Always a Mother

It started out like any other Sunday - New York Times, earl grey with skim and one sugar cube, and liverwurst on buttered rye. She used to tell me how she hated the smell of it - the cured meat paste slathered over a thickly buttered slice of warm bread. I'd remind her that she was the one who got me started on it in the first place.

The warm fall sun shone through our huge kitchen window and I remember noticing a cobweb in the corner. It glistened in the light and for a split second, its beauty almost stopped me from swiping it down with my table napkin. 

"You missed a cobweb, Mother" I said, crumpling the napkin and cobweb in my hand and tossing it past her into the trash. "Did you clean the windows in the dark this time?" I chuckled. I could just see her standing on the window box in her nightgown and reading glasses while attempting to wipe off her evenly sprayed Windex with exactly 2.5 squares of paper towels.

I never gave a shit about cleaning anything, let alone a cobweb on a window that was usually covered with some dreadful excuse for a curtain. Mother was the one who used to follow me around with a spray bottle and paper towel roll, wiping up any semblance of dirty anything, even air, that my presence created. It rarely bothered me - maybe a trade-off for all the crap I gave her growing up. Or perhaps I knew it kept her sane. 

"You want to read this?" I asked, waving the cartoon section in front of her. That's all she ever read anymore. Damn cartoons. She just sat in her old rocking chair that I swore smelled worse than four tubs of liverwurst, head entrenched in the newspaper and coffee always close by.

Mother had taken to sitting in that chair almost all day long. I'd come home from work with her still attached to her seat, remote control in hand, and some old black and white movie blasting... At first I thought nothing of it but then she would just go to the chair and not even get dressed; I'd find her still in her robe staring at the screen, not even willing to look up to greet me.

I'd always worried that it would come to this. Dr. Fineman had warned me that she was "rapidly deteriorating and will not be able to care for herself." I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and anger - curious as to why he had waited so long to order a CAT scan.

"She came to see you about this a long time ago, Doc" I reminded him. It had been a few birthdays ago when she couldn't remember peoples' names. After the party she had lashed out at my sister for forgeting to turn off the oven. We took her into the doctor the next day and he prescribed an anti-depressant.

"A touch of depression" he called it in his typical matter-of-fact tone. Apparently she was having a hard time adjusting to us leaving the house and just needed a little "mood boost." He failed to realize that mother never forgot anyone's name - and even in her deepest and darkest days would rarely yell at either of us, and never about the oven.

It wasn't until mother stopped talking that I decided to take her in to the doctor again. Silence was always my mother's revenge but this was different. Even her eyes didn't say anything to me anymore. And that's when we got the news.

I knew mother heard him. She leaned back in the chair when he said it and turned to look out the window. And she sighed. It was the most sound I'd heard out of her in weeks and it oddly comforted me. Since then we'd been living in a state of imbalance; I'd still talk to her like nothing had ever happened and she'd stare back at me blankly, as if she had left her own body and someone else was housesitting for her while she was gone.

But late that one Sunday I heard sounds coming from the back of the house. Since the silent treatment started, I could identify any noise  - the washer spin cycle, the old bed spring squawking, or even the trickle of the leaky bathtub faucet. But this one was unfamiliar to me.

The soft, tuneful hum grew louder as I reached my old bedroom. For a moment, I stood with my back against the wall outside the door. I could hear it well now - the voice I hadn't heard in over 4 months. I gingerly peeked over my shoulder and into the room. She was sitting on my old bed, tightly grasping an old doll. And as she hummed, she caressed its faded hair.

God that song. She'd sing it to me every night up through junior high. I made her swear never to tell anyone, and she promised, so long as I'd let her still do it. During high school she'd sneak in some nights after she thought I was asleep and run her fingers through my hair, humming that same old tune. She thought I didn't hear her. But I did. And I never stopped her.

My knees buckled beneath me and I slid down the wall into a pile of silent sobs, tears racing down my face faster than I could wipe them away. I hung my head for a moment and then reached up to grab the loose hair that had fallen in front of my face.  My head tilted back onto the wall as I ran my fingers through my hair again. And again. And again.

"I hear you, mother" I said quietly.

I hear you.

It was in that moment I realized that even with what was just a shell of the woman I once knew, she was still a mother. And perhaps the bond between us - the bond between a mother and a child - is one that supersedes memory as we know it.

