How I do it: The power of moms.

His biggest fear on June 13th was the doctor would still not have any answers.  I remember sitting in the waiting room of a world famous liver specialist and Leonard saying "What if they don't know what this is and I have to deal with this pain forever."  In those few short weeks between onset of pain and diagnosis, it didn't even dawn on him how much he had to fear.

But then everything changed.

"It's a cancer" was the doctor's opening line when he came in the door.  We asked a few questions, were given  a referral to an oncologist and then went to the van.  We sat there in unbelief.  Shocked.  Silent.  Dumbfounded really.  Surprisingly, a few minutes later, out of the side of our eye, we note the intern standing by the side of the van.  Leonard rolls down the window and he hands us Leonard's file.  He says "You better get your affairs in order."

What do you do with that?


I remember getting out of the van.  I remember thinking I couldn't let Leonard see what I was feeling.  I remember knowing I needed to be real with someone.  I remember feeling I needed someone to prop me up.  I remember realizing I couldn't do it alone.

So I called my mom.

And for the next seven weeks, she held me up. Like the stays in a corset, she allowed me to look strong, straight and true.

She let me be beautiful.

And I was. I had a strength to be patient with my Leonard.  I could roll my eyes at her not him when he went on and on about how thick the cream of wheat needed to be.  She took on my frustration so none of it went to him.

She watched over him when I stole a short nap, allowing me a quick respite with the reassurance that he would be loved when I slumbered.  She loved him so I could rest.

She marveled at his true nature that casual visits never revealed.  It wasn't until she moved in with us and held my hand as I helped him die that she could see the real him.  She pointed out the things I had just come to accept as normal.  She noted his frequent statements of love, his consistent, gentle touches, his expressions of gratitude.  All things he did all the time.  But to her, it was new and it reminded me what a giant he was.

She lost the "in-law" part of her title.  She truly became his mother too.  She doted on him.  She even got him to eat.  I came to learn that an aware death requires a mother figure.  He reached out to a entity he could associate with the creative force of mothering to soothe him to acceptance of his own passing.  And she had the strength to sit by him in his sick bed and be that for him.  She mothered him.

My boys were never neglected when all of their own mother's power went to their father.  Grandma monitored them.  Grandma sheltered them.  Grandma let them escape.  She even let her Leonard die without her in the room so his boys would be mothered.  She was me when two moms were needed. 

And then the hard part began.  The long, awful, lonely road of grief.  She took me to the beach to escape the missed rituals of Thanksgiving.  She stared at me in disbelief when I questioned if I had loved and served him enough.  She let me feel justified when I wanted to shout at God and scream "ENOUGH".  She casually mentioned how much she admired my strength.  She stated things about me like they were permanent and real.  Things like "faithful", "loving", "great mom" "capable".  Things I just couldn't believe myself.  Always my stay.

It's taken this long for the idea of her grief to even enter my thoughts.  Becoming a widow made me incredibly self centered.  I can only imagine her heart break might be bigger than mine.  Not only did she lose a son, she lost the peace of knowing what his void left in her daughter.  She lost the reassurance that her daughter was loved and taken care of.  She lost the feeling that her grandsons would be shaped into men by a great man.   She lost a complete and whole heart as she felt my heartbreak with me.  She lost the peace of all of her chicks being in safe nests.

But it never showed.  And that is the magic of motherhood.  We stand.  We support. We swallow. We make it so our chicks can be beautiful.

I want to go back to that intern when he stood by our van on that hot day in June.  I want to have a better reply to him when he says we need our affairs in order.  I want to reassure him.  I would tell him,

"We are going to be OK."

"Our affairs are just fine"

"We have Mom."

"All is in order"

I love you Mom.