I knocked on Mom's bedroom door and said, "Mommy, it's Nita. May I come in?"
No answer for a long time.
"Ok. I'll come back a little later. Let me know if you want anything."
A little later, like one or two minutes, I knocked on Mom's bedroom door and said, "Mommy, it's Nita. May I come in now?"
No answer for a long time.
I'm an adult child, married and barren by choice, yet want somehow to enter Mommy's world. I want to, at least, freely give her my hands and feet. It's very difficult for a saint, like my mother, to receive any help at all much less from me, so she doesn't answer her bedroom door, and somehow I understand, because I too strive for self-reliance, independence.
I'm ok, but Mother is not.
One month later:
No more chemotherapy for Mommy. One treatment will temporarily stop the cancer growth and symptoms, but cruel doctors tell her she will not live past the weekend.
I rush home, and I find a house full of people, some strangers, and some friends, and Mom is in a hospital bed in the living room sleeping. Everyone but Mom is telling me she is dying. People cry, wonder, and look at the house furnishings. I sit by Mom and sing old-shaped note songs she taught me and worry about disturbing her rest.
"Mommy, are you comfortable? Am I disturbing you?"
No answer for a long time.
Then I help Mom wash, change, and sit comfortably in her recliner. She hates her bald head, scarves, and walker.
'Nit, I want you to gather all your things and leave, go home and get back to your job.'
"Yes, Mom. I love you."
Mom is ok, but I'm not.
Because of Mom, I will be ok.
