“My bridge fell out,” she said. 

 ”Are you going to the dentist?” I said urgently. 

“No,” she sighed.  “I just super glued it back into my mouth.”   My laughter boomeranged through the phone … back into my sensitive ear.

Years ago, on the golf course,  Mom was hit in the mouth with an errant golf ball.  It knocked out her front teeth.  Because she was a beautiful woman, this devastated her self-image. It meant a year of plastic surgery.

Why now was she so non-chalant?  My Mom of yesterday would have slammed down on the gas pedal  for the dentist office.  But no…not now…because she realized she had but days to live.

We both giggled like schoolgirls at her newly discovered dental skills.  I paused, for a ridiculous moment, to worry about how the glue might affect her health.   The ironic thought made me smile.

As the days jogged by, her health softened -  like the last grains of sand sifting softly through an hourglass.  We mused  about surrender.  What a relief  to finally realize her life, her struggle was over.  Throw the make-up, the clothes, the mother-image, the  judgements, self-lectures and condemnations….throw them all on a big bonfire Mom!  You don’t have to be anything to anybody anymore!   I was so excited your time had come.

Her last lucid day was her grandest.  There she sat,  two superglue treatments later.  She gave up.  The bridge wouldn’t stay so she threw it away.  One side of her face caved-in…gifting her with a final and crooked, wicked little smile.  A smile she never had in life.    So genuine, so relaxed.   Stripped of vanity, dignity, and quite nearly…her life.  God! That smile is a treasure in my head.  It was her most elegant moment.

Mother’s day last weekend.  How I missed having a Mom.

No Mom for Mother’s Day…

My mother is deceased.  I have no children.   There will be no typical celebration for my Mom, or for me. 

My Mother died on Thanksgiving Night of 2006.  This will be my second “no Mom for Mother’s Day.”  Yet this will be a joyous day for me, because I chose to settle things with Mom before she died.  If you haven’t done so, do it now.  Whatever the history, no matter how horrible her crime, find a way to forgive.  Trust me, this is a selfish act.  You will be doing it for yourself.  Oh, yes…it will make your Mother much happier too (big smile).

My Mom and I…what to say.  Our relationship was tumultuous, competitive and sometimes felt downright mean.  We were polar opposites.  Yet a soft little voice warned me I’d better get my ducks in a row before her death.

She didn’t have long.  It could happen right then, or six months from now.  Her heart was failing. What magnificent, yet untried tool could bust through this ugly crust of mutual dislike built so meticulously in five decades?

And if I did break through, would she misunderstand?  Make fun of me?  Assume I was admitting I was wrong and she right?  Would she see my open armor and take advantage with a verbal jab? 

Even more frightening, would she suddenly assume I agreed with her on politics…that I’m ready to rejoin her religion? 

This task was like tatting.  Highly delicate.  One bad move and the beautiful lace is forever scarred.  My Mother was a formidable, opinionated woman.

I began in small steps.  I visited more often, always bringing a nice treat (one of her weaknesses…sweets).  Disarmed by this, she would fix me my favorite childhood meal, grilled tuna fish sandwiches.  Or we’d sip glass after glass of tap water and she’d talk about books she’d read, parties she’d attended, gossip from her volunteer job.  Whenever politics or religion came up, I nimbly diverted her train of thought with a funny story or joke.  This took a lot of work initially, but she finally realized I had unbuckled my holster…and let it fall to the ground.  Her one gun did not a good gunfight make.

This process of forgiving was a selfish act.  I was healing me.  I was also forgiving myself for the mean things I’d said and done to my Mother.  My ego stood in the way and I had to dismantle it. 

1. What difference did it make if she didn’t love me like I wanted?
2. What did it matter that she loved one of my siblings so much more than me?
3. So what if she thought the way I lived my life would prevent me from going to heaven?
4. What difference did it make that I didn’t really like her personality, nor she mine?

And finally…(and I find this very amusing now)

5. What difference did it make if she still insisted weapons of mass destruction were in Iraq…even after George and his administration admitted that wasn’t the case?

In the big staredown with death, none of the above mattered anymore.

As the summer heat grew heavy, her health began to decline.  I became her chauffer to a number of medical facilities.  At times, she appeared ready to die right in the waiting room.  Her heart was failing and the doctors had run out of ideas, and medicine.  This softened her in an unexpected way.  Here was Mom, facing her end.  All I could do was listen.  I was hardly experienced in end-of-life fear.  My gift:  I kept my belligerent mouth shut, and proceeded to get to know her for the first time in my life.

As children, we expect our parents to dote on us.  We expect to be the center of their universe.  Our hearts break when we learn otherwise.  Such is the sadness in growing up.  There is a sudden moment in time when you transform into the parent, allowing your parent to rest and prepare to die.

