Her Hands

All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother. ― Abraham Lincoln

My mother passed away a couple of weeks ago, on July 23rd.

It had been a struggle since Christmas. She had been hospitalized with infections and shortness of breath. I heard her labouring on the phone each time I spoke to her. And when we went back to visit her in May, she wasn't as spritely and interested in going out while we were there. I quietly wondered to myself how much longer we would have with her.

My brother called me on the Monday morning to tell me to go home. She was in the ICU by that stage. I spent a long day in airports and on airplanes before arriving late at night at my family home. I slept very little that night. We got up the next morning and spent the day in the hospital.

The doctors were kind. They really wanted us to know what we were up against. Having seen our father struggle for so many months, I quietly prayed that it wouldn't go on that long. And after some fruitless attempts to prolong the inevitable, my brother and I decided to let her have some comfort. As her breathing slowed, I sang her a hymn and held her hand while my brother held her other hand and put his other hand on my shoulder. And it wasn't long after that that she was gone. We had family friends with us in the room. We prayed together. The ICU staff let us stay as long as we wanted. And when we finally went home, I lay in bed and wondered if I'd ever sleep again.

My brother and I spent the first few days after she passed together, navigating the world without our parents for the first time. After a lifetime of being a good, Filipino kid, I kept waiting for the "adult in the room" to pipe up and say something on our behalf. I guess we're actually really the adults now. 

That last day, I held her hand a lot. I kept looking at her hands, her fingers, her fingernails, the mole on the back of her right hand that had been there for as long as I could remember. I thought about how those hands taught me to crochet, to cook, to sew... I looked at her hair which is like my hair... fine and silky. She knew we were there the whole time, even though she was struggling. In the end, I think she just wanted to rest.

And so... here I am, back in my own home. And I don't really know what to do with myself. I've realized over these past couple of weeks how much every part of my day had her in it... how many times I've wanted to tell her something, show her something. We both liked clothes and jewelry, and I loved showing her my new outfits or getting her jewelry as a treat. And I want to show her how well my geraniums are doing and the new sweater I'm working on. I want to tell her the latest gossip I heard. I want to hear her sneeze. I've thought about the first time I came home for Christmas after moving away from home to work in the UK... I was coming down the escalator to the arrivals area at the airport, and even though a bunch of my friends had come to greet me, the only person I saw was her. I didn't take my eyes off her until I was able to touch her.

It doesn't seem quite real that I won't touch her again.

I usually called her a 4:30pm. That time rolled around today and I sat here, wondering what to do.

So, I picked up my laptop and wrote this. And I'll share the thing I finished before I had to rush home. It's a little spun cotton mouse that I learned how to make with a tutorial by Rosanna makes. I added the balloon and called him Geronimo, Gerry for short. And I guess he's here to give me a balloon to make me smile a bit while I figure out how to live this life without this person who has been with me from literally day one.

Here's Gerry. Have a good week.