My mother had Alzheimers. My son had just died of AIDS. My survival was dependent on my AIDS support group, volunteering to help other young men with AIDS, their parents and my son’s friends who had helped care for Dan during his last three months of life. The last thing on my list of priorities was driving alone 100 miles through Arizona desert heat to visit my mom who hadn’t even known me for the last three years.
It was hard to even call my dad every week or so to listen to him recite his woes about her trach, her feeding tube, the careless nurses, his fears, his anger at God and on and on.
Did I love her? Oh, yes, dearly.
I loved the gentle seamstress, schoolteacher, cook and homemaking mother that had raised me. I loved the piano playing, singing, Sunday School teaching, huggable mother who had taught me so much. I even loved the strict, overprotective mom who lectured and scolded and always cried after spanking me, saying it hurt her more than it did me.
But that did not even remotely resemble this woman who lay there with a machine breathing for her, who only barely responded to my dad as he nagged the nurses to change or turn her. I didn’t even know this pitiful person, much less relate her to my joyful loving mother.
My younger cousin lived in Phoenix and my dad would frequently tell me she had been to see them at the rest home. She brought flowers, knickknacks, sweet tokens of love, often. She sat and listened to my dad’s woes. She loved and prayed for my mom, her Aunt Floy. She often brought her little girl and nephew to cheer my dad as he sat with my mother every day faithfully.
Thirty years have passed. I now work as receptionist at a luxurious senior living facility. One of our residents strongly reminded me of my mother’s youngest sister, who had just passed away. She was very tiny but a tough little person, proud and independent like my Aunt. We connected on many levels, our love of pottery, art items, and many opinions of life.
Her daughter lives in another state and her son is a doctor who travels helping third world peoples. She respects their lives and businesses and wants them to continue their good works. I have learned to know and value her daughter through her visits and phone calls. Our friendship is strong. I love her mother.
The mother is 94 and now on hospice. I visit her there often.
Today her daughter began to express her gratitude to me for my kindness to her mother since she lives so far away and her visits are brief and not very frequent. I told her someone gave my mom love in my absence years ago and filled in for me. I told her how much it meant to me that my cousin visited my mom so much. I began to cry.
Only later did I realize that the cousin who did that for my mother was the daughter of the Aunt this lady resembles.
Burla, you have been a blessing to our whole family just by being your loving, wonderful, sweet self in so many ways. But this was something you gave me and my mother (and dad) that was priceless. Your time. Your love. Your faithfulness.
I love you dearly, little cousin, and somehow our lack of actual time together has not kept our bond from being strong. I just wanted to share this and tell you how much I value you. I love you.