My mama is dying, not “dying” for a new Jaguar or another slice of chocolate cake, mind you. Those things have been on her want list before, but not now. Heck, she even got the green Jaguar from my daddy and some chocolate cake on her 65th birthday.
No, sadly, with a diagnosis of acute myeloid leukemia this summer, and a short lifespan prognosis, the first woman I ever thought was beautiful is indeed dying. On the inside, her 72-year-old body is being invaded by a stranger who is not welcome and was uninvited, to say the least. It”s all I think about — day, night and all moments in between.
When I rub a cold cloth across her sweaty, pale face as she stares past me into space with worn eyes, I think of my kindergarten graduation when all she could find that even came close to a navy blue tie for a blonde-headed little boy, age 5, was a giant bow tie. I wore it with pride, and I have that photograph in my mind”s album of memories captured in time.
She and I sit on the sofa watching reruns of Golden Girls well into the wee hours of the morning now after all her medications have been administered, but it”s those Saturday nights of my adolescent years that I remember, while holding back a tear or two. We would drive down to what used to be the old Midy”s drive-through café, order two large baskets of nachos with cheese, and drive home to watch Donnie and Marie. I always wished that I had Marie”s beauty and Donnie”s swagger. I can”t even look at a box of Crunch-N-Munch caramel corn without remembering us laughing our way through episodes of “Gimme a Break,” “The Facts of Life” and “Hee Haw.” How”s that for variety?
Now, she is too exhausted to laugh out loud very often, and I am too sad to make others laugh.
Our favorite times have been decorating for the holidays, and I get all choked up when I even imagine the approaching season of decorating the tree and unwrapping little reminders of our festive times together, just the two of us. I close my eyes and wish to have the power of magically sending the two of us into one of my Christopher Radko snow globes. I know just the one it would be, the one with the little boy who falls asleep underneath the branches of an evergreen tree. Only my mama would be with me, and we would live forever transfixed by the wonder of Christmas.
I fell asleep under so many of our glowing family Christmas trees, lights flickering in the darkness of night — and will always cherish the smell of my mama, perfume mixed with vanilla flavoring or other secrets from her holiday kitchen, as she picked me up and carried me to my bed. I have come to learn that we should all enjoy the little things, for one day we might look back and realize they were the big things.
Tonight I pull a soft blanket over her sleeping, shrinking frame and give her a kiss on the cheek before turning off all the lights except one small lamp on an end table. Mama has always been kind of vain about her appearance, wanting to be pretty for my daddy, and she loves that she is losing weight, an irony that is lost on her somehow.
My mama is dying. I look at her, and sometimes for a moment I think it isn”t true, while the doctors tell me firmly that it is. But if I hold fast to the moments of little boy bowties, nachos and cheese baskets and snow globes, she will live on forever … and that”s beautiful.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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