Mom

Yesterday, my daughter called another woman "Mom".

I was surprised that this struck me with such force.

"But I'm "Mom," I protested mentally, at least when it comes to this child.

I tried to brush it off, no big deal, I'm not bugged, but the fact that I am awake at 5am with a tear in my eye tells me that this was no small thing to me and I have to wonder: why?

Perhaps it is that the word itself is entwined around a woman and a relationship that I spent decades deciphering. My relationship with my mom was...complicated. Two very different personalities, struggling to find harmony amidst conflicting ideas and viewpoints. I spent my teenage years grappling with her on every issue, disagreeing on the vast majority of them. In my early adulthood, I blamed her for some of my own troubles while at the same time, recognizing that no one loved me with the same intensity that she did, nor was there was anyone I trusted quite as much as I trusted her.

Fortunately, God is kind, and He brought me into startlingly close proximity with my mom to work out my lifetime of conflicting emotions until together, we found understanding, resolution, peace.

I think it is this battle that makes the term more precious. "Mom" is not a title that I apply casually. There is only one person who has earned that name in my life, and I guard carefully its application; hence, the strong emotions when it came out of the mouth of my own child towards someone other than me.

I cannot deny that I am incapable of raising my children without the help of other women. I am not the end-all of mothers, nor am I the perfect fit for every one of my children, and there are many areas in which I am seriously found wanting. There are countless women who have stepped up to fill these gaps in my childrens' lives and I am profoundly grateful that they would care enough about children who are not their own to help this way. I cannot say that I have done the same. More and more the phrase "it takes a village to raise a child" echoes through my mind as I see my offspring become more than I could have helped them to be on my own.

So why the frantic stirrings over a title so small as "Mom"? Are we not all mothers?

And yet, a small part of me protests, "But these are MY children. I bore them. I sacrifice for them. I love them in a way that I love no other children and, I believe, in a way that no other person could love them."

I will have to think on this one.

Anniversaries

The law of opposition is alive and well in my life, as evidenced by the anniversaries I celebrate this day.

21 years ago, I married my David in the Salt Lake temple. I was staying at my aunt's house and I woke so early that morning after not sleeping all that well so that I could get ready to go to the temple. My mom helped me with my hair and then she and my dad and I drove to Salt Lake. I was so nervous, and then so relieved to see David there and put my hand in his. It has remained there all these years.

Our marriage was christened first thing with a choice to laugh or cry when a flock of seagulls flew over us while we were taking pictures on the steps of the temple and decided to unload (think: poop). We both looked at each other and knew we had a choice to make; we decided to laugh. It was an excellent decision and one we have made many times since.

David is the constant in my life. My friend, helpmeet, lover, and soulmate. In times of joy or sorrow, my first thought is to turn to him. He is a gem of a man and I am a blessed woman.

Opposition: one year ago today, I sat in a room at hospice house, listening to the labored breathing of my mom. When I arrived that morning, I went straight to her and said, "I love you, Mom." She said, "I love you." A few hours later, that breathing changed, and then she was gone. Home to that God who gave her life.

I sank to my knees by her bed with a crush in my chest unlike anything I've known.

How do you go on without your mother? With great difficulty. And by remembering how she would have wanted you to live your life: with joy, with courage, with love.

So today, I will celebrate my husband and my marriage and remember the love of my mother.

Knowing joy because I've known sorrow.

For my mom--

I miss you.

I miss hearing your voice on the phone.

I miss seeing you in your beautiful clothes with your hair and make-up carefully done.

I miss how you really cared that Alissa got 4 goals in a soccer game and that Katie had a kool-aid stand.

I miss how you kept track of everyone in our family and made sure we got together and knew what was going on in each other's lives.

I love you.

I love how you would tell me how pretty I looked on Sunday.

I love that you truly wanted to be at all of my kids' activities.

I love that you loved me exactly for who I was.

I love that family was the most important thing to you and that we knew it by your actions.

I remember.

I remember your ring that you wanted me to have. I wear it around my neck.

I remember that you were worried that we wouldn't remember you. We do.

I remember the feel of your warm hand firmly gripping mine. I wish you still could.

I remember your last words to me, "I love you, too." Love you, Mama.

I remember that you said you would always be watching over us. I'm so glad.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Rex Lee Run

I ran in the Rex Lee Run today for my mom.

The run has been going on for many years now in memory of former BYU President Rex Lee to raise funds for cancer research at BYU. When I was working as a nurse, I took care of Rex Lee when he was undergoing cancer treatments. Sadly, the cancer claimed his life, just like it took my mom's, but the work of the researchers at BYU has been effective in advancing treatment in the fight against cancer.

In the opening ceremony, I thought about my mom and my love for her and how I missed her and the tears flowed. As I ran, I felt so strong and good and at the end when I got so tired, I thought about my mom and all the others with cancer who suffer and fight and struggle when they think they can't bear it anymore.

