Friday, January 14, 2011
One year. Is it possible?
Tomorrow morning a mass will be said at the
request of a dear friend in memory of our mother, Dorothy Leigh Scott, who
passed away last year on that date.
Through the long hours of the preceding day into the
still dark of that cold winter morning, we, her children, many friends and
staff of the nursing home, crowded into her room, resolute in our conviction
that she would not die alone. And, so it was
that at three minutes until four in the morning she peacefully took her last breath, uplifted by the
power of the blessings, prayers and tears of those who truly loved and surrounded Mother at her bedside.
One year later, the ache of her death is still very much
a part of me.
I am told it was stolidly mentioned to at least one
friend in the minutes immediately following her death that it was acceptable to “dance a
jig,” presumably, at the thought of her no longer suffering. I didn’t understand the comment any better then than now.
While I am truly
happy she no longer struggles from the ravages of her dread life with
Parkinson’s Disease, I also freely admit to being just selfish enough to long
for the gentle touch of her small hands to my cheeks as she kissed me goodnight
or to see the smile that lit up her face when we returned the next day.
No, there were no jigs to be danced on that cold January
morning nor any time since. Not by this
son.
While it may seem inconceivable that I might very well
miss her more with each passing day, I can also write that the pain has paradoxically and mercifully been somehow rendered less
severe with time. But the word “less” is
relative; I doubt I will ever be free of that pain altogether. I don’t believe it is possible.
As I have struggled mightily attempting to adjust to my
“new normal” these past twelve months, there are two truths of which I am now more certain
than ever before:
The love between a Mother and her child is unyielding and
immutable;
No matter the passage of time, this love is forever.
The pain is, too.
