This month Daniel and I flew to California to have a family-intensive get-away. Yes, you read that right. And you must be thinking, "Intensive should not precede get-away", am I right??!! Well, we were going to help celebrate Daniel's father's 90th birthday, so we included time to be with our California kids and grandkids, as well as a quick drive down to Southern California to see my mom and my brother Ken.
And for this trip, I had a kind of secret mission: to say to my mom something heart-felt that an aging parent would love to hear. Heck, for that matter, what ANY parent, any age would want to hear! I have said "I love you" countless times to her over the years, but this trip I wanted to make my words count. To say "well-done" to her. To bless her.
I had rehearsed a few things in my head, over and over and even told Daniel the essence of what I wanted to say. But I couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension as we drove south on U.S. Highway 101. Even the first sight of the Pacific Ocean--what I had been longing to see--was not enough to hold my attention.
Mom's disease has taken almost all of her words. She sits quietly every day. I am told that on good days, Mom will say a few words. But lately, each time I call her it is the background noise and clatter of the place where Mom lives that I hear--not Mom's voice. Sometimes I can hear her breathing and I'll think 'at least she is listening to me'. A year ago, Mom was still able to get out the first-half of a sentence before she would get stuck. Either she forgot where she was going with it--or she couldn't find the right words to finish-up the thought. But I know that Mom understands everything. She is being held prisoner by her own brain that now is not capable of finding her words.
When Daniel, Ken and I walked into the living room, I saw her sitting at the large table with several other residents. Her caretaker was calling out names of fruits and vegetables in a game of Bingo. Mom was fixated on the poker chips she had in front of her, covering up most of her Bingo card. I came over to one side of her wheelchair, gave her a gentle hug and said "hi Mom". She turned to look at me and slowly, quietly said "hi, Va-ree". My mom said my name! She always called me Val. This was momentous for me! We then joined in the rest of the game, kibitzing with everyone. Finally, the game was over.
I reached to move some hair away from Mom's eyes and she closed them and she didn't open her eyes after that. Great. Now she won't be looking at me when I say my special speech. Well, it's too late to back down--carry on! So I took Mom's hand, patting and stroking her thin arm while I first chatted on about our family--her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I felt uncomfortable--as if I was giving a report in front of a classroom. I looked around to assess the room. It was now or never--and I decided that it was "now".
I moved Mom's wheelchair closer to me. I then took both of her hands and softly began to speak just inches away from her head, her eyes still closed:
"Mom, you have been a good mom to us. You raised good kids. You have wonderful grandkids and awesome great-grandkids. You did the best that you could and we turned out quite well. I love you. Your family loves you. You are a great mom. Your children rise up and call you 'blessed'."
Tears were leaking out of my mother's closed eyes while I spoke. My voice cracked and my pitch wavered as I tried to make the rest of the words come out audibly, and tears were running down my cheeks. The caregiver brought over a box of tissues for us. I gently wiped my mother's face and then hugged her, whispering "I love you, Mom".
I don't think it was audible, but I could swear I heard Mom reply back, "I love you, too".