One late lazy afternoon, we sat in the backyard.  In a rare moment of  rare vulnerability, she asked me to read the words to a religious song called, “Where do I Turn For Peace?”  I sucked in a nervous, tense breath, worried the conversation was again headed for religion.  Then my dear inner voice told me to get over it.

I read the poem with all my heart.  My life change in that second, just as dramatic as Helen Keller saying “water” for the first time.  My stocked-full-of-lead backpack suddenly fell off my shoulder.  The act of surrender massaged my back, one nearly broken from the weight of anger.  

As I scanned the lyrics, I felt her looking at me, studying my face, as if for the first time.   And I was giving her permission to do so without saying, “what are you looking at?” Perspiration gathered uncomfortably on my eyelids…and they fluttered with embarrassment.  I could feel it.  She was looking at me, loving me, regarding me as her precious creation.  This raided my heart with near shock.  It felt so Damn good, I took my sweet time reading the piece.  I wanted to feel her heartfelt gaze.  Was this the beginning?  Could we finally “make peace?”

Back at home that night, I poured out my heart in two poems and sent them to her immediately.  She called back, enthralled…because I hadn’t written poetry since I was a child, when I couldn’t really write,  She, a typist, had been my scribe.  Long ago in poetry we had found our peace pipe.

Our visits became more joyous, despite how terrible she felt.  I suppose our newfound relationship may have encouraged her to live a little longer.  But that was not to be. 

Hospice was prescribed, and for two weeks she lay dying.  I coaxed her through it with the most sincere effort I’ve ever pledged.

Now, Mother’s Day is deep-hearted.  No sad memories for me.  I made peace with Mom, and she with me.

And so, dear reader…work things out with your Mom.  You’ll never regret it.

Strange Embrace
-by Linda Athis

The most loving embrace
I ever gave,
was over a toilet.

There sat my Mother
unable to speak,
pleading for response
from a body shutting down.

Our eyes met in fear.
We did not share
what we both knew.
Death whispered near.

I’m sorry she said,
as if she caused this,
had cruelly wished a curse
upon me, her caregiver.

In that second my heart split,
ripped raw by a mean and jagged knife.
My stronger, youthful arms reached out,
fiercely wrapped around her bony frame.

And there we paused
in a deep, strange embrace.
Resting, loving, weeping
for all things left unsaid.

-end-

More poetry like this at forgivingmom.com

I once heard a religious sage say, “the past isn’t over and the future has already happened.”  As I ponder this, I realize that when a loved one dies (my Mother recently died), many of our minds kindly wipe out bad memories and focus on the good ones.  I find myself doing that as I approach Mother’s Day.  But I also think it is wise to remember your Mom for who she was, the good and the bad.  When we can look at our parents as near equals as we age – with faults just like us – the true healing begins.

Below, a poem from one of those moments when Mom and I were not getting along. She had a hangup, understandibly so (given the days of Twiggy and thin fashion), with weight.

Love by the Pound- by Linda Athis

I saw you do it, Mom.
You cannot hide
the stolen glance I see
each time we meet.
We hug,
and you look down
at my belly.

No.
I’ve not lost weight.
Not even tried.
Those days are gone.
I only wish
your wishing was.

I was your beauty,
but then came the years,
not wrinkles—
pounds.

You loved me dearly once,
when my wrists and knees
were sparrow thin.
You held me gently,
and whispered your concern.
But I knew your secret.
You loved it.

That is why, now,
when you steal that glance,
I know…
ten pounds, twenty pounds,
it doesn’t matter.
It separates us.
How sad.
You’ve lost your beautiful daughter.

I will not go back.
No Mother’s love can make me do that.
But I know you feel differently.

Think!
Would you have me die early
to be beautiful?

Are you like me?  My Mother died last year.  Also, I don’t have children…so the day will come and go like any other.

But luckily, I am not sad.  In six short weeks, my Mother and I covered a lot of territory.  After decades of anger, all of the emotion fell away.  We embraced, expressed love like we never did in the past, and I helped her die.  It was such a beautiful experience.

So I suppose Mother’s Day won’t just pass like any other day, will it?  My memory is very warm  : )

Strange Embrace – by Linda Athis

The most loving embrace
I ever gave,
was over a toilet.

There sat my Mother
unable to speak,
pleading for response
from a body shutting down.

Our eyes met in fear.
We did not share
what we both knew.
Death whispered near.

I’m sorry she said,
as if she caused this,
had cruelly wished a curse
upon me, her caregiver.

In that second my heart split,
ripped raw by a mean and jagged knife.
My stronger, youthful arms reached out,
fiercely wrapped around her bony frame.

And there we paused
in a deep, strange embrace.
Resting, loving, weeping
for all things left unsaid.