From time to time, I will run into one of you. You are the readers who occasionally let me know that I’m not shouting into a void, but you hear me. You express your appreciation to me for writing about this journey with Mom. I appreciate you for listening. If only one were to benefit from this story, to gain encouragement, or to find strength for the caregiving journey, this endeavor will have been doubly worth it.
While I am grateful that these stories may help one of you, I really write for me. I think all writers do. We have a story to share – fiction or non-fiction – that is buried within us, waiting to get out.
Most of my life, I had longed to be a writer. When I was in sixth grade, I started keeping a diary. I wrote to “Dear Future Me” with the hopes of influencing the future by making me remember the past. In my pre-pubescent voice I scolded and cajoled, trying to make the future mom in me remember what it was like to be a kid. Mom and Dad were so “mean,” I thought! I was determined to be a kinder, much more understanding parent.
In my twenties, I had thought to compile the years of diaries and journals into a book. After becoming a mom, however, my life was too hectic to make that happen. Occasionally, I would pull a well-worn spiral bound notebook out of the stash and read it. I tried to understand how my own children were feeling by reading the handwriting of 12, 13, or 14-year-old me. Sometimes I laughed and sometimes I cried; the teen years are so difficult and full of angst!
When I started writing Mondays with Mom, I was surprised to find how much I liked the writing. I suppose I’ve always used writing as a sort of cathartic release, but I was surprised to find it connected with others. I didn’t know I could write until I started the weekly discipline of writing. Thanks to my sister, Carla, who serves as my editor most of the time, I’ve been able to put out a piece almost every week for the last three years.
The writing bug has come later in life for me. Other doors of expression and connection were closed and this one opened. I’m always surprised when I run into someone who tell me they read these articles every week. I’m honored. When I sit at the table by Mom’s chair each Sunday or Monday, I wonder about the readers. Will this article reach someone who needs it? Is it honest without being too personal?
Mom loved to write, too. There are boxes and boxes of letters in her beautiful handwriting in a footlocker at my house. She wrote long, eloquent, newsy letters to all her children, friends, and family. I often wonder what she would write about on this computer keyboard if she was able to still communicate clearly. Perhaps in a future article, I’ll share one of her letters.
My intent with most of these Mondays with Mom articles was to hold her closer. I write to hold on to her when I know she could slip away any moment. We have been so blessed to have her with us much longer than anyone could have imagined, but these days cannot be taken for granted. Even this minute, as she sleeps in the chair beside me, I wonder about that day, the day when she lays aside this body that is broken and hurting and receives her new body and clear mind. Even with complete faith that she’ll be safely home, I know I’ll miss her terribly.
So I will continue to write and hold her tightly while she’s still breathing on this earth. Thanks for understanding and sharing this journey with me.
