Gifts from my Mother

For reasons I don't remember, I was terrified when I was starting school.  I cried every day, and didn't want my mother to leave me at school.   After a couple of days, or maybe it was weeks, my mother had a talk with me.

I don't remember how the talk started or ended, but I remember the important thing that she told me.  Mom told me that no matter how scared I was, there was another little boy or girl who was just as scared, or maybe even more scared.  She told me that if I worried about making that child less scared instead of worrying about myself, that I would be okay, and I would make things easier for someone else.

I'm fifty-seven years old, and I still repeat my Mom's advice in my head when I am nervous or scared entering a social situation.  I remind myself that there is someone in that room, or at that conference, or attending that party, that feels incredible anxiety, or isolation, or fear.  I can help them simply by being present for them.  Listening to them, smiling at them, letting them know that they are seen, and appreciated and valued.

The gift my mother gave me was the ability to practice empathy from a very early age.  She gave me the gift of seeing that we are all struggling, we are all fighting invisible demons.  We can focus inward on our demons, or we can focus on someone who needs our support to fight the demons that plague them.

With any skill, the more it is practiced, the easier it gets.  And the more the pathways in our brains get wired to respond in a particular way.  My mother set me up to be a empathetic, compassionate person.  She taught all of us that service to others is rewarding.  She taught us that volunteering is a great way to make friends.  She taught us that we had the power to change the world for someone simply by caring about them.

My relationship with my mother was and is complex, as are most mother-daughter relationships.  As she slips further and further into Alzheimer's dementia, I struggle to remember her as a whole person.  I went through the same progression with my father when his Alzheimer's progressed, and it was a couple of years after his death before I was able to remember all the wonderful gifts my father had given me before Alzheimer's stole so much of who he was.  I'm trying to keep memories of Harriet vibrant even as her disease takes her further away.

I tend to think of happy memories as treasures that are greatly cherished.  Those memories will fade and tarnish, just as physical treasures will if they are not celebrated and nourished.  I'm trying to do a better job of nourishing my treasured memories by talking about them, and writing about them, and sharing them with others.

When I visit my mother, I try to share memories with her.  Sometimes she can remember the story I relate, and sometimes that memory has been stolen from her.  But the magic comes in her smile when she does remember a story or an event that we shared.

And those are the gifts my mother still gives me.  A smile that says she remembers singing along with a Les Paul and Mary Ford song while we dusted the furniture.   An "I love you" as I say goodbye after a visit.  A strong grip on my hand even as she is too tired or lost to open her eyes or speak.

As hard as the visits can be, I am working hard to turn them into treasured memories.  Because I know as hard as these visits are, I will miss the ability to kiss her face or hold her hand when she finally leaves this plane of existence to join my Dad on the next plane.

I am blessed to have a treasure chest full of memories with my mom and dad.  And a heart full of the gifts they gave me.