Dear Mom,

Walking into the ER, as the nurse took us to the conference room, I knew this wasn’t your usual ER visit. The doctor explained what we would see. Your boy put on a brave face, but his hands were shaking. He knew because the ER nurse called and asked our ETA. I had to be strong – for him, for you – but it was hard, just in case you wondered.

The machine was doing compressions on your chest, the tube was in your throat, the monitor lines flat, and the people stood so helpless. I knew this wasn’t your usual ER visit.

I promised you I would trip on the cord. Remember how we would laugh about it before you got really sick? Then, over the past few months, you were more earnest as you reminded me, “You promised. You have the papers.” You always said I would have to do it because your son could not. Innumerable were the times that you stated how different I was from him, how I was harder, I could cope.

Do you have any idea the price I pay for coping? The price of saying aloud, “Stop. Let her go.”

Someone put a chair behind me, “You can sit down.” But I couldn’t, I had to touch your hand, your face, to know that it really was you who I had abandoned on this plane. No, not the usual ER visit.

We were never “Best Friends” like some mothers and daughters. We struggled with our beliefs and opinions – arguing, finding common ground, forging acceptable terms of engagement, doing our best. Sometimes it was good enough, often it wasn’t. But still, we tried.

Yesterday I went to work. What was I thinking? Hmm, maybe that I needed to remove myself from role of grieving daughter? Anyway, you know how you kept me company driving home all these years? Well, the new normal – no phone calls. I miss you already. Most days you were the only person I talked to who wasn’t associated with work. Guess I need to get some friends like yours, eh?

I’m still trying to do right on your behalf. Honor your wishes. Take care of things as you wanted. I’m tired of adulting. I just want to cry someplace safe.

But not tonight. Tonight there is still work to do. And I’m alone, again. Love you, Mom.


The Other 364

Feel the warmth of sun,love, and laughter.

Coffee hot, milk from the local dairy.

Toodle through the woods with the pups. Tis the season for them to disappear into great mounds of leaves only to pop out and galavanting onward.(Little dogs, one blends into the scenery a bit too well!)

Snuggle in with a book – after finishing some work. And yes, so grateful that it’s work that is mostly fun for me.

Maybe a fire later.

The other 364 celebrated.

Mother’s Day

Part I

I wrote about Mother’s Day, but the draft was lost.

Perhaps the Universe was suggesting I release the hurt, anger, and disappointment that so often accompanies these parents’ days?


Part II

I am neither mother nor wife.

I do not need these roles

to define me,

to structure my existence,

to validate my being,

except when I do.

Part III

I am ok,

as is.

So long silent…

So long silent.

Though part of me aches to put words to light — those thoughts and emotions yearning to feel the sun,
another part hides in everyday shadows.

Buried by everyday – the rubble of busyness, the cacophony of electronic assaults, the paralysis of despair.

Ok, so that’s a bit of hyperbole.

I want to spend time in thought, weave thoughts into words, put forth these afghans for others to toss upon the ground for a stolen siesta, wrap up in for warmth and comfort, spread across the sand and lounge in the sun’s brilliance.

To achieve such,    I    Must     Write

for me, for you, for life. (First hyperbole, now melodrama — sounds like English 101. How trite.)

Regrettably these lofty thoughts seem contradictory to the compulsory academic writing that demands my attention and haunts me … for at least another year.

But perhaps, I will nurture this wee rebellion, this self-indulgent (or self-fulfilling, depends on one’s perspective) escape from should do.

Tapping out thoughts once more – from me to you.

(c) CMD / Creekside Whispers 2015