I never heard her voice again. Maybe she knew I needed to hear her voice to keep believing. When she couldn't speak, laugh, or later, move, knowing mother was still alive gave me the strength to make her one more damn bowl of oatmeal, tell her another joke, and watch countless black and white movies.

And even with every last ounce of humanity stripped away, there's always a piece of us left for someone to love.

At least that's what I have to believe.

*This is a work of fiction, inspired by mothers everywhere.

Comments

[Melissa]

My mother was a bereivment counselor at a nusing home and this really reminds me of a book she kept in her office called "I love you forever", it's illustrated like a childrens book. If you can find it anywhere, I think you'd like it.

[fiz]

you're such a beautiful writer. i miss getting to read you with regularity!

happy thanksgiving. hope all is well with the in laws. really poignant story. did you post this before? i seem to remember reading it...

or am i imaging things?

[kellie]

What a beautiful post. It left me sobbing. My mother suffered a stroke 14 years ago and I have cared for her, while raising my family.
This brought me to tears,it was as if you looked into my soul and put what you saw into words.
thank you.

[Apeetsmom]

Wow. What a compelling story...thanks.

[Robina]

I'm sure you've seen this, but just in case!

Nursing Moms Rally at Airports
Wednesday, November 22, 2006 3:15 AM EST
The Associated Press
By JOHN CURRAN

SOUTH BURLINGTON, Vt. (AP) — Carrying signs with slogans such as "Best in-flight meal ever," scores of mothers breast-fed their babies at airports around the country Tuesday in a show of support for a woman who was ordered off a plane for nursing her daughter without covering up.

"It's about raising consciousness about our culture's sexualization of the breast. Breast-feeding needs to be supported wherever and whenever it happens. Babies don't know the meaning of `wait,'" said Chelsea Clark, 31, wearing a "Got breast milk?" T-shirt as she nursed her 9-week-old son at the Burlington airport.

About 25 women turned out for the "nurse-in" at the airport, parking themselves near a ticket counter in a peaceful — but not-so-quiet — demonstration. Similar protests were held at airports in Boston; Las Vegas; Columbus, Ohio; Nashville, Tenn.; Harrisburg, Pa.; Hartford, Conn.; Albuquerque, N.M.; and Louisville, Ky.

Some of the women carried signs that read, "Don't be lactose intolerant" and "Breasts — Not just for selling cars anymore."

On Oct. 13, Emily Gillette, 27, of Santa Fe, N.M., was ordered off a Freedom Airlines plane about to take off from the Burlington airport after a flight attendant asked her to cover up while she was breast-feeding her year-old daughter.

She had been sitting on the New York-bound plane — which was three hours late in leaving — when she began nursing. The flight attendant handed her a blanket, but she refused it. She was removed from the plane along with her husband and child.

The airline later disciplined the unidentified employee. But "lactivists" and women's rights supporters were outraged, and Gillette filed a complaint with the Vermont Human Rights Commission.

"It's a basic human thing that we are doing and we should be able to do it in public without being kicked off planes, without being told to sit in bathrooms," said Susan Parker, 30, who participated in a demonstration at Bradley International Airport near Hartford, Conn., along with 10-month-old daughter Anna.

Gillette herself joined about 30 women, children and fathers at the Albuquerque airport. "When women are harassed for breast-feeding, a woman can end up feeling ashamed and she shouldn't," she said, tears welling in her eyes.

A the Nashville airport, about 25 mothers, fathers and children took part in a demonstration, holding signs that said "Breast fed is best fed" and "Best in-flight meal ever." About 40 mothers nursed their babies at the Portland, Ore., airport.

Passers-by called out words of encouragement at the Columbus, Ohio, airport, where about a dozen women sat on benches and on the floor, some breast-feeding.

And seven mothers, five of them nursing, gathered near Delta gates at Las' Vegas' McCarran International Airport.

"When we hear someone has gone so far as to kick a nursing mother off a flight, it's terrible," said Tami Schlosser, 38, a lactation educator who counsels new mothers about breast feeding in southern Nevada.

But some passers-by disapproved of the protesters.

"I think you should be discreet," Nell Gaupel said upon seeing the demonstration in Louisville, Ky.

[Bobita]

These words were so familiar to me...I knew I had read them somewhere before. I searched and then remembered...the writing activity and blog exchange a few months back. My god! It made such an impact on me the first time, I must have read it 15 times...and reading it this time, felt like a warm, snuggly blanket that just gets softer with time.

