My Mother, Myself

By Lynn M. Gibson
A Web Exclusive

My mother is sleeping tonight in a hospital bed, and I watch as the antibiotic drips slowly into her body through an intravenous tube. It’s 3 a.m. and the on-duty nurse has just checked her vital signs before whisking out of the room to see her next patient. Although the hospital is silent at this moment, I am aware that it really teems with life, with illness, and with death. I try to sleep in the corner chair that is supposed to offer at least physical comfort to those who keep watch over their loved ones. I shift my aching body and the stiff pillow for at least the tenth time. It is not surprising that the chair and pillow offer me no physical comfort, for the painful silence of the hospital offers only the emotional exhaustion that comes from months of worry about my mother.

The only sounds now are the quiet whirring and sucking of the lifesaving medical equipment that helps keep my mother’s roommate alive.

I watch my mother sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of her deep breathing accentuated by her slim body and tiny face.

For a moment, time stands still.

I am alone in the world with my mother.

And I realize that I’m crying.

Navigating the emotional terrain of my mother passing through the world of “young-old” into that of “old-old” brings with it an aching pain that I am unaccustomed to feeling. I am ill at ease in this hospital world and I want to hide from it tonight. Desperately. But where can I go? This is a place from which I cannot hide. There is nowhere to go because if I flee, I leave my mother behind. I leave myself behind.

I cannot leave her. I cannot leave myself.

My love of our elders stems from long ago. My fondest memories from childhood are of my grandmother, my father’s mother, who lived with us after her first stroke. The day of my First Communion, as my grandmother was getting on the bus to come to Rockford, she was stricken with an aneurism. My life changed from that day on. My grandmother was one of the most wonderful women I had ever known. Her kindness, internal strength, and understanding helped me navigate the sometimes difficult era of my elementary school years. In school, I was a shy, quiet little girl living in a world of loud, boisterous children. I had a few friends who were like me. How we longed to escape the confines of shyness and be like the others.

My grandmother knew this. She watched while I played with my toys in a make-believe world of confidence and self-esteem. She knew. She knew what it was like to be like me - quiet, afraid, lacking confidence. The day she told me that she knew, I stared at her in wide-eyed awe. My grandmother had raised six children alone after my grandfather died. In virtual poverty, she brought up her three girls and three boys to be loving, generous adults. From that day forward, I knew I could gain the confidence to be whom and what I wanted to be. Now years later, I know that my grandmother watches over me and must be smiling (at least most of the time!) at the mother I have become.

I thank God that my mother and father had the sense of spirit and caring to bring my grandmother to a home already filled to the brim with six children. At my mother’s insistence, my grandmother slept in their room for the years she lived with us after her stroke. My parents gave up much of their time and material possessions to have my grandmother with us. But what they gave their children went far beyond material things…something priceless…a sense that our elders have much to teach us, much to give us. That we cannot live without them and the wisdom they have gained through their life experiences. That we are blessed to have them in our lives.

My own children are as fortunate as I was. We live a mile from my parents and are able to visit with them frequently. We travel together. We celebrate birthdays, holidays, and special occasions together. Our children are very close to their grandparents. I hope that someday they will understand the immeasurable value of spending time with their grandparents.
I want it to last forever. I want my parents to live forever.

Tonight I know that they won’t.

My mother has unwillingly entered the landscape of age, the journey into old age. And she is pulling me along with her because I cannot let her go. Although my mother is not near death tonight, she is incredibly fragile. She has crossed the bridge from young-old to old-old where the ability to travel, visit with friends, and cook large dinners for family will never return. She is ill with congestive heart failure that has plagued her family for generations. The doctors tell us that her condition is “livable and treatable.” But someday soon it will take her life. And I will cling to her for as long as I’m allowed. I pray that she is with us for years to come.

Tonight I see ghosts of the anguished faces of my friends and relatives who have traveled to this place before me. I remember their words, their emotions, their pain as they described the difficulty of watching their parents become ill. Of watching them die. The helplessness of it all.