Right after my accident earlier this week, I got a call that my mother fell and injured herself badly enough to warrant surgery this weekend.
Fortunately, I’m not needed at her side just yet—I’m blessed with sisters and brothers who live close by and are able to be with her constantly right now. As soon as I can after my show, though, I’ll be flying out to spend some time with her.
I feel called to go. Not because she needs my help specifically. My dad is in good health and actually very good at cooking, doing laundry and such. It’s possible I could help with moving some stuff around so she’ll be able to manage more comfortably when she comes home, rearranging items so she’ll be able to reach them, etc. But I'm not really needed.
What caught my heart is my sisters say she is depressed. She feels she is old and nearing the end of the line. Thoughts of her own mother are gnawing at her, and she feels time is running out.
I’m not sure what I’ll say to her. This is not the kind of conversation we have in our family with my mom and dad. And it’s possible by the time I get there, she’ll be back to her upbeat and pragmatic self again.
I wish I knew what to say. What I can say to strangers can be so hard to say to my mom.
I want to say that no one is ever at the end of the line unless they stop drawing the line. Yes, we all run out of time, and we all die. But our lives do not lose meaning or power until we decide we have nothing left to say.
I hate to bring Granny D into the conversation, because she’s as extraordinary as Mother Theresa. Their examples can be hard to live up to! Granny D (aka Doris Haddock,who ran for our state senate last year) only lives 20 minutes from me, as opposed to Mother Theresa who lived halfway around the world. You can click on the title for a quick overview of this tough little woman who still kicks butt at age 94 and suffers fools poorly.
She has such passion in her life, it's impossible to ignore her. She has enough for a dozen people! And I bring her up because this is what it's all about.
Find that passion in your own life! Whatever it is, whatever it is. It doesn't have to be something as big as campaign reform or saving the world's poor. It can be as little as saving one person at a time, like my friend S, an artist friend who has taken in her 3-year old granddaughter and feels her life as an artist has been put on hold.
S feels overwhelmed and exhausted. I tell her, you are a hero. She says she is behind in everything and her home and studio are disaster areas. I tell her, you are a blessing and a miracle. You astonish me. And three-year olds don't stay three forever. It will get better. But right now, this little girl is your passion. Your passion for your art is not lost. It has simply been moved to the back burner for awhile. You cannot think of it now, but you will some day. And I will be here, helping you remember, until you can do it for yourself.
I don't know what my mother's passion is. We talk easily in my family, but not about that kind of stuff. I don't know what her regrets are. She's never been in the newspaper or on TV. But I know she has always been there for everyone who needed her, simply doing what she thinks needs to be done. I remember asking a mutual friend who worked with her once, if she were a great teacher. The friend thought a long time and said, there are teachers who inspire and command astonishing academic performance, and he didn't feel my mom did this. But, he said, she cares about those kids, and they sense that--and kids that age (middle school) need that more than anything else in the world. And that made her a great teacher.
Another thing about my my mom and dad is they both picked up brand new careers in mid-life. My mom returned to college after decades of being an at-home mom, with six kids in hand and another on the way. My dad sold a business which had been in our family for two generations and switched to another line of work. Their brave choices never fail to astonish me. They were my first living examples of my mantra, “You can always start over.”
So in between shows and consultations with my own surgeon, I'll fly out to Michigan next month. Maybe I’ll know what to say when I get there. Maybe she’ll just need some chocolate and some comic relief, which I am always happy to provide.
Maybe I won’t need to say anything. Maybe I will just need to remind her who she is until she remembers again.
