Mother's Day

Mother's Days have come and gone and I expressed my love for Mom in one way or another with flowers, visits, sometimes just a card and a phone call. Mom never demanded anything and she was always grateful for whatever effort I made. I never thought about her not being here. Of course, once in a while there would be a fleeting moment of angst when the unthinkable would skitter across my mind. But to think of my loving, thoughtful, generous Mom being gone... well, it was just unthinkable--you think your Mom will always be there.

But this Mother's Day she is gone. On February 17th, 2009 at 75 years old, my dear, sweet Mother lost her life to lung cancer. She'd fought her way back from the brink of death more than a decade ago when 40 years of smoking landed her repeatedly in the emergency room unable to breathe. She quite smoking over 13 years ago and it bought her more than a decade of life. It was a tough decade.

Mom's every thought for almost as long as I can remember was about how she would get enough breath to do the next thing. Not a move was made without first assessing how much of her precious, limited air it would consume. Still, it didn't stop her from doing much of anything that she wanted to do. Well, other than rearrange the living room furniture, oh how she missed doing that. Even after Dad died in 2002, she continued to shuttle herself around in her beloved little black Rav4, its dashboard blanketed with stuffed animals and bobble-head figures she'd gotten from her kids, and her grand and great grand children. I think part of why she loved the car so much was because it had been mine first. Long trips to Elko became less frequent, but trips to Wal-Mart and WinCo were never far apart. She'd take her time, sit and watch people when she needed to catch her breath, and right up until her last outing to Wal-Mart she refused to even think about wearing oxygen out in public. Mom was always worried about what others would think. It runs in the family.

She was diagnosed in December and gone by the middle of February. From the moment she found out, she was steadfast in her refusal to even consider treatment. After suffering along with Dad and what he went through with chemotherapy and radiation she was positive that she wanted no part of it. Her diagnosis was late stage 4 -- so treatment wasn't an option anyway. In some ways I think she was relieved to get the diagnosis. She kept telling me that she was ready. She was tired. She didn't have the energy to keep fighting for every breath.

Thankfully, she was able to maintain a high quality of life right to the very end. With hospice care she was able to stay in the home she loved and she was surrounded by the family and friends who so thoroughly loved her. Her family of neighbors stepped in for her sons who lived miles away. Who can really ask for more than that as we let go of this life?

I have the lovely memory of several trips Mom made to visit me in Seattle. The picture here is one taken at the very top row of Safeco Field baseball stadium. The first ever major league baseball game she had ever attended. What a wonderful day we had. The picture taken from the top row had special meaning. You can only take an elevator so far up in the stadium. The rest of the way you're hoofing it up some of the steepest stairs you'll ever see. I'll never forget as we stood at the bottom of what appeared to be an endless staircase to the clouds, not realizing at the time that our seats were in the very top row. Stairs are the biggest fear for someone with breathing problems, but she trooped up the stairs barely even slowing down for a rest -- truly amazing us both! Seattle was magical that way for her. Being at sea level, she had new found energy and vigor here that she couldn't even imagine having at home where the elevation was high and the air was thin.

Some of the best times I had with Mom and Dad were spent scouting around Seattle, combing Pike Place Market, exploring Whidbey Island, drinking in the visual beauty of the Skagit County tulip festival. It was a whole new world for the Nevada rancher and his wife of nearly 50 years.

This Mother's Day I am both thankful and sad. Thankful for having such luck to get an endlessly loving mother. Also thankful that her long, exhausting struggle is over. She was tired and she was ready, even though I wasn't. And then there is the sadness. I really have no words. When I try to examine the feelings inside they threaten to consume me. So, for now, all I can say is I've lost my best friend, the most important person in my life, and although everyone says it will get easier, right now I can't possibly believe that it will.

I love you Mom.

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