Life, from beginning to end

Here's my Sunday column:

Twice in my life I've seen things that forever changed the way I thought about myself, the world around me, the way I relate to my family and how I fit into it all.

One was the first glimpse of my daughter's head as she was born on a rainy January night in Bloomington, Ind.

The other was holding my mother's hand as she fought for one last gasp of air, and then another, and another, and another, a week ago last Thursday in Bronson Methodist Hospital in Kalamazoo.

I never talked to anyone, not even my wife, about how the sense of impending responsibility for a human life transformed so viscerally into reality when my daughter, Kate, was born. So real that I suddenly had an umbilical cord to cut — a grand opening for the life of a human being who could rise to the pinnacles of success or wind up a homeless crack whore, dead on the streets, thanks to our parenting.

And then, 27 years later, I knelt beside the woman who wouldn't let me fail to use my gifts, though so many obstacles stood in my way. A couple of days earlier, before the pneumonia that so quickly ravaged what was left of her emphysema-damaged lungs had run its course, I was able to tell her something I'd never shared before: That I knew that my creative talents, my way with the language and my vocabulary, certainly had come straight from her.

She tried to shrug it off at first, but in the end, she accepted the praise, along with the knowledge that I also picked up her quirky ways of busting out into song and turning what had been a normal conversation into a Monty Python-esque word-twisting exercise.

Many people have talked to me since my mom died about what it had meant to them to lose their moms. Among them, it was the loss of a friend, a consoler, a processor of life events, a chatting partner, a simple comfort, and in one case, a burden.

My dad died nine years ago, and both of my parents were only children, so this is a generational loss. The oldest person in my family now is my sister, who's 52.

The essence of family is shared experience. My sisters and I have been more of a family these past two weeks as we've talked about life events than we had been in the past two decades. If my big sister brings up how she loved the sound of the old neighbor men playing horseshoes in the backyard, my little sister instantly imitates our old next-door neighbor's hilarious way of laughing. As we snort and giggle over it all, I'm thinking about how that same old guy used to invite me over to help him make a big barrel of pickles, and then, when they were ready, would let me sample the first one.

Those shared experiences with my mom have no echo now. Remember when I was on your shoulders and you touched John Kennedy? Nothing. Remember when I used to shoot off the green cannon on the Fourth of July? Silence.

Part of what I was letting go as my mother's breathing grew shallower and her hands went cooler was a renewed bond between us that stretched back to a crisis a decade ago.

After an extended period of isolating herself from her children, I suddenly got a call from my dad that she was headed to the hospital by ambulance. She was coughing up blood.

It seemed nasty as the nurses shoved a tube down her throat and pumped brown crud out of her stomach.

It was more than nasty. I just didn't get it.

A nurse helped me with the reality of what I was seeing.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters in town?" she asked.

"Yes, two sisters," I replied.

"Call them," she said. "Get them here right away."

And so I called my sisters. "Come quick. Mom's in the emergency room. And she might die."

That was the day that we finally set a place at the table for the member of the family that had been locked in the basement for 20 years.

Alcohol had been my mother's escape from the insufferably insecure and often verbally abusive ways of my father. We all knew too much, but no one did enough before it was too late.

To her credit, my mother quit smoking and drinking cold turkey right then and there.

The alternative, pretty much, was dying right then and there.

My mom's extended hospital stay back then coincided with the start of a two-week vacation for me, so I spent all of every day and much of each night there with her. She told stories, she sang, she caught up on my life.

And as I helped her through the toughest time of her life, we bonded as never before.

At first, the doctors gave her little chance of survival. She'd arrived with the worst complications of liver failure, and her emphysema was severe and advanced.

Later, I looked up the statistics. She'd had a 20 percent chance of surviving 6 months with her liver condition, and a 20 percent chance of surviving 18 months with her lung condition.

We considered every day after she got out of the hospital as bonus time. We'd make her happy, not trouble her with the medical stuff unless she expressed an interest, do things she liked to do, enjoy her while we could.

So there we were, more than 10 years later. Heather had flown up from New Mexico on Wednesday, my Mom's 84th birthday.

Early that Thursday morning, I'd been alone at her side, with Heather and Laurie in the hallway, when her breathing became quite labored. It continued for quite a while. I called out in a deep loud voice so my sister could hear me though the door was nearly closed.

"Heather! Heather!"

The second time I called her name, my mom's eyes fluttered open.

She looked over at me, and when my sisters walked into the room, she looked up at them and smiled.

The doctor had already told us that she would not live another day, so we knew we had been given a moment of grace.

We told her we loved her, and that we would not leave her side, and that everything was OK, and that she could let go. She tried to talk, but couldn't. She seemed frustrated, and eventually just closed her eyes and resumed her restless breathing.

From my side of the bed, though, I got the message the only way she could send it.

"Mom, I see that little tear, and I know what it means, and we want you to know that we all love you too."

For all of you who have lost your moms, I am beginning to understand just what it really means.

And if your mom is still with you, please, give her a hug. Tell her it's from me.

Comments

[fleasonadog]

What a treasure to read. An article to clip, and save, and reread.

So much different, so much the same for all of us who've lost both parents.

Thank you, Mr. Warner.

Thank you, Battle Creek Enquirer.