Dreaming of mothers

It's almost Mother's Day, an annoying holiday for some, especially those who: A. no longer have a mother living on the planet; B. have grown children who are geographically or otherwise unavailable on Mother's Day; and/or C. think of the holiday as a sentimentalist's fabrication which unfortunately still tugs at the heartstrings, despite a cynical view of the whole idea. I guess all of the above apply to me. I want to turn off the radio or TV whenever there's a Mother's Day advertisement-they're so patently, saccharine-soppy, even when they attempt at humor. How can you not want to tear up-or throw up-when you see or hear these promotions?

That said, I had a dream last night about my mother--who's been gone almost two years now (I can hardly believe that). In it she was old, like she was before death (so often we dream about family and loved ones at different times in their and our lives). I was touching her face lovingly and talking about how soft her wrinkled skin was. It was a very sweet moment. Of course that's all I remember of that dream. I value each moment I can spend with my deceased parents in this way.

I had been thinking about her a lot this week-- possibly because of the emphasis on Moms from the commercials. But it came to me that after my Dad died, she was really thrown for a loop, and despite her physical and emotional disasters (a major stroke, the loss of her husband, cancer) she showed an ability to laugh and keep up like I wouldn't have expected. One side of her body was basically paralyzed after the stroke. She lost some mental ability also-- the words she tried to push past her tongue just wouldn't come, or would get mixed up with other words, and her face, smoothed strangely by the stroke, would look baffled and annoyed by this trick her brain or tongue played on her.

And yet, confined to a nursing home, she still had her humor and was cheered whenever I came to visit her. We didn't have to talk about much or do much. Often I just sat with her watching old movies in black and white on her TV, holding her hand. My brother said she'd lost so much weight that holding her hand was like holding a handful of finger bones. But she had a sweet smile, and when she turned it on me I felt love and forgiveness for whatever wrongs either one of us had ever done to the other. I also felt she was a trouper: she had always depended on my father and told me she expected to "go before him." Yet she hung in there, attending the AA meeting she started at the nursing home, going to bingo and other events she'd previously scoffed at.

Some might say (and I think it) she was a captive with little choice as to her behavior in that institution and with he physical limitations. But she made some choices. She insisted on not having her hair pin-curled like so many of the other little old ladies around her. Instead it was cut relatively short and blown out, giving her a surprised, windblown look. She started the AA meeting at the nursing home on Sundays. And she held onto one of the traditions she had with my father: at each meal, her dessert was ice cream with maple syrup.

I miss her, I loved her, I'm past the rancor I used to have for her. I hope to visit her again soon in my dreams. Happy Mother's Day, Mom.