Until you have held your mother in your arms – really held her, as if your touch will keep her alive – until you have provided her with the most basic of care and until you have washed her frail body as if she were your own child, you cannot understand the importance of honouring her.
About three years ago, my mother suffered three strokes within a week. I thought I was ready for anything when I saw her – but I wasn't. I wasn't ready for my normally chatty mother to be unable to speak in anything more than a whisper. I wasn't ready for the uttering of half a dozen words to tire her to exhaustion. I wasn't ready for her weak half-smile. More than anything, I wasn't ready for my mother to die.
With those thoughts close to the surface, I worked. I worked to get her home, to get her the care she would need when I flew back home to tend to my husband and children. I met with speech and occupational therapists, doctors, pharmacists and home-care workers, and in a few weeks I became a near expert on caring for a stroke survivor. And then, I left my mother in the care of others.
In less than six months, I travelled back to see her. It was after midnight when my taxi pulled up to find her tiny frame dressed neatly and standing there in the foyer of her apartment building. Her hair was done and she wore lipstick. I held my mother's birdlike body against mine and let the tears trickle down my cheeks. She looked so good, so strong, so able. She fussed over whether my jacket was warm enough and attempted to grab my luggage to bring it upstairs.
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