My mother, Linda has been diagnosed with cancer. Lung cancer, as well as a large tumor attached to her kidney and adrenal gland. I’ve been aware of this invasion in my mother’s body and in the body of our family for about 48hrs. Her prognosis has yet to be determined. We are waiting. Waiting to support her, waiting to be near her. My brothers and I in various states and Dad, my kind, and easy-going father, alone too, patiently at home, calm, yet quietly frustrated because he cannot be there to hold her hand during this difficult time.
Its been about a year since the pandemic arrived on the shores of the United States and in that time frame over 500,000 people in the US have died, and a vast majority have died alone while their families try to hold space for their loved ones from a distance. Due to this insidious virus, our family is dealing separately with this news alone and sending love and prayers to Mom from afar. Hoping, pleading with God that the prognosis will be a positive one. I can’t imagine how alone my mother must feel at this time.
Today in conversation with my Mom, she stated that she has confided with Dad that if the cancer is in stage 4 or terminal, she will not seek treatment. At the moment of silence as I took in her words before my reply of understanding and respect for her choices, the words “be brave” filled my heart while a moment in time, a memory came flooding back.
A clear, warm, and vivid memory of Mom piercing my ears. I was about 3 or 4 years old, sitting on a bed with a thin yellow bedspread with tiny, scattered imprinted daisies. The light filling the bedroom seemed of a late afternoon, warm and beautifully defused with tiny particles of dust floating in the haze of a sunbeam. In the early 70’s my mother was the quintessential California beauty. Straight, long blond hair, flowing past her waist, parting down the middle. As she prepared to pierce my ears, I remember the intense love that I felt for my Mom that day. I wanted to be a big girl for her. I was excited to be wearing earrings like my Momma. I don’t remember the words that she said to me, but I do remember the kindness and tone in her voice, encouraging, and trusting, her hair swaying in the warm light of a California afternoon.
As it was common in the 70’s, my mother prepared a straight needle with the heat of match, I can remember her blowing on the needle, cooling it. She numbed my ear lobe with ice, just before she stuck the needle through my ear lobe she told me to hold on to her foot and squeeze as hard as I could. I don’t remember if I cried and I don’t remember the second ear lobe being pierced. I do remember very, very clearly my tiny, dark, skinned hand holding onto Mom’s fair-colored foot trying hard to be brave for my Mom.
As I type today, not sure what to do, trying my best to hold on to that memory, to sear it into my heart, to never forget that moment over 50 years ago of a little girl braver than I am today trusting her Mom, the only difference is that today my reply, my words and my voice had to be kind, encouraging, trusting and brave for her. My words, my tone, and my heart had to come across the phone line, past thousands of miles, and wrap themselves around my Momma, tightly, so that she understood how much she is loved, and that she is not alone.
Thru soulful eyes 