May is here. One would think that Spring would bring renewal, and usually it does, unless you live in Oklahoma. Spring in Oklahoma is rather schizophrenic, one day she may be mild with a sunny smile and the next day she is raging with hail storms and tornadoes.
The past few years have been wondrously strange and also sadly tragic. Last September I lost my Father to Stage 4 pancreatic cancer and I don't know how long my brother will be able to continue his fight against a form of blood cancer. It is wearing him down, I know. But I will say this, even though my brother and I seldom got along, he is putting up a good fight. No one would blame him if he cracked under the pressure. Chemo does strange things to the mind. I know.
I know this though, my Mother has been the epitome of Grace during all of this. She watched her husband of over sixty years die horribly of cancer. She watched, and continues to do so, both her children go through cancer. She herself has been through cancer at three times. It hasn't destroyed her, she is more like a crushed rose that gives off more of a fragrance the more it is pressed. Though she may give off the impression of being delicate or fragile, for what she has been through in her life and the harsh times she had as a child, she refuses to become bitter. Right now, I imagine she has made coffee, perched at the kitchen table, drinking a cup as she gazes out the picture window to see if she can catch site of a robin, a squirrel or the cotton tails that come to frolic in the back yard.
A still moment of Grace and Serenity.
She is always quick to laugh and eager to put one to work.
I was fortunate to have the Mother I have. Though I have always been too dark for her taste, I once told her that she had given birth to Stephen King. She scoffs at that. Though it did take her a few years to accept my taste and my predilection for black shirts. But when she did, she would horde all she could at garage sales and told me one day that if this is what I was going to do, that I might as well start wearing black jeans as well.
She also struggled with my tastes in art, film etc. When the struggle was over she was happy that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer. She just wanted me to be happy to be who I am.
When I struggled with chemical addiction in my younger years and went into the chemical dependency ward at Norman State Hospital back in the '80's, she visited me every weekend. It broke her heart to find out some of the things I have involved myself in, the kind of clubs I used to frequent and the type of people I hung around with. But even so, she never gave up on me.
Since then I haven't had a drink in over twenty years. Not even when I was diagnosed with cancer and had a severe breakdown after chemotherapy. During those times she always believed in me.
When I was going through chemo there wasn't much she could do. I was living in an old crumbling house that was falling apart and wearing a the "pack" that pumped chemo into me for 48 hours every two weeks. I got down to 115 lbs. Yet being in her eighties she would come over on the weekend and do dishes, pick up laundry and bring me something to eat. At times she would drive me to the infusion room and sit with me for four hours as a cock-tale of chemicals were pumped into me.
She tolerated my moods. She understood, she had been through it herself. She also understood that it was the hardest thing to do when I returned to work. She also understood when I broke down afterwards. It was her that told me people wouldn't understand, some may talk it about it, even gossip. But it was her that told me that my strength would return. She has a lot of faith in prayer.
When I was told that I was crazy that I felt like I was cursed because I returned to work, quit my job because I knew too much and was suddenly made aware that I was a liability because of the knowledge I discovered, I was afraid to tell her. I didn't want to fail her expectations. I didn't want her to know, which had been already riddled with so much pain and disappointment, because I thought it would shatter her.
It didn't. In fact she shared the sentiment, she admitted that she felt cursed after chemo because going out of such a dark valley you rise to a great high then crash severely. She also suggested I might find different people to confide in.
When my Father was diagnosed with cancer, he chose not to do surgery or chemo. It was too advanced and he was much too old to withstand the treatment. I don't think you would find anyone more hardworking or tougher than my old man. His passing was not an easy one. He was on steroids that made him angry and then morphine that caused him hallucinations. It was during that time that I saw just how strong my Mother was.
She would go about picking up after him, when he began to hallucinate she would talk to him until he came back into reality. She stayed with him until the end. Slept at the hospice over night many times and when he finally passed, I thought she would fall apart.
She didn't.
So am I a Mother's boy?
Maybe so. but in the immortal words of Merle Haggard, "Mamma tried to raise me better but her pleading I denied, I have only myself to blame because Mamma tried..."
Judge me if you will...but yeah, I care about my Mom.
And she totally accepts her inky clothed son that draws dark pictures, though she would probably preferred me becoming an architect, minister etc. She is good with what I became.
Call your Mom's....Mother's Day is near.
