Mother's Day 2007
My mother had a stroke on May 1st. The doctors said that she would be a vegetable. . .
I write these words a few days before Mother's Day 2007. This morning my sister and I met my Mom's doctor to discuss her future. I am appreciative of what he is trying to do. He wants us to begin thinking of things that we want to keep covered and out of sight. His experiences with similar cases, I am sure are valuable to him, but this is not a usually or a most often, this is not a past history, this is my Mom. She lies critically ill in a bed, unconscious, receiving her nourishment, and air through a tangled umbilical of hoses, lines and cords. We grasp at every positive hint. We make excuses for dark signs. This is our Mom. . .
God made Eve from Adam's rib. I came from someplace deeper and much more intimate than a rib. I suspect (being an outsider to the mystery) that the tearing, the parting of birth is both physical and emotional. Birth being only the first wrenching separation in a lifetime of good-byes. Postpartum depression. . . the ripping and tearing away, an ache, an empty spot. . . Man and wife join as one flesh in a temporary and peripheral way. Mother and child are joined, one flesh for months on end. As a father, I surely love my children, but I can never know the heart, the soul of a Mother.
As I watch the machine inflate and deflate her chest, breathing for her, much in the same way as she breathed for me. Her heart providing everything, her heart carrying my needs to me. Her heart still beating for me, but now laboring, faltering, slowing. . .
Where can I go? Who can I talk to that will ever think so highly of me? I think God is the only one who can hope to compete with a Mother in love and esteem. The love of a mother. Who can understand it. We've all seen the wrenching, pitiful, undiminished adoration of the mother of some horrible serial killer, still calling him a basically good boy. Nothing I can do will diminish me in her eyes. She will always know there is a good reason for my shortcomings. I was perfect when I came from her and if I'm not now it is not my fault. If anything, more than me, she would blame herself.
Mom, it's a shame. I can't always say this about the past, but this Mother's Day I surely will be there, more than a phone call, more than a card and flowers. This year I will have time for a visit. If you are still here with us, I will be with you. I'll pray for you. . . . I'll sing you a lullaby. . . .
Thank you God for my Mother
Dave Stokely
I write these words a few days before Mother's Day 2007. This morning my sister and I met my Mom's doctor to discuss her future. I am appreciative of what he is trying to do. He wants us to begin thinking of things that we want to keep covered and out of sight. His experiences with similar cases, I am sure are valuable to him, but this is not a usually or a most often, this is not a past history, this is my Mom. She lies critically ill in a bed, unconscious, receiving her nourishment, and air through a tangled umbilical of hoses, lines and cords. We grasp at every positive hint. We make excuses for dark signs. This is our Mom. . .
God made Eve from Adam's rib. I came from someplace deeper and much more intimate than a rib. I suspect (being an outsider to the mystery) that the tearing, the parting of birth is both physical and emotional. Birth being only the first wrenching separation in a lifetime of good-byes. Postpartum depression. . . the ripping and tearing away, an ache, an empty spot. . . Man and wife join as one flesh in a temporary and peripheral way. Mother and child are joined, one flesh for months on end. As a father, I surely love my children, but I can never know the heart, the soul of a Mother.
As I watch the machine inflate and deflate her chest, breathing for her, much in the same way as she breathed for me. Her heart providing everything, her heart carrying my needs to me. Her heart still beating for me, but now laboring, faltering, slowing. . .
Where can I go? Who can I talk to that will ever think so highly of me? I think God is the only one who can hope to compete with a Mother in love and esteem. The love of a mother. Who can understand it. We've all seen the wrenching, pitiful, undiminished adoration of the mother of some horrible serial killer, still calling him a basically good boy. Nothing I can do will diminish me in her eyes. She will always know there is a good reason for my shortcomings. I was perfect when I came from her and if I'm not now it is not my fault. If anything, more than me, she would blame herself.
Mom, it's a shame. I can't always say this about the past, but this Mother's Day I surely will be there, more than a phone call, more than a card and flowers. This year I will have time for a visit. If you are still here with us, I will be with you. I'll pray for you. . . . I'll sing you a lullaby. . . .
Thank you God for my Mother
Dave Stokely
Comments
I didn't realise I had a comment. Thanks though.
How did you get to my blog anyway?
I'm sure I posted a comment but I think it went missing.
Thanks for your comment on my blog though.
Oh, and how did you get to it?
This post was interesting, how long did it take you to write?
micky buely