Mother May I

My mom looked beautiful the other night.  Her skin was smooth,--surprisingly so, considering she'll be 85 next Sunday--her clothes were impeccable, and even her glasses uttered "classy" behind the fashionable frames. 

What made me pause as I took it all in, though, was the fact that she was laying on a hospital bed in the emergency room.  She'd spent much of the afternoon there with my stepdad, Dick, whose heart gave him a fright (he's now home and well).  Because my mom has had bum luck with her back and a series of procedure-disrupting infections, of late, I convinced her to let the doctors check her out, as well.

By the end of our three-hour stay, my mom was cleared to go ahead with her procedure, offering her the chance at real pain relief after weeks of agony.  

That alone made it worth the visit.

But what I most appreciated in spending that evening with her, there among whirring machines and antiseptic ointments, was the chance to just hold her hand and talk with her.  The conversation flowed easily, despite its occasional focus on realities that are neither fluffy nor fun.  Several times in the evening, her laugh--her throaty, easy laugh--punctuated the stale hospital air, eventually resting happily upon my shoulders. 

It has been strange, this past year, watching my mom grow older.  It has been hard, realizing that her edges have grown softer, her needs more pronounced, her presence less of a certainty.  I have rather enjoyed my first 50 years on this earth, framed by a mother who is at once both classy and good-humored. Like a smooth stone, I like how she feels in my hand.  I like all the things she represents to me.

There are days, though, when I realize that her youthfulness is like a clever fox, tricking me into believing that she is something she is not--young, for instance.  It is an odd Shepard burden, this youthful demeanor, because it catches the rest of us off guard.  Surely, Sally Shepard Raglin Marshall is not almost 85.  Surely, that is a master's typo.

Is it wrong to say that I enjoyed myself the other evening, tucked away in a back room in ER, my mother by my side?  No.  I rather think it was something else altogether.

Mother-daughter time, the loose skin of my mother's hand tucked safely into mine.