Mom to my mom, ever mom to me. — Trudy Goodman

Last night I went over to see my Mom; she fell in the bathroom and hit her head early in the morning, at dawn. She was pronounced OK at the hospital, bandaged up, her deep cut stitched up neatly. When I arrived, she was sitting at the table eating chicken and asparagus, wrapped in an Ace bandage headband to hold her gauze pads in place. When dessert was over, we watched “room with a view”, and then she turned to me, from her dusty rose hydraulic chair, and said, “OK honey, it’s time for you to go home to bed.”

“But I haven’t snuggled you, Mom”– this is my ritual with her, every week we snuggle and watch a movie on TV. My Mom has metastasized melanoma; it’s a lethal cancer. The pictures of her tumors show tiny fine bubbles sprayed all over the lungs, liver, brain – there’s no possible target for radiation therapy, and no chemo for a frail dignified lady who’s turning 88 on Sunday.

My Dad was the love of her life, since she was a girl. He died ten years ago, and since then, my Mom lives in a little one-bedroom apartment with her cat, Sweetie, and her extensive collection of teddy bears. Before Dad died, she had no interest in bears at all. Now they are perched on every flat surface — bookcases, tabletops, shelves, dresser, desk — 2, 3, 4 deep, black and orange Halloween bears, red Valentine’s bears, white polar bears, grey koalas, a golden fuzzy gardener with a sunflower hat and basket, a motorcycle bear, even an Easter bear, and the big ones nestle on the floor, leaning against each other…

So before I left, I held her. She rested against me, almost in my lap. Her body felt kind of shaky, and small, and she kept murmuring motherly things to me, her voice clear and sure, repeating them to me . . .

like a chant . . .

“OK Honey, drive carefully, lock your doors, be careful honey, go to sleep when you get home, and do you need anything?” “Would you like to take anything home with you? Do you want some strawberries? Some blueberries?”

Thanks, I got some when I bought yours, Mom.

How are you? You’re doing well, aren’t you? (I’m really happy, Mom, it’s Spring and my life is just wonderful right now…) That’s what I love to hear. You’re working hard and you love your work, don’t you? (Yes, I do.)

OK honey I need to go to sleep now, it’s my bedtime, so you go home, and be sure to drive carefully, and thank you for coming to see me tonight, thank you for coming over and spending time with me.

OK, I love you honey, now I’m going to go to bed, and Sweetie is here. Look at him. He’ll jump up on the bed and put his head on his pillow. He looks up twice before he goes to sleep on my bed, just to make sure I’m here. He sees I’m here and then he goes to sleep. I’m here. (So all’s right with his world, when he sees you…) Yes, apparently.

OK now you’ve had your snuggle, you can go home now, go to sleep honey, get some rest.

So I’m holding her and she’s letting me have the snuggle, completely relaxing in my arms, but I see she thinks she’s doing me the favor, she’s the Mom to the end, and her daughter seems to need to snuggle . . . so she’ll put up with it, and nestle back and relax into me shakily for a few minutes, but I’m holding her soft little body in my arms and just silently weeping and wishing this moment wouldn’t ever end.