasant reminder that even a mother is mortal, too.
I'm turning 40 this year, and I'm afraid of becoming motherless. Now that I am a mother myself, I need a mother more than ever. I am powerless in the face of time, which seems to be marching with a louder and faster step since Mom's accident.
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Comments: 8
Go home, Jiya, and reconnect, and get to love this new version of your mother. Make time *now* to learn the recipes and family stories, and to say the things to each other that need to be said.
When Dad died, I was at peace, because I was never afraid to speak my heart -- even if it resulted in heated debates. He knew I loved him, and I knew he loved me, and there was no "unfinished business" between us to magnify the grief. I was lucky. You have the warning signs to prepare yourself -- follow the signs.
My parents are also stories with holes. Now in their 80s, it's ever so hard to watch them slip away. Hold your mom close now.