It’s All Perspective

I noticed my mother had stopped wearing the necklace the Shaman had given her in Guadalajara. I guess she no longer believed in its power. It felt like surrender to me, but my mother had always been a realist.

When I first arrived at the family home, fresh from retirement, she was happy to see me.

Her cancer had advanced and she had decided to decline further treatment. But she refused to give up her dignity. It was a hard road, this dance between mother and daughter. We had trouble navigating the lines between dependence and independence; caretaker and cared for. It was a reversal she hadn’t wanted.

I could see that the longer I stayed, the more I represented a harbinger of times that would soon pass. She would tell me that I should be home with my family. I would tell her that there was no other place I needed to be than here with her. She would tell me that she didn’t want to be a burden to her children. I would tell her that she was the only mother I and my sisters would have and to allow us the privilege of caring for her as she had cared for us.

With each comment, she would simply stop and say “Oh. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

My mother remained positive about her life and losses. She always said that she had two lives; one with our father and the second after he passed. She travelled to all seven continents, got her pilot’s license when she turned 62 , hiked and played tennis into her 80s, and lived to see four of her five great-grandchildren. She counted her blessings, having decided that having her mind was more important to her than losing her body. But I know being fully cognizant of her declining abilities weighed heavily on a mind that was still firmly grounded in living, even though she never showed it.

In the last two weeks of her life, our walks became infrequent. During one, she made a comment to her sister that she could no longer walk without her walking sticks. To which her sister responded “Turn that around. Say ‘I can walk with walking sticks!’

My mother’s reply?  “Oh. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

I was bereft when my mother passed. It was a feeling I hadn’t expected; I thought I had been prepared. It was hard to walk through each day. And as executor, many days I was simply overwhelmed.

But I, too, had my ‘walking sticks’—my husband, sisters, family and friends supporting me on my journey, making sure I didn’t fall if I stumbled.

I miss my mother every day. But now she is one of my ‘walking sticks’ for courage and dignity. And I know I’ll be strong. After all, it’s all in your perspective.