My father, siblings and I gathered at the hospital on a snowy Saturday in December. My mother layed on the narrow bed with sides pulled up, an institution white sheet outlining her diminishing body. She gestured slightly with hands and arms while voicing concerns. “Who will do the cooking?” she asked in the soft voice I knew so well. She was reassured that we’d all take our turns cooking. Satisfied with the response, she closed her eyes, rested her head against the pillow and became quiet and still.
Throughout the day and into the evening she spoke to us. At times scenes from her childhood became the topic of conversation and she’d share intimate details of growing up. Then, there were flashes of lucidity when we all joined in conversation as if dinner was on the table and each of us in our respective places.
In between monologs and discussions, mom slept. During one nap, I stood at the window in her hospital room staring out at the tableaus unfolding. From this location I could make out the fairytale-castle-like courthouse that sat in the town square with turrets peaking in orange-red tiles. Any other day the view would have been a magical one, with big snowflakes twirling to the ground against the courthouse background and Christmas music streaming down from the tall central tower, but this was not a holiday shopping excursion. I was here to ease my mother’s passing. I‘d seen it in her eyes over the past few weeks, that faraway, other-worldly look coupled with a lack of interest in this one. On the doorstep now, all she had to do was open the door and walk through.
I watched out the window as visitors dusted off cars covered in snow and drove off guiltily wishing I too could drive away. A group of children, pulling snow shovels behind them, trudged along the sidewalk hoping to make a dollar or two reminded me of childhood snow days. My mother’s voice broke my reverie as she began wandering down the roads to the places she’d been and the trips she and my father had made. She talked of the Badlands in
That simple statement shot through me like an arrow that’s hit its mark. I turned and looked at my mother. She was regretful of being afraid to get on a plane and fly to destinations that my father had always wanted to go, but refused to go without her. As her life slipped away she realized the experiences she would never have, the places she would never see, the people she would never meet because of this fear.
Overwhelmed with the urge to run away, I hurried from the room and into the hallway, my heart pounding and my eyes stinging from threatening tears. Those words rang in my head like a mantra from a guru, “I wish I’d had the courage to fly.” I wasn’t afraid to get on a plane and go, but was I afraid of a less literal way to fly?
My mother passed away the following morning as I stood next to her bed, holding her hand and whispering to her that I loved her, we loved her and we’d be all right. As she drew one of her last breaths, in a hushed tone I told her, “It’s ok to go now."
I mourned my mother and still miss her, but her words, “I wish I’d had the courage to fly,” struck a chord deep within my soul. In the coming years I became a warrior slashing my way through life, bent on answering the questions that troubled the core of who I am. Within five years I would fling nearly everything I’d always known to the four winds and reinvent myself as I searched for my bliss, but that’s a story for another day.
I didn't expect anyone to join me this week on this venture into writing and sharing tidbits of who we are, where we came from and all that. You can only imagine my delight when Diana of Elephant's Eye had a story to share, too. Please stop by and read her story, too. And if at anytime you want to share a story of you just let me know and I'd be happy to post the link. Thank you, Diana!
