Read Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (28 page)
I hope she heard all the things I told her in the last three days that we were together. I held her hand and told her how foolish we were to let pride destroy the extraordinary bond that we had shared as mother and daughter. But most of all I told her that I loved her, and that I had never stopped loving her. When I held her hand to my cheek and closed my eyes, all the noises and smells of the hospital faded and I was a little girl again. Sitting on the bed watching my mother paint her nails, I knew in my little girl’s heart that she was the most beautiful mother in the world and that I did not have to be afraid as long as she loved me. But when I opened my eyes, I was afraid because I knew I was losing her and I was never going to feel the love in Mama’s hands again.
Families in the ICU form a common bond born of sudden pain, sorrow and sometimes, tremendous loss. Usually when your eyes meet theirs, all you can give is a quick smile before you look away. It is just too much to hold their gaze and see your own reflected pain.
The day my mother died, a new family came into the ICU. It was apparent that their tragedy was untimely and heart wrenching. Their story was told in the lost expression on the little girl’s face clinging to her grandfather in confusion, not understanding why her mother was there. When her frightened eyes found mine, I did not turn away. I could hold the gaze of that little girl, because in my heart that night, I was that little girl.
As we stood in the hallway, her grandfather stopped to talk to us, his eyes wet with tears; it was his daughter, the little girl’s mother, who was fighting for her life. Yet he put aside his pain to offer comfort and to pray with us. Through the night, if he saw us outside the doors, he would stop and ask how my mother was, and to see how we were doing.
Sometime during the last six hours we were together, Mama’s hands showed me the way again. I realized that whatever had kept us apart for all those years didn’t matter, we had never stopped loving each other. Our lives had come full circle. Mama’s hands had welcomed me into this world and guided me through all the years of my life. Now, holding her hand to my cheek, my tears washing over it, I sent with her all the love of a little girl and the grown woman I had become, as she moved on. At last, I felt the storm that had raged for so long in my heart grow still.
As I fled the ICU, I ran straight into the arms of my husband. Blinded by tears, I did not see the little girl’s grandfather approach and put his arms around us both. Not long after, I heard a terrible cry in the hallway, and I knew another little girl had lost her mother that night.
I hope that two souls met on their way to Paradise that night: One a sixty-seven-year-old woman who had seen life come full circle, and the other a twenty-six-year-old woman for whom the circle had been broken, so that Mama’s hands were there to guide and give strength for the journey that lay ahead.
Beth Crum Sherrow
T
ime is the only comforter for the loss of a
mother.
Shane Welsh Carlyle
Today my mother came to visit, totally unannounced. It was during the morning hours as a winter’s sunlight forced its brilliance through the bathroom blinds and on to the Hessian carpet beneath my bare feet. Nail polish bottles crowded the window ledge and a curling iron, slowly cooling down, reclined on a nearby train case. One by one I replaced the eye shadow, blush, mascara and lipstick back into a zippered makeup bag, alternately checking in the mirror to see if I had left anything undone. As a finishing touch, I reached for the cologne.
Near the sink lay a bone china dish, full of cologne samples from a bridal show. One finger-search through the dish and there I stood, surprised to find myself holding a tiny glass vial of Eau de Parfum in the palm of my hand, distinguishably labeled Chanel.
Holding the sample over the sink, I cautiously removed the tiny black stopper and let the sweet-scented Chanel run over my fingertips and onto my neck. Working quickly, I splashed a small amount on my wrists and massaged them together, releasing a fragrance that quickly filled the sunlit bathroom.
It was at this precise moment that my mother entered the room. It wasn’t that she had knocked, or even visibly appeared, but she was definitely there . . . in the room with me. I couldn’t see her . . . nor could I reach out and touch her . . . but I could close my eyes and smell her . . . and it had been so long . . . so very, very long.
As suddenly as the burst of Chanel filled the room, a picture of Mama came to mind, a private moment that never made it into our family album. It was her ritual on Sunday mornings. First she bathed, followed by a generous dusting of bath powder. Next she put on her hand-washed bra, panties and slip, followed by a skin-tight girdle with four rubber clasps. Finally, she took out her nylon stockings, neatly stored in the original cardboard box, and held them up to the window light in search of runners. Not until she laid out her shoes, however, did she make a decision between her two favorite shades of nylons—Barely Black and Barely There. She was determined never to put on her dress (only to get it wrinkled) until it was time to walk out the door, which left her no option but to complete the essentials and wait. And my mother waited in elegance. Her stockings were the best she could afford—Hanes. Her slips and bras were top-ofthe-line—Vanity Fair. Her shoes? Nothing but Aeigner. Her choice of perfume? Chanel No. 5.
I watched through the mirror as she applied her makeup, standing there in her high heels and underwear, a fan oscillating on the floor. One by one she replaced the face powder, rouge and lipstick back into the middle drawer, alternately checking in the mirror to see if she had left anything undone. As a finishing touch, she reached for the cologne.
Holding the bottle in her hands, she removed the black cap and let the sweet-scented Chanel run over her fingers and onto her neck. Working quickly, she splashed a small amount on her wrists and massaged them together, releasing a fragrance that quickly filled her sunlit bedroom.
I thought of her often throughout the day . . . heard her laughter, felt her near me. I breathed in the essence on my wrists and she was there . . . in the room beside me. And although she hadn’t knocked, nor could I reach out and touch her . . . I could close my eyes and smell her . . . and it had been so long . . . so very, very long.
Today my mother came to visit . . . totally unannounced . . . in the fragrance of Chanel.
