Weave the Web

A Mother's Love

 

The first thing I want you to know, although it may sound strange, is that the last three days with Mom

were truly beautiful ones.  Being with Carol was extraordinary.  I love her more now than I ever thought possible, and there is a bond I have with her, created in that hospital room, that can never be taken away.  And holding my mother’s hand and sharing those three days with her broke down all the barriers I had tried to erect with her over the years.

 

Many of you here know that my relationship with my mother had its struggles and tribulations, but being there with her for three days as she died, gave me a real gift.  At one point, (I’m not sure when as the passage of time became confused, but I know it was in the early morning hours,) I was holding Mom’s hand with my head propped up on a pillow I had placed on the bed railing, and I was just watching her.  A young nurse came in to the room and said to me, “You must have been very close to your mother.”  I looked at her, startled, and said, “No, I didn’t think I had a very close relationship with her.”  The nurse replied, “I am so scared, because I don’t like my mother.”  I told her not to worry, that at a time like this, none of that matters.  I asked if she had children and she told me she had an eight-year-old son.  I said, “Right now your son probably thinks of you as a God.  But you will make mistakes in the years to come and he will come to understand that you are not a perfect ideal.  He too, will make mistakes with his children.  But at a time like this, with my mother, none of that is important.”

 

As I was watching my mother, and contemplating those things I held against her, I shuddered to think that my children, too, could resent me for the many mistakes I have made.  At that point, I had an epiphany.  What I was trying to say to that nurse – the gift that Mom gave to me as I sat with her for those three days, was that the love of a mother for her children is not an ideal that will topple with years.  A mother’s love for her children is not an ideal, but a reality.  My mother loved me with out reservation; as I unconditionally love my children, and hope that they can forgive me for the mistakes that I have made.

 

After Mom died, she looked absolutely beautiful.  I am so happy to have that image of her lying so peacefully.  At that moment, I loved her so much for all she had given to me and made possible for me.  And I knew that she loved me too.