Ode to Mother...and the 2008 Presidential Election!

It is January 2008. The Primaries are upon us… I am not a political person per se; I have my issues; my soap box. I have been voting since I was 18, I worked a campaign. I have my JFK memory of his fatal day. Most of all I have my mother. Had my mother. She’s almost 11 years gone now, March 1st. She died just before Monica Lewinsky changed the lives of the Clintons; just before Princess Dianna lost her life as well.

Mother loved Bill Clinton as she had loved Kennedy. She loved Dianna as she loved all fairy tales. Mother loved politics and political debate with her whole heart – her whole mind. She wanted you to disagree so she could go on, and on…and on. (I come by my gift for gab quite honestly.) Mother, although from California, or maybe because she was from California, loved individuality, creativity, equality for all, justice and her fellow men and women. Mother was judgmental, and although some of that was superfluous and imprinted the same within me, most of her judgment was against prejudice. She loved people of other races…sometimes just because she connected to her interpretation of their pain from segregation. Did I mention she lived the majority of her life in Alabama? …A Mecca of freedom and choice for all.
Mother was a writer. She made her living as a news writer, a feature interviewer and an essayist, published in most state papers in Alabama, especially as an associate editor for Auburn University’s Public Relations Department. She also wrote travel columns, published the Billy Big series of stories – Billy was a balloon – for Highlights magazine; Episcopal national church school historical fiction for 5th and 6th graders; she also wrote for True Confessions and Modern Romance…back in the day. Mother loved words.

Mother loved people and people loved mother. When she passed, letters came in from all over the U.S. stating affection for her, claiming lives had been changed from a story she had written, missing her. I loved my mother. We talked every day about 6:00 a.m., about everything and about nothing. She loved and cared for my three sons with love and dedication. They loved her back.

I remember the time before she went into the hospital in December 1996. She was 75. Until November she walked two to three miles a day; she traveled extensively with her boyfriend across the continent and abroad. She wrote every day, publishing weekly in her retirement. She read at least three newspapers every day. She was a 15 year breast cancer survivor. And…her health had been failing; we didn’t know what was wrong. She had begun to have a far away look in her eyes. She would often be in pain. Only a couple of days into my teenage sons and I beginning to take turns staying over to make sure she was eating and able to get her needs met, my oldest son called, he was 16. He related that he had had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning.

He had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning. Things went downhill so quickly. She kept asking if she had cancer. She could never really say the word itself; she often called it the C word. Her doctor told me she was manipulating me. He assured us she did not have cancer. Her pain was outrageous. The pain medications caused her to hallucinate to the point a long time psychologist friend diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. What? What? What? Her teeth didn’t fit anymore. She was so vain, though, and a dutiful daughter, each day I would help fit her big teeth into her increasingly smaller mouth. She couldn’t really eat. Either she wasn’t hungry or the meds reaction caused nausea…or…or…or. She had no strength to use utensils and for some reason we all allowed that when we were not present. Her fingernails were always filled with dirty old food that no nurse would clean. I did. Every day I cleaned her fingernails and rubbed lotion on her arms and hands and feet and back. I cried as I watched my mother go down. I promised her she did not have cancer.

I shut down her house and moved her in with me. I hired a home health nurse, we took her off all medications; we wanted her sanity back. In lucid moments she begged for rational thought. I never realized the sacrifice she was making… a trade off…sanity or pain. She took the pain. Her boyfriend would come over at cocktail hour and spend an hour or two with her. My teenage boys spent less time at home. I was exhausted, working and caring for my mother. What was wrong with her? I was promised she did not have cancer. She asked me every day. Every day I said no.

A month later, my mother died of metastasized breast cancer, which had appeared in her spine and bones. It had been there for months according to the new doctor who diagnosed her in 4 days. The first doctor, her doctor of 15 or more years, misread the test results. Since the result would always be death, there was no apology and no remorse for his incredibly unconscionable behavior. My mother passed after so much pain in such a short period of time. I honestly thought she would live to 112.
Mother is gone. And yet she is so present. She is in my body, laughing with the political humorists…out loud by yourself laughing. Mother would be so alive in this political climate of this presidential election year. Hillary and Barack? Mitt and Rudy? Good God, Mother – a woman (Mom was the first working woman at Auburn University to wear slacks to work in 1969), a biracial man (she was on the front lines with George Wallace and Bull Connor in Alabama in the 60s), a Mormon (religion, her second favorite topic of discussion) and a past mayor of NYC (her favorite city in the world)! Not to mention a Vietnam vet and all the others. Oh mother, you would so love the rash honesty of these times, the fervor with which some people can see the possibilities of the future.

I know you are with me, Mother. I breathe you in and out as these days pass by. I am so happy that I can have these wonderful memories of your passion as you lived in the mission and purpose of your life. I am so incredibly glad that I had you as my mother, my teacher, and my friend. I love you.

Petrina


This essay offers opportunitties to spark your writing in many different ways. You can write poetry or prose to respond to this prompt. Remember, at this point in the process, you are writing whatever is SPARKED for YOU. You are not responding to me personally about my story. Please email your responss to me at iampetrina@bellsouth.net and on Saturday or Sunday I will post all of your responses at the same time. We will read and respond at that time to the writings, processing our feelings and connections with each other's writings. We will see if this works! You all are fabulous and are adding so much to my life by participating in this experience. Post or email with questions.

Always love,
Petee