Charlotte A. Lanham
For years, whenever I drove to my mother’s house, I always went past a small country church. Each time I went by, I would read the church’s marquee and think that at least one Southern Baptist had a sense of humor because there were always pithy little sayings rather than quotes from scripture.
One day, two months after my mother died, I was driving to her house and passed this church. That day, however, I was in a funk and not in a mood for rural quips. I just wanted to know where my mother was and why she hadn’t contacted me. Her house was there, her hand-stitched quilt was still spread carefully over the bed, the sheets unchanged, but she was gone.
I was feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in all my years of being single. My mother had been widowed twice, so she knew all the ins and outs of being alone, but she wasn’t here anymore, and I was having a real problem with that fact. What I really wanted was to have her back, maybe for five minutes, and conscious. (She had been in a coma before she died.) I’d just say, “You okay?” And she would answer yes, that she was fine, that she was happy and she loved me.
If I couldn’t have her back, I wanted a sign. Maybe I was greedy. I had already had a sign when I returned home from the hospital after her death on that tenth day of the tenth month (and in the tenth hour). On my wall hung a calendar opened to October. Each month displayed a different personal photograph. A friend (who knew nothing about my family) had compiled it for me as a gift and had “coincidentally” placed a picture of my mother, two sisters and me taken on October 10, 1992, the last time we were all together before my sister died. Now it was October 10, three years later, and my mother had just died. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a sign from God when I see one.
But I always want more, and I asked for more signs. How about a rose blooming in the snow? How about my mom’s face in the clouds? Or okay, couldn’t she call me on the interdimensional phone? I knew these things happened. I wanted a lot of them to happen to me.
Now.
Grief is a taskmaster who will not be denied. You can repress grief for a while, and you can try to ignore it. But it will have its day. I could not predict when it would come over me like some uncontrollable seizure. I did come to the place where I could feel the signs of it and withdraw into a private place. Over and over again I was surprised by its strength and tenacity.
On that bright, cold day in December, I could feel grief creeping up on me and I needed something to hold on to, a scrap of comfort, however small. Then I rounded the curve, and the sturdy little church came into view on my right. The marquee said: “You asked for a sign from God. This is it.”
In a moment of sudden clarity, I realized I didn’t need any more signs. I was doing everything that needed to be done. I was grieving my loss; I was taking care of my mother’s house and her affairs; I was consoling relatives; and I was going on with my life, just as my mother would have wanted me to, just as she would have done.
I laughed through my tears all the way to Mother’s house.
Bonnie Michael
This is a true story of a town within a larger city. Beacon Terrace is the name of the square of townhomes settled just on the edge of Springfield, Massachusetts. The square had just the right mix of young, middle and older folks, rich and poor—worldy and not. We were young, on a military stay with many others in this complex. We all made family of each other because all our families were so far away.
Overwhelming joy came to our home when our daughter, Stacey, was born on November 15, enlarging our “town family” and our own individual family. I remarked to Mother, “God has blessed me so! A wonderful daughter and son! My family is complete.”
Devastating grief followed four days later, when our five-year-old son, Peter, was killed by his school bus. “Hard” is an understatement of how difficult that time was for us. Our beloved Peter—dead. Gone.
We managed to keep going, taking care of a newborn and surviving Thanksgiving, though we were numb with shock. We went about life as best we could.
It was an evening two weeks before Christmas when Mother came to my husband and me. “Dears,” she said, “I love you both so much and wouldn’t hurt you for anything. But I must make you see something.” We, Tom and I, looked blankly at each other. We did a lot of that “blank” looking at that state. “What is it Mother? Tell us.”
“Come to the window, both of you, and tell me what you see,” Mother said.
We looked out into the darkness and then at each other. We said we saw nothing.
“That’s what I have to show you. It is Christmas week, and there is nothing to show it in the square. Everyone loves you both, and their hearts are so sad for you; they don’t want to hurt you in any way. Dears, you must, no matter how hard it is or how much it hurts, you must give these good, kind neighbors their holiday back.” We were so into our own grief we hadn’t noticed that life for the square had come to a stop.
The next day, we went out and bought a Christmas tree, decorated it, and put it right in front of the windows, to be seen by everyone in the neighborhood.
As Mother said, “Once you let life back into your home, everyone will know it’s all right to celebrate Jesus’ life in their homes.”
The next evening, it was as if a switch had been turned on. Trees and lights had gone up everywhere. Doorbells rang. Fruitcakes and cookies were passed round and round. Peter’s classmates came to see us.
Beacon Terrace surrounded us with love during a very difficult time of our lives.
Our journey back had begun.
Betsey Neary
Walking would save my sanity. I just knew it. The hope of escaping lunacy prompted me to drag my exhausted, grief-stricken limbs out of bed each morning and hike to keep walls from closing around me. As I trod toward a nearby park, I replayed the events of the prom-night loss of my son, Shawn, to a drunk driver. Other thoughts strayed to a favorite quote from an assistant-principal friend. After the loss of both his parents within one year, he often reminded me that “
tomorrow is not promised.”
Nothing in my life’s story of stress and challenge as an urban high-school principal had prepared me for this tragedy. If only I had spent more time with my son prior to May 1. If only I had been more tolerant of his maturation process during his senior year.
My admiration and enjoyment of other families’ relationships with their children had turned to bitterness and anger.
Why were their children still here to enjoy and my child so
forever gone?
This truth brought my steps to the edge of the park where a young Shawn had flapped his arms in a swimming pool and launched his skinny hiney down a slide. I watched a father and two small children. They ran as only excited youth can run—with total abandonment— across the mud and grass of the park toward playground equipment.