My Mother’s Hands

I visited my mom when I arrived in Iowa last Friday afternoon, the last day of September. Every time I visit Mom, I wonder if it will be the last time. She is 91 and in failing health. She is no longer mobile. I was reminded that she doesn’t always remember this herself when I triggered the sound of the movement sensor placed near her bed, which is on the lowest height setting it can be. Her mind has been locked down by dementia for years already. Now, her immobility locks her down in new ways. Thankfully, she seems content during our visits.

Struck by how fragile and small she looked lying in bed as I stepped into her room, it took my breath away for a moment. Then, gratefulness came. Grateful to be able to be with her and just spend some time in each other’s company. I have taken to holding her hands while I sit with her. It seems to comfort her. I know it comforts me. A comfort to and from my elderly mom that feels natural and right.

It took me some time to get here, but I sure appreciate being here now. It’s one of my life’s ironies. By the time I found true peace with the mix of emotions I have had for my mother, she was already gone from me on many levels. We will never have a true conversation again. I will never again be able to look into her eyes and see her really looking back. I will take this time together though. It is beautiful and profound in a way I can’t explain.

Holding her hands, I feel her warmth. The warmth she has shared with so many in so many ways. She has 13 children, a couple dozen grandchildren, and dozens of great-grandchildren. She had a 48-year marriage before Dad died. She had a garden, chickens, canning, freezing, many, many walks, her journals. She’s had a life. A full and rich life.

The vacant look in her eyes now can be disconcerting. But when I left her last Friday, after a longer stay than usual, it wasn’t her eyes I was recalling. It was her warm hands. And I prayed the prayer I have prayed for years now: Wishing you peace and comfort Mom.