I lost my beautiful Mother 20 years ago on December 23rd. For the five months prior to that day, I had
cared for her 24/7 following her massive stroke. It left her paralyzed on her right side,
unable to carry on a coherent conversation, unable to feed herself, and in
pain. Just before the stroke, she was
supposed to have surgery to improve the circulation in her legs, but a heart
attack followed by the stroke made that impossible. The circulation deteriorated, and she
developed gangrene first in a toe, then the foot, then the leg. During the last few days of her life, I kept
her heavily sedated and watched as the dark discoloration inched up her
leg. I found myself wanting her to
die. I was angry that a pacemaker had
been inserted earlier that year. If not
for that, she might have died during the heart attack or stroke which, to me,
seemed like a more merciful ending.
For many months afterward, I could not properly grieve her
loss. It took time to rub out the memory
of the last few months and recapture the memory of the person she had been in
earlier years. I was glad the suffering
person was gone to be with Jesus and was no longer in pain. Later, I could miss the wonderful person she
had been before the illness.
My Mom was one of four siblings who survived. A baby sister died as an infant. She was left with 3 brothers...loud,
opinionated brothers, who delighted in teasing her. After World War II, my father and my Mom’s 3
brothers all returned from military service, and all moved in with my maternal
grandparents while the men attempted to reestablish themselves as
civilians. I was about 7 months old when
they came home at Thanksgiving time in 1945.
The 3 brothers couldn’t resist using me to torture my
Mom. On one occasion she came in the
kitchen to find me sitting in my high chair holding a sharp knife. When she became a bit hysterical, brother #2
shrugged and said, “She asked for it.”
Brother #3 began attending law school and managed to teach me as a
toddler, that if my Mom scolded me, I should say, “I’m standing on my
constitutional rights.” All three
brothers were given to using inappropriate words for a toddler to learn. My Mother put a jar on the kitchen table and
told them if they used such words, they had to put money in the jar for my
future education. One time, one of them
stuffed the jar in advance and then turned the air blue with a string of
profanities. When I was being potty
trained, I would wait until brother #1 was in the shower, and then say I needed
to use the potty, because I knew he would come out dripping wet wrapped in a
towel, and this amused me. Poor Mom had
a rough go of it for those first few years of my life.
My first recollections of her were her kindness in caring for
me when I was ill, her frustration with my smart mouth, and that she was often
exhausted from hard work. My parents
struggled financially during my early years, and Mom worked in the garden and
did a lot of canning so that we had fruits and vegetables during the winter
months. I remember long walks, since she
never did learn to drive. I thought of
her as serious, but there were times when she was extremely funny, singing and
dancing around the house and being a bit of an actress. She had always wanted to play an instrument,
but her parents wouldn’t pay for lessons.
She said they were convinced she wouldn’t stick with it, because her #1
brother hadn’t stuck with his violin lessons.
She played the piano by ear. I’m
not sure how she did this. I have always
had to have music in front of me to play.
Mom was very artistic.
Her parents had wanted her to pursue a career in art, but she wanted to
be a nurse, and she did become an RN.
She illustrated a book on baby care that her hospital produced. She worked as a nurse until after she married
my Dad. But art was a life-long
hobby. She made lovely illustrated
songbooks for children’s groups. She was
always interested in helping children with crafts. As a child, she encouraged me to work on
various craft projects. When I was about
six, one of the men who made deliveries to our home (I don’t remember if it was
the milkman or breadman) had a daughter who was bedridden with an extended
illness. Mom helped me create a
scrapbook of pictures for the little girl.
I cut interesting pictures out of magazines and pasted them in a blank
book.
I started school a year before I was old enough. Basically, this was because I was exhausting
my Mother with my constant questions and attempts to tell her what to do. She begged the school to take me. I quickly became easier to manage at home,
because I always had my nose in a book.
Through my growing up years, she defended my right to read. My Dad would get upset that I wasn’t helping
her with some bit of housework. She
would say, “She’s reading. Let her
read!” I appreciated her understanding
that my brain worked overtime, and I needed to learn new things.
I also appreciated her kindness at times I was upset. She never belittled my “problems.” In particular, there was the day in 4th
grade when I came home and threw myself on the bed and sobbed. My “boyfriend” had made it clear that our
relationship was over by pushing me off the school bus seat onto the
floor. She could have made light of my
puppy love and childish emotions, but she comforted me in keeping with my broken heart. She was always available to talk
about what was important to me.
When I was a teenager, we went shopping one spring for a new
dress for me. I could not make up my
mind between two dresses which I liked and asked Mom what she thought. She said, “I want you to have both of
them.” I knew my parents couldn’t afford
for me to buy both, and I said that I only needed one. She said with tears welling up in her eyes,
“You are the only girl at church who has to wear the same dress every week. I want you to have both.” I don’t think I had noticed this. In fact, I had one friend who was worse
off…she wore the same sweater and skirt to school every day! I knew if I got both, Mom would go without
something, but she insisted.
When I left home and went hundreds of miles away to school,
she wrote me almost every day. Her
letters were newsy and full of descriptions of amusing events that had happened
in the family. I loved receiving them and felt still connected to my family
because of them.
After I had finished nursing school and started college, Mom had
a serious illness and was hospitalized when I came home on Christmas
break. It was a startling experience for
me to realize that a role reversal was taking place. When I visited her in the hospital, the
conversation was not about me and what was going on in college. It was about her illness and her
concerns. Fortunately, she recovered,
and we had many more years of conversations that were a more mature balance in
which we each could share our concerns.
When our family moved resulting in meeting the man who would
become my husband, she “fell in love” with him before I did….but that is
another story!
My Mother was very supportive of me during the years I was
raising my own children. She enjoyed
spending time with them which was helpful to me, and she listened to me when I
was struggling with some parenting issue.
Everyone who knew her thought of her as sweet and gentle, but
let me tell you, you didn’t want to mess with Laurena! Any man who hassled her was likely to
experience her special technique. She
would face the person squarely and shake her fist in his face saying, “Ya see
this?” As he looked at the fist, she
would bring up the fist of the other hand and deliver a gut-punch. While he was trying to recover the air he had
just lost, she would say, “That wasn’t the one to watch!” Both of my brothers will attest to this being
true as they have both been on the receiving end.
My Mom….she was beautiful.
She was smart. She was kind. She
was not perfect, but I loved her dearly.
Those difficult 5 months are only a fraction of the time we had
together. With the passage of time, the
agony of that brief slice of time has diminished, and I can remember my Mom for
who she really was during most of her life.
What a lovely lady!
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