Remembering My Mother..

Mother. Mom. Ma. Momma. Mommy......

The word conjures up very personal images for all of us. It is one thing that we have in common: we all have, or had, a mother. We all have our memories, too.

Mine are like slides. Crossing the screen, one by one. Pictures that are etched forever in my memories. Her hair, her long fingers and bright red nail polish. Her gentle voice, barely above a whisper at times. Her lovely clothes that I remember so clearly.

The stories Daddy told about her, lovingly shared with a smile and a laugh. Her turned-up nose, and the grimace when she was embarrassed or irritated. The smile that lit up the room. The laughter. Especially the ability to laugh at herself.

The stubborn streak that she so generously shared with me. A petite, pretty, and immovable object when she chose to dig in her heels. Mostly brought on by a sense of right and wrong. But not always. And never a good idea to argue with her when she was being stubborn.

Unmistakable pride in the accomplishments of her children and grandchildren. And a presence, too. She helped me make it through nursing school. She attended every one of my daughter's softball games. Pictures of her with my children when they were little, smiling at them and delighted by their antics.

And a sense of place, too. When she was in the hospital, having had surgery to remove cancer, she told everyone who would listen that her daughter was a nurse. The staff would come in to bathe her: “my daughter will be here soon, she'll give me a bath.” Or they would encourage her to get up and walk around a bit: “my daughter will walk with me.” And I did.

The day came, unexpectedly, when she was not herself. As I was helping her pack to leave on a trip, she couldn't remember what she needed to take with her. It seemed odd that, after traveling so much, she couldn't remember what to pack in her cosmetics' case. But she couldn't.

The nurse in me knows, and understands, that she was having transient ischemic attacks. She was having “mini-strokes” and they were stealing her memory. In another two weeks after that revelation, she had the big stroke, and left me with only my memories.

Happy Mother's Day, Momby. I miss you!