This week’s installment was written by my sister, Carla, who lives in Texas.
I have been reading Mornings with Mom over the past several months and have enjoyed reading Donna’s perspective and remembrances about our mother. I wanted to write a Morning with Mom because I flew in for a longer visit with Mama over Spring Break this past week and spent Monday caring for her and wondering if she knows who I am. I expect there are many readers in my shoes: the child who doesn’t live nearby, but can only come occasionally and then sees the major changes in a beloved parent. We also carry the guilty feelings of wanting to do more, but because of jobs, families, and circumstances, we cannot be there every day.
That morning I wanted to help get her ready for a visit with other family members and felt feelings of inadequacy in understanding her needs. I helped her take a shower and worried I was doing everything wrong. The towel was too rough – which one do you want then, Mama? – but she cannot help me. Did I get soap in her eyes? Was the bathroom warm enough? I was overwhelmed with my desire to make the experience go well.
Later I spent time in conversation and watched her struggle to come up with a word. I listened as we went back in time and she was convinced I knew her high school principal. Didn’t I also know the neighbor down the road? Some of her happiest memories involve her days in school so she often returns to those people she knew and loved. On my last visit she thought I was her oldest sister and she wanted to talk about living in Daddy’s house. I am sad she doesn’t remember who I am.
She told one of my daughters who was visiting with her that she lives in a barn – isn’t it beautiful? – and I remembered the hours of playing in that barn at Grandmama’s house – the same barn Mama could now see all around her. My daughter’s eyebrows go up at this statement, but she quietly nods in agreement.
Mama loved beautiful clothes, and I struggle with my emotions in seeing her tell me that a shirt I gave her belongs to someone else and she is hoping she can keep it. She drapes a dozen necklaces around her neck and believes she is now ready to go. At night, I gently remove the many necklaces so she won’t be choked in the night, but she doesn’t willingly give them to me to be placed in containers on her nightstand. She has a fear they will disappear. I gently kiss her good night, and she says, “Good night, Honey” just as she did when I was a tiny girl. That leaves me with a sweet memory to take home.
I am now back at my home, but I called her today to see if she remembers me. For a moment I think she does when she says, “I love you, Honey. Thank you for your call.”
