The Power of Rest

Losing My Mother

Man was made for joy and woe

Then when this we rightly know

Through the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine

A clothing for the soul to bind."

         -William Blake

Celebrating Mother's Day when your mother is dying is no picnic. Don't rush to judgement, though. It isn't that I don't cherish the memories of our last holiday. It's just that it was awful. Harrowing. Absolutely terrible. But perfect nonetheless.

On our last Mother's Day, we ate lox and bagels with extra capers and thick slices of red onion. (Which I detest. The whole kit and caboodle, truth be told.) But I suspect it was mother's taste for onions (at breakfast, lunch and dinner, it seemed) which gave her the well earned reputation of Phoenix, one who rose time and time again from the ashes of yet another impossible to beat illness. But not this time.

We ate our breakfast on styrofoam plates, balanced awkwardly on our knees. My proper mother would have preferred china plates and cloth napkins, and she jokingly scolded me for forgetting the silver. The Three Musketeers (my husband, mother and I) watched as her three grandchildren bounced like so many restless quarks around the nursing home's day room. We did a yeoman's job pretending she wasn't actually dying.

I so wanted to keep the shirt she wore that day. We had chosen the fabric together on a trip to London. It was hand beaded and smocked, made for her by a seamstress who designed costumes for operas. But we chose that shirt for her viewing and burial. I didn't remove the faint smudges of cream cheese left by the baby, who'd chewed thoughtfully on one of her sleeves as she cradled him in her arms while we'd eaten our bagels.

We ignored doctor's orders that day, and shared a box of European chocolates while we told favorite family stories. About the time my father misspelled "diaper" on my oldest brother's birth announcement, then convinced my mother it was the "English spelling" in order to save face. When my mother was scolded by the head of the radio station for using the word "womb" on air while hosting her 1950s radio shows (Bylines With Bonnie and A Date With Bonnie). The tender retellings of the night she bore each of her five children. 

We helped her open handmade cards, clapped as she blew her nose on her new handkerchief (embroidered with her favorite flowers, violets and lily of the valley), then spritzed her lightly with her favorite perfume (her signature scent, reminiscent of a verdant English rose garden).

For all the special touches and laughter, celebrating this holiday (or anything for that matter) when my mother was dying felt wrong, like a piece of death. What I wanted in the depths of my being, I could not have: a table at the new Brazilian restaurant; front row seats for my daughter's kindergarten graduation; to take her for a ride in a fancy red sports car over the winding mountain roads that led to Vail. All of this, thrown together with a set of working lungs and a new heart.

For a few hours, though, time stood still. The children didn't fight or wander off down the hallways. My mother chortled with glee as we reminisced. "Remember when dad waved his cane in the air at the lamp store? He broke an entire chandelier's worth of glass on top of your head, then managed to lay the blame on you! Your Priscilla Presley bouffant saved you from becoming a porcupine! All that hairspray. Dear God!" She laughed so hard her shoulders shook. Soon, she began to cry. We stood at the ready with her crisp white handkerchief, gently wiping the tears from her face. The children paused, wide eyed, as our laughter turned to weeping.

Two days later, our daughter turned six and graduated from Kindergarten. With great concentration, I watched her leap across the make believe frog pond, which signified that she'd become a graduate of Mrs. V's Bumblebee Class. We held her birthday party at the trampoline center, as promised. But I forgot the candles for her cake. Despite our seamless lies, we didn't stop by and pick Meewaw up on our way to the party, but Ava was too excited to notice.