I love, love, love this post. I have to chime in...get this published!

[meritt]

Wow... it was powerful.

[Maniacal]

Sounds like something I could have read in "A Cup of Comfort: Mothers and Daughters" <---which BTW was a great compilation of short stories.

I'd submit it if I were you!

[Robina]

Now that is a beautiful, and sad, post. Very well written and so very emotional.

[Mandy]

What a beautifully intriguing post. I love reading your thoughts, and today's is four stars... thank you.

[Kate]

Beautiful post!

[Lia]

lovely post, thank you.
L.

[emma]

Great post Kristen, very interesting and moving story.

[Mom101]

I think maybe fiction is your medium (too). Holy shit.

[lildb]

wow.

[Meena]

Beautiful. Heart-wrenching.

You have a gift.

[sunshine Scribe]

This post was riveting. What a stunning side of your writing you've just shared with us. Should be published. Immediately.

[Kathleen Marie]

What a heartfelt story. Thanks for sharing.

[mamatulip]

You're an incredible writer.

[Pattie]

I am calling my mom right now....
This was an amazing post.

[Heather]

Really beautiful.

Thanks for including me in the blog exchange, and for this fiction prompt. It made me realize that my literary muscles need more stretching...I'm out of practice and I used to write fiction regularly.

I just finished reading everyone's stories...and they ALL rocked! There are so many talented writers out there.

[Lindsay]

Man, you were meant to write fiction. That was beautiful.

[juliness]

Most excellent, K.

[Nancy]

Wow, Kristen. That was amazing. Both you and Karen made me cry today.

And thank you, thank you for giving us these writing prompts today. I have gotten the most pleasure reading through (no, devouring) the blog exchange posts. And writing mine was so much fun too!

[FishyGirl]

Wow. Just, wow. That was amazing - you have such great gifts. Thanks, also, for pointing me at those writing prompts to remind me to exercise myself, and for pointing me in the direction of those other great writers. Now to find a task for the monsters to do so I can read and write a bit....

[Stacy]

Gulp. Your talent has touched my heart.

[Rock the Cradle]

I can't think of anything to say but thank you. This is going to stay with me for a while.

[sherry]

Holy god, this really made me cry. Well done! This has been a great exchange, it's fun to see everyone stretching their creative muscles.

[Binkytown]

Bravo! I could see every detail in my minds eye. Beautiful.

[Heather]

Absolutely beautiful post. You're an amazing writer!

[Heather]

I'm not pregnant or PMS and I'm crying my eyes out! This story was amazing and touching. Makes me want to call my mother, and we have a tough relationship!

[Andy]

Beautifully well written. I actually cried at my desk, and I can't blame that one on these pregnancy hormones. Beautiful.

[mothergoosemouse]

Amazing post, K. Thanks for pointing us to the prompts this month - it's been a great exercise for me, and I love reading what you and everyone else have done with them too.

[Kristen]

Wow. If you hadn't said it was fiction, I would have assumed it was real- it was so vivid. It was beautiful!

[StarWidget]

Fictional or not, I'll bet it's someone's story, and it was beautiful and realistic. Everytime it started to take on a touch o' Hallmark, you'd throw in reality... a story hasn't made me tear up in quite some time. Thank you.

[mamadaisy]

that's a whole lot o' talent for a blog post...

[Binky]

"She thought I didn't hear her. But I did. And I never stopped her."

Those are great lines. The mother/daughter song is touching on so many levels.

[Her Bad Mother]

You have a knack for fiction, my friend. Beautiful as a song.

(Wish I'd been able to get around to this one. I miss this kind of creative writing...)

[Linda]

Ohmygosh, what an amazing piece of writing. I don't comment on your blog much, even though I read it regularly, because most of the time what you write just blows me away so much that I am lost for words. And I am a girl who is rarely lost for words!

This is such a magnificent portrayal of the essence of motherhood. I have an elderly mother (nearing her 80's) and I get very scared sometimes when I think of what the future might hold for us. So your post really hit home for me.

A beautiful tribute to motherhood. Thank you!

[adwina-insparenting.com]

My mom is the person I love the most. You made me teary..
Thank you for this beautiful post...

[Lady M]

Beautiful. I can't believe for a minute that you've ever not considered yourself a writer. :)

[Elizabeth]

This post took my breath away. And put tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. What a beautiful tribute to your Mother.