Whenever doubt gets in the way of my being the kid my parents raised, I read and edit this essay I wrote some 17-years ago.
Whenever doubt gets in the way of my being the kid my parents raised, I read and edit this essay I wrote some 17-years ago; it just never seems good enough.
I’ve long tried finding the words that could come close to doing justice honoring my parents. And my attempts have never really measured up; seems like I have writer’s block, hysterical right hand paralysis, and a serious case of chronic blurry tearful vision that slow me down every time.
I’ve never loved anyone like my parents and I’ve never received unconditional love anything like theirs.
Mom’s been the source of unconditional radiant love every day of my life. I’ve kissed her goodnight and told her I loved her in person or over the phone nightly for going on fifty years and can’t imagine what life would be like without her.
Mom’s had a very tough year, to add to an increasingly trying decade, to add to an entire life marked by tragedy. Mom lost her mother when she was just a little girl; her daughter at age six months, her first son died at age thirty and my dad only one year after his retirement. Little by little, Mom’s freedom and independence have been stolen away by diabetes.
Mom has withstood every embarrassment and invasion medical tests and treatment can muster and done so with unwavering dignity and even a smile. As I’m writing, I’m visiting Mom at the Huntington Memorial Hospital. Mom’s been in the hospital for about twelve weeks.
So a lifelong fireball who’d rather run than walk at age seventy-five; who’s always enjoyed watching movies, plays, and USC football with her son and could dance anyone off the floor at any family wedding, is now confined to a bed 24/7. Mom, who’s being turned every two hours and can’t clearly see the television right in front of her, is breathing oxygen through a cannula and being fed through a tube…and is now beautifully smiling at me and kissing me. God, I’ll never be half as strong as my five feet tall, ninety-five pound mom.
Mom’s never done a single thing in her life that caused her to feel ashamed. Her strength of faith and character has taken her through every challenge. Her ability to give love has been returned by all the people who’ve been part of her life.
My mom has never seen a baby she didn’t love. The photos I’ll never lose are family pictures of Mom surrounded by happy little faces.
Mom never let me leave the house without a cautioning, “Be careful”. She never left a note without closing “Love, Mom.” Mom’s never complained; never hurt anyone’s feelings and never stopped loving the sounds of Sinatra, Elvis and The Stones; she made the best pasta sauce, ravioli, and enchiladas I’ve ever had. Mom married the only man she ever loved. She knew she’d marry Dad the first time she saw him.
Mom’s never cared about new cars, new homes, jewelry or the Joneses. She never really bothered discovering who she really was. She never indulged herself the time to be bitter or sarcastic.
Although I’ve given her many opportunities, Mom has never expressed disappointment in me. Mom knew from the beginning, disappointing my parents was my worst fear.
And just this one time they were both wrong. Good night, Mom. No matter what, I’ll love you forever.
