A mother’s privilege
Father’s Day has just barely passed, and I am full of gratitude for the outstanding men in my life: my own father, long since passed, but who left a larger-than-life legacy for my brothers and me to follow; my stepdad, Denny, who came into my life when I was in my 20s and has been a generous and loving force ever since; my husband’s father, Ken, whom I only met once before he died but who helped raise some of the best people I know; and my own excellent husband, Logan, who makes me laugh and lowers my blood pressure quicker than any medicine ever could. These men are the cream of the crop, and I feel immensely blessed to have them and their influences in my life.
But even though we are just on the heels of Father’s Day, it’s mothers that are on my mind and in my heart at the moment. That’s because for the past two weeks – as I’m typing this, even – I have watched my own mother and her sister, Sally, lovingly tend to their mother – my 99-year-old Grandma Donna – as she hovers between this life and the next.
In Grandma Donna’s younger years (aka, her early 90s), she had her own apartment in an independent living facility. Later, when she needed more care, her children moved her into my aunt and uncle’s home in California so they could take turns living there and caring for her for months at a time. Recently, they moved her into an assisted living facility closer to home, where they’ve visited her every day and tended to all of her requests and needs.
When my mom got the call a couple weeks ago that Grandma had taken a fall sometime during the night, we all thought she would bounce back, the same way she has for years and years.
But this time was different. This time, instead of getting better and asking to play a round of Rummikub, she was too weak to even sit up in bed. Every day, she grew more frail. Every day, we thought it might be her last.
About a week after her fall, as she was getting weaker and weaker, my mom and Sally started taking turns spending the night on a camping cot in the corner of her room. These women, both in their 70s, have no business sleeping on an uncomfortable cot, but they were willing to do it for their mother.
Throughout each night, they would replace kicked-off blankets, give Grandma sips of water through a straw, and adjust her pillows to help her be more comfortable. It was the exhausting work of a mother caring for a newborn, but these daughters wouldn’t think of doing it any other way. For them, it was a sacred honor.
“Caring for her is very special to me right now,” my mom texted me after one of her nights spent on the cot. “I will never get this experience back.”
As a mother, I understand the drive to keep tender watch over someone you love in their hour of need. I will stay up for hours with a sick child – filling humidifiers, dispensing medicine, singing songs and stroking feverish brows – and I won’t stop just because I’m tired or uncomfortable.
Logan has many strengths, but when it comes to enduring with a sick child, I could run laps around him. That’s not a boast or a jab; it’s an acknowledgment of the special gift that is given to mothers. It’s like author Barbara Kingsolver said: “Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.”
My mom and Sally are now both spending the night in Grandma’s room, one sleeping on the cot and the other in the recliner. Two is better than one anyway, they say, and neither one can stand the thought of missing out on Grandma’s final moments.
Victor Hugo once said, “A mother’s arms are made of tenderness, and children sleep soundly in them.” As her life is flickering out, it’s now Grandma Donna’s turn to sleep soundly in the love of her children and grandchildren. It’s the final privilege of a woman who did her job well and is loved much. It’s the final privilege of a mother.