This article is posted with the permission of Richard J. Oates. 

THE GIFT: A STORY OF LOVE

 © 2000 Richard J. Oates

This story is dedicated to all mommies, mothers, and moms... especially mine.

My mother's dying. It's official. We got the word today (June 27, 1999)--I got the word today. The sentence has been given, six months to one year.

It's as if someone's lifted the top sheet of my Magic Slate of life. I (or it) was erased; at least it felt that way. I am not processing words anymore. I read them and cannot comprehend; I hear them and cannot define their meanings. I am not processing any external stimuli. I am trapped inside my own feelings.

Her superb life is ending, and it feels as though mine is being drawn into a whirlpool, pulling me to her appointment with eternity. Am I past the point where I can stop the spiral? If only it would physically take me; but I fear this is not the case. I stand beside myself, an invisible canvas jacket wrapping my arms tightly across my chest, buckled behind my back, trapped within me. The electricity in my head is deafening. Is there anything that will stop the noise?

I thought she had less time--just, perhaps she would make it three more weeks to her birthday on June 27--so you would think this would be somewhat good news. But, before the utterance, there was always the hope that she would rally once more, jump over the scythe, like a child playing hopscotch.

But she's no child; she'll be eighty soon. Or is she a child? All but confined to the house, needing help to move about, is akin to needing permission. Was that a good thing, permission? I can't remember. They say that it is--children need boundaries; they define their world. To have none but self-imposed boundaries for a lifetime, and then, through fragility, be bound again doesn't seem quite the same. Do we ever really give up seeking permission in one way or another? Is this the closing of the full circle that we are led to believe we're in, or is it the pain of the birth canal to eternity? Is praying to accept God's will the same as seeking his permission? We have free will, unless we are burdened by our past, and those nurtured fears prevent us from reaching our full potentials, robbing us of the pleasures that living has to offer. So, why does life appear to be so hard at times such as these? Why can't we just trust God? Why does it always have to be such a struggle to move forward? I guess the answer is that it doesn't. How simple is that? What a blissful world it would be if I could remain in that aura. It's what I strive for.

However, at times such as these, this is a difficult task. I guess it's because I am human, and I am grieving; not just my mother's impending death, but the impending death of my nurtured fears as well. There is the smell of a bittersweet victory in the air because I feel that, when my mother goes, my family goes. She has been our matriarch of the family for as long as I can remember, the glue that has held both the nuclear and extended family together for all these years. Who will take her place, if anyone? What will become of my family, my sister and my brother? There is more to these worries than can possibly be dealt with here, much more. Let's just leave it with, we're all pretty damaged in our way.

And what of my wonderfully nurtured fears? The ones that have held me captive my entire life, that prohibited me from doing . . .just about everything? Is it coincidental that these two impending deaths live side by side? I think not. In dealing with one, I am forced to deal with the other. In dealing with both of them, I am forced to look at my own mortality. Where have I been, what have I done, where am I going? Who am I? How long do I have to make up for all that I missed? Can it be made up? Do I have to make it up? This is beyond mid-life crisis stuff. I have spent a lifetime searching for these elusive answers. And, now finally, they are so close I can almost touch them, within my grasp, right here. The victory, for both of us, comes from letting go and trusting God. Sometimes it's easier said than done.

As my mother and I walk our own paths today, we walk them together as much as possible. There is great healing to be found in revealing our fears. It's almost funny how we lived our lives shrouded in all sorts of suffering; sometimes, it actually is funny. I'm glad I have this time to talk to her about everything that has happened in our lives and how much it affected us and those around us. It is cathartic for both of us and I hope it will bring her the freedom she so richly deserves.

I try not to think of the remaining days--365, 364, 363. . .and, anyway, Mom says she has plans, she's not going anywhere. She is going to see her granddaughters graduate high school and get married. She is going to be a great-grandmother. She’s a fighter and a survivor. If anyone can do it, she can. I really don't agree with the ETD (estimated time to death) handed out by doctors. People have a tendency to believe them, and some even die on schedule. However, it does sound a warning, lets you know that soon, relatively speaking, things will change, lets you plan, tie up loose ends, do the things that you always wanted to do. It lets you make amends, lets a family that had trouble saying I love you say it every chance they get. It allows closure, allows for the preparation for the greatest trip we will ever take, like packing for vacation on a much grander scale. Every day my mother is here is a blessing, and I cherish it.

I think of the day when I will be where my mother is now. I think of that permission thing. Will they let me play in the dirt when I get old? Driving toy trucks, pushing the soil with toy earthmovers to construct magnificent cities? Boring to the center of the earth, searching for secrets of a time past or a time to come? Will they let me build my dream world again, the one that I have not gotten to yet? Will they let me have fun? Or will they bring me inside, saying that I am: too old, too embarrassing, losing it, senile, out of my mind. Will they let an old man be a child again? Isn't it sad that you have to be very young or very old to be accepted as a child, allowed to play, have an imagination, have simple fun, to be granted the time without guilt?

While there is still time, while fragility eludes me, I will gather my trucks, go back to the earth, and revisit my dreams. I will build that city, make those discoveries, run and laugh, hold hands and make love, listen to the child within me and celebrate both the spirituality and physicality of life.

My time on this earth is limited; having sheltered myself from a storm that has all but robbed me of my dreams I have come to realize that it is the sheltering that is the thief, not the storm. My mother is leaving me with yet another life lesson. As she prepares to be born to another life, I too am being born, back to this one. I have been gifted a freedom that I could not grasp for fifty years. I had done the work, but it'd eluded me. And then, there, right before me, it appeared. Wrapped in the most beautiful linen cloth-my grandmother's hand-embroidered tablecloth, richly splendid with the colors of her Hungarian heritage- a purple satin ribbon tied in a bow held the cloth in place, and a single white carnation adorned the package. It was too beautiful to open; it was too beautiful not to. I untied the ribbon and unfolded the linen cloth. Inside I found a cardboard box. I lifted the cover. It was empty. I didn't understand. And then I heard crying and laughter, nursery rhymes and "Happy Birthdays." I smelled hot soup on fall days, burning leaves, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, thick bread with lots of butter. I saw colored light from the tree through my bedroom doorway on Christmas morning. My new bicycle was there, as were my lead toy soldiers. There were several dogs barking, a parrot squawking, and a canary singing. Lightening bugs lit up jars, tadpoles turned into frogs, snakes shed their skins. My grandmother was cooking fresh noodles in a large pot. I walked beside my grandfather, his hands gently clasped behind his back. I think we were going to buy eggs at the chicken farm. There was love.

In a box that at first appeared very much empty, I found a box squished full of beautiful memories from my mother's life. And my own life, which I thought very much empty, I am finding the love that fills the box. Thanks Mom. I love you.

© 2000 Richard J. Oates

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