My mother raised her children to be independent. She stayed home with us for nine years; returning to work when I was three years old and entering pre-school. We learned to do a lot of things by ourselves, for ourselves. We served our own Cheerios for breakfast (although I could usually talk my dad into pouring me a bowl); we made our own lunches and cleaned (or not) our own rooms. This is one of the reasons I never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before my senior year in college; my mom never made our lunches (the other reason is that I used to think salty and sweet didn't go together, but now I have seen the error in my ways). When I was in second grade she stopped bringing our clean laundry to our rooms, opting instead for bins in the basement with our names on it. This did not work as well as she wanted, as I just started getting dressed in the basement. This push for independence was not due to a lack of love, but an abundance of love. She was at every athletic event, every concert, every dinner. She was not like other moms I knew, who gossiped right along with the kids; seeing who was dating who, who failed math, etc. Rather, my mother almost would disappear when the kids were around, quiet and listening. She told me once that she always learned more that way. I think she was pushing our independence as a way for forgiving herself for the choices that she didn't feel that she had.
* * * * * * * * * *
As close as I consider my family to be, communication can be a problem. Case in point, when my father had some unfortunate family news to share (a relative made some bad choices), he causally mentions it to me when he dropped me off one morning my freshman year in high school. "You might hear rumors about it around school, so I wanted you to know", he said, as he dropped the bombshell. My father took this same approach when he explained that my mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I was sixteen years old and it was the spring of my sophomore year. This was our conversation dropping me off for softball practice.
"You know all those tests and doctor's visits your mom has had recently?"
"Yah..."
"Well, they think they know what it is. They're pretty sure your mom has multiple sclerosis. Have a good practice."
Going home that night, the first thing that my mom said to me was, "No need for you to worry; it's not genetic." And so that's the way it was; she was still my mom, still putting us first, still pushing us towards the independence that she craved.
* * * * * * * * * *
Life for was normal for a few years. She started taking medications and we continued on. I moved to on to college out of state; my siblings continued their education in other parts of the country. Her limping became more pronounced; she had a seizure, then she could no longer teach. She would get a bit better for a while, the have another episode of increasing disability. These episodes began getting closer and closer in time until they blurred together. Her stubbornness would continue to show through; after more than one occasion she would exhaust herself from some activity and have to wait there, on the floor next to the bed or out on the deck, until my father returned. They moved across the country for eight years, returning three years ago. She had balanced out somewhat. She had her motorized wheelchair and could get around okay. The downward spiral came shortly after they returned; all independence disappeared. The exact detail of her disability is immaterial here. I will only say that it is devastating.
In the midst of her first long period of hospitalization, she and I lay in the her bedroom. I was on her bed; she in a hospital bed that had recently arrived. She asked me to pull out her multiple sclerosis journal. She wanted me to write in it; until now she had been able to keep it up herself. Looking at the writing through the years shows her handwriting failing as the disease overtook her nervous system.
"I want you to write what happened. Put the date, the number of days I was in the hospital and the medications that they gave me."
I do so. The tears slowly begin.
"Now, go to the very back of the journal. I want you to write down what songs I want at my funeral. Beautiful Savior and Children of the Heavenly Father."
I write.
"I'm sorry you have to be doing this," she says, her tears starting, too.
"I want to be doing this; this is why I am here. This is why you moved here. What else should I write?"
"I want my ashes to be put in the river; where the kids were baptized."
It's almost too much for me to hear.
"Okay,” I say.
Thank you, mom, it is all you have done to prepare me for this. I am not strong enough and strong enough all at the same time. I love you.
