MOM

The post-mortem examination of a moment

A couple months before my mother died last September, she learned my husband and I were ending our 31-year marriage. I don’t remember how she found out. I had moved into her condo because she’d fallen in the shower (while a caregiver was here), but I did not burden her with the travails in my life. I suppose she found out when I was in conversation with someone, and I probably answered a question honestly which divulged my marriage’s plight.

In that conversation that I do not remember who I was talking to, I explained that my husband was now living with his new girlfriend, who was his old, teenage girlfriend he’d been having an affair with. Ah old love. You can smell the decay of leaves after they have fallen to the ground. The vibrant beauty of spring becomes a smelly, slimy mess. But I digress. This isn’t a nature documentary. I’ll continue:

I am not a mind reader. (I have to say that for legal reasons.) I’m not positive of what I’m about to say. But I am sure of it. I know that after my mom learned the truth, that Mike had left her daughter for another, she was worried about me. Her eyes would dart to my eyes, and we exchanged conversations in those glances.

I could feel her concern. I hope she could feel me saying, “It’s OK, Mom.” I tried to tell her that without talking about it specifically. Her stroke-induced dementia was unlike regular dementia. She was still extremely sharp, but some synapses were not connecting. Plus, we never talked about feelings in our family. I could see now that she was trying to gauge how badly I was hurt by Mike’s betrayal. She wanted to protect my feelings. I told her, without saying the exact words, that I was fine. Honestly, more than fine.

But I could see her, in real time, going back to my younger days, the months I folded in on myself. She knew she was exiting this world, she was leaving me, and she was worried I would head that way again.

I’m talking about the time I was in my early 20s, probably age 22 or 23, I moved into my mom’s double-wide mobile home, then I stopped going to college and I stopped working. I literally just stopped. I also stopped going outside because I didn’t want people to look at me. One day my father came by and asked me why I didn’t go outside; I told him I thought I was too fat. He countered with logic. Wrong move. I think I weighed 130 pounds, I’m 5’7”. I’m not sure how long this lasted, perhaps 5 months? The cure, the solution, was uniquely my mother’s. But I didn’t know it was her idea at the time.

One day, I think it was in November, she and my father came over. By this time, she’d moved back into the house she’d shared with my father to prevent him from letting the yard go to shambles. Her precious plants were not being taken care of, she said. That day, when they came over, they asked me to sit down. My dad was very businesslike; he asked me if I would like to take a youth hostel trip next summer. He told me about a bicycle trip on the East Coast that covered five states and lasted 13 days. I would fly from our home in California to Connecticut 5 days early and bike by myself to meet up with the group. Mind you, I was not an athlete, nor a bike rider. My dad had the trip’s literature in his hand.

“Would you like to do that?” My father said.

”Yeah,” I said. I didn’t even think about it. I had never thought of doing anything like that. But without hesitation I said yes. I felt a very slight shift in my mother at the time, but I didn’t know what that was.

“You would?” My dad said. More of a statement than a question. He seemed startled and took a split second to adjust inside himself. He then set about the business of introducing me to the trip’s parameters. I’d ride with a youth hostel group through five states, staying at youth hostels at night. But, before meeting up with my group, I would fly into Connecticut, then travel by myself for 4 days on my bike, to meet up with the youth hostel group.*

For the trip I’d need a new bike, I’d need to train on said bike, I’d need to learn to take my bike apart and put it back together. I went to a bike store numerous times and asked a lot of questions of the owner, and I spent a lot of time with my bike in pieces in the driveway.

I re-enrolled in college and rode 8 miles to and from school every day to train. I also started seeing a counselor. Re-engaging with life.

The trip was amazing. An adventure and confidence builder. It was fun and flawless, except for the first night. I stayed overnight at the Harford, Connecticut YMCA. Shortly after I got my room and unpacked, I was thinking about where to get dinner when there was thunderous knock on my door. Two girls, one very tall, asked me borderline aggressively if I’d taken or seen some food in the communal refrigerator. I said no and they left.

Scared, I did not leave my room for the rest of the night.

But the next morning I set out and rode through hills and valleys to each predetermined stop, always a hostel. My parents had mapped out my route until I met with my group. It was the best thing I could have ever done, for myself and for my life. My group rode up literal mountains with determination and laughter. Together, we shopped for and prepared all of our communal meals. Although, one night I had such a tremendous nightmare my foot flew up, I screamed, and I hit the top bunk so hard I chipped my toenail through the sleeping bag. No lasting scars from that, just another memory.

It was an incredible trip. And I found out, again shortly before my mom died, it had all been her idea.

“Dad didn’t want you to go,” she said.

I was tucking her into bed one night when she asked me if I’d liked taking that trip some 45 years ago. “It’s one of the best things I ever did,” I told her. I was bending over her, pulling her covers up.

“It was my idea,” she said. The small, almost imperceptible adjustments I’d seen both my parents make that day now made sense. My mom’s small movement signaled a victory, my father’s realigning was a concession, an acknowledgment my mom had been right.

The gift my mom gave me was so intuitive, so thoughtful, and so selfless. I still don’t know how she thought of that, how she would know that was the medicine I needed. Then almost 50 years later, after she found out about Mike, I could see the fear in her eyes that I would need her again and she wouldn’t be here.

But Mom, I’m OK. All those years ago I learned you can’t stop when you are climbing a mountain, if you keep pressing forward, you’ll make it. That’s it. That’s what I learned.

Thank you, Mom.

*dates and times are appoximate