I love you, Mama.....glad I could run in honor of you today.

Letters

Today I wrote about the last week of my mom's life.

I had lived through it, and talked about it with people, but I hadn't written it down and something kept telling me, "Write it down or you'll forget something." So I did. I typed for four pages--single space--and I cried some. But it was done. Then I printed it out and I folded it up and put it in an envelope.

I told my dad that I did this.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked.

"I put it in my 'Mom's funeral bag'," I replied. That is a bag I received with some goodies in it from a friend and I put all the cards and notes and letters I got from people about my mom in it and then I put in the pictures that I printed out from the funeral, and now it holds the story of the last week.

Oh, and a letter I wrote to Stephenie Meyer, the author of the Twilight books. You see, she helped my mom, too, only she didn't know it and I thought she should.

So I wrote to her, too, and printed a copy to mail and a copy for me. To put in the bag.

So I will always remember.

Passing

My mom passed away last week.

Often, it seems surreal. Could this have happened to me? to my family? to my mom?

My mind keeps fixing on certain moments: her hand clasping mine so tightly in the ER just days before she died. Her last breaths when all I could do was kneel by her side and sob and say "Mom" over and over. How she looked reclining in the front seat of my car while we looked at the fall leaves in Provo Canyon and felt the cool breeze.

People ask me how it was. Hard.

People ask me how I am. OK.

The law of opposition is so at work here. It is good that she is no longer suffering. It is sad that we can't see her anymore. I am glad to be home and caring for my children. I worry about my dad and wish I was there to help him.

Last night, we read the letters my mom had written to each of us. They were all so personal and so filled with love. I told my kids, "I know that Grandma still lives, because this much love doesn't just go away."

Making Plans

I am a planner.

I find it essential to my well-being and productivity to think ahead and plan what I (and my family) will be doing. Consequently, I have a very well-used planner that I always have with me that has writing on every single page (I prefer the old pen-and-paper method; it's just more satisfying to me than the electronic gadgets).

Today, my mom and I made plans.

What do you want to do as you get sicker? Be home with hospice or in the hospital?
Answer: Home with hospice.

Do you want family around as you get sicker?
Answer: I want my family to come and be with me, but I don't want anyone to do anything that makes them uncomfortable or afraid.

What do you want for your funeral?
Answer: I just want a graveside service, but I don't want everyone to be out in the heat (in Arizona). Just keep it simple.

What do you want for a casket/burial?
Answer: Don't spend a lot of money on it. It's just going in the ground. I'm not real particular about what city I'm buried in, just so long as your dad and I can be buried together.

These were hard plans to make because making them meant facing painful realities. We cried a lot...and after a bit, decided to talk about something else.

I'm glad we made plans. I'm glad I know what she wants and that she had the chance to tell me. I'm glad that we could cry together and plan for a future that isn't what we would choose, but one that we can face because we thought about it and talked about it and planned for it.

I think planning will give me strength for what is ahead.

My mom and I in 1974.

Cancer and Faith

There was once a woman with cancer. The cancer grew undetected until it weakened the woman, but once discovered, it was fought with courage and knowledge and most of all, faith. The cancer flowed at times, and ebbed at others, but at last, it seeped into new spaces with a speed that overwhelmed and frightened and pained the woman and those who loved her.

So, together, they clasp hands and pray and hope and love and look to God who is "aware of your sufferings and enfolding you in His arms."

Cancer and roller coasters

My mom has cancer.

This is not new information. It's been almost a year since she discovered that the coughing and fatigue and finally shortness of breath weren't a virus, but lung cancer. Advanced lung cancer. In my 58-year-old mother who has never smoked a day in her life (or even lived with a smoker).

The last year has been like, well, like riding a roller coaster, which has some good points, like when the coaster first takes off and you're climbing that big hill and the anticipation is building, but then you get motion sick on the way down, and when the coaster goes upside-down your head feels like it's going to explode.

In the last few months, I have come to think of my mom as "living with cancer," rather than "dying from cancer." According to the doctors, she cannot be cured (although I pray for healing every day), but she's not on her way out either.

She's in limbo. Being in limbo does have some perks. Like I can still call and talk to her on the phone about my kids' basketball games and she can go to Hawaii for her anniversary and if church is really boring, she can say she doesn't feel well and head home.

Being in limbo also stinks. Like when the pet scan shows--maybe--new growths in her neck and back and hip, but the dr.'s not sure so she has three MRI's, but no idea when results will come and you wonder, "Is this it?"

In limbo, you live in the moment. That is a good lesson, I think. Because life, like the roller coaster, lifts you up and down and sometimes makes you want to throw up, but it's worth it, for the moments when you feel like you're flying.

I am grateful for limbo...and roller coasters...and my mom, who is living with cancer.