Mother's Day

      My mother took nearly a week to die. She struggled in a Tulsa hospital as long as she could, but at the end, her body betrayed her.
      It was a Sunday when she was stricken. A stroke or blood clot. One minute she has walking to her bedroom, and then she was struggling for her life.
      And I don't doubt she fought. She loved life fiercely. Loved her children even more. She came from a poor background. My mother was the oldest, and she had to start caring for her sister and brother when she was a child herself. She kept the house clean, cooked meals, got them and herself to school each day, went to bed exhausted each night and dreamed of a far off time when she'd have a home of her own and it would be different.
      I don't know that girl she was then. When she talked about her childhood, it was like she describing a stranger. A tall, skinny girl who played basketball and went to movies. She had large, expressive eyes that my father once told me were like looking in the blue sky.
      They married young. Made a home. Traveled to California and other places. The photos of those years show a woman of movie star beauty. Like Stanwyck or Hepburn, she was at her best when in motion.
      They were trying to have children, but it wasn't happening. My mother prayed for children. Finally my older sister arrived. A year or so after, my older brother. But that seemed to be that. My father came from a large family, and he wanted more children, but perhaps it wasn't to be.
      My mother told me that she told God that she was grateful for her children, and while she wanted more, she wasn't complaining.
      My older sister has told me how glowing and bright my mother was then. My sister said, "I wish you could have known her. She was a different person."
      After three years, I arrived. A complete and welcome surprise, my mother told me. My dad's family ran to girls, and they never thought they'd have a second boy. A year later, my younger sister joined us. And then my youngest brother.
      My mother said it was the happiest time of her life. It didn't last long. My younger brother was born with a heart defect. He was what they called a "blue baby." Now they have surgery to fix the problem, but then, he died.
      It crushed my mother. It broke an unspoken contract between her and God. She told me that she had always thought that, if she kept her children clean and fed and loved them, that God would protect them.
      I don't have many memories as a child, but I remember parts of my brother's funeral. I remember being carried by my Uncle Jack past the casket. The hearse had electric windows, and I had never seen them before. I played with the buttons all the way to the cemetery. I don't remember my little brother at all.
      His death changed my mother. She held us tighter. She lost a lot of faith in the world. But she was a fighter and a lover and a Christian. She didn't give up. The world was darker, though, and she often dreamed of holding my younger brother. A friend of hers told her that the Mormons believed that children who passed away were given to their parents in heaven to raise. She didn't become a Mormon and later on would find that wasn't exactly true, but she would be sympathetic to their faith her whole life and passed that on to me.
      She rebounded. Recovered. She began to experience fainting spells. Dizziness. At first, she thought it was the strain. But it wasn't. A tumor was growing in her neck, cutting off her blood supply.
      She had surgery. They cut nerves to remove the tumor. It took away her voice. She had always loved to sing. Now she could only talk in a harsh whisper. Even worse, she had trouble swallowing. If she wasn't careful -- and even when she was -- she could choke on food and liquid.
      Life became a struggle. She lost a terrible amount of weight and never really regained it, but she had a will that didn't know defeat. She told me that sometimes she wanted to die, but she had her babies to raise and she had to see to that before she could let go.
      So she hung on and raised us. Kept us fed. Encouraged us to make good grades, to go to church, to live life as fully as we could. Oh, she held on too tight at times, and she made us afraid of some things, but she kept pushing. She was a little woman made of iron will and stronger love. And she could be so funny. She had a sharp wit and a clear eye. She was one of the best judges of character that I've ever known. And she never let us doubt that she loved us.
      Her health got better, but it was never good. She had bad spells of skyrocketing blood pressure and terrible bouts of pneumonia. She endured another surgery for another tumor. But she got us all through college and launched on our lives. She and my father made a home for all of us to come back to at holidays and any time we wanted or needed to. We were always welcome.
      Grandbabies arrived, and how their Granny loved them. She called me and my brother -- we'd both moved away from our hometown -- at least three or four times a week. My sisters were always on the phone to her and visiting her.
      Until that Sunday.
      I spoke to her the night before on the phone. Nothing important. Just catching up. She told me she loved me and I, thank God, told her that I loved her. I wouldn't get the chance to speak to her again until I held her hand in the Tulsa hospital in the ICU, and she wouldn't be able to respond.
      My father was with her when she slipped away at night. He would never really recover. She had been the sun that he had orbited his whole life. It would cast him free, aimlessly wandering in the empty night.
      After my father called me and told me that she was gone, I called a few friends. I remember one conversation well. I told Peggy that my mother was wonderful, that my mother was a remarkable human being. And then Peggy said one of the nicest things that anyone has ever said to me. Peggy said, "Of course, she was. I know she was incredible. After all, she made you." I never told Peggy how much that meant to me or how much it comforted me. But she'll know now.
      It comforted me because I realized that something of my mother survived in us. Her children. We were her work. All our accomplishments she shared. All our joys were hers. It was the legacy she fought for. It was the life she chose.
      If I am anything good in this world, I owe it to her.
      I miss you, Mama. Love you. See you someday.