DianaHer Last Mother's Day....
May 12th 2008 09:44
Mother's Day has come and gone: how was it for you, dear reader? Are you a mother? Maybe a foster mother, surrogate mother, step-mother, birth mother, adopted mother? Are you the mother of a live child? Some people may be mothers of a dead child: they are of course still mothers.
Or perhaps you are a mother-f#$%@(r?
Three years ago my mother was still alive for Mothers Day. We didn't know it would be her last. I travelled down to where she lived in the eastern end of the state and gave her a flower-decorated large wooden box for her things by her arm-chair where she sat day after day, unable to move around.
She had periods of energy during the day but other times when she dozed. She was painfully thin but still fatter now she was having a break from the chemo.
At that stage we all thought things were ok and she would reach a 'maintenance' stage with her cancer.
It was only a few weeks after that wretched Mothers Day that we got the news that things had deteriorated rapidly and she was admitted to hospital for the final time.
None of us ever really got to say good bye. And three years on that still chills me.
My mum was an artist: before she got sick she painted me a beautiful large acrylic of a wild, tumultous vase of flowers, a riot of colours.
Each morning as I lie sipping my early cup of tea my eyes rest on her painting.
Each morning I have to remind myself she is gone.
Each day I think of something I want to say to her.
Or perhaps you are a mother-f#$%@(r?
Three years ago my mother was still alive for Mothers Day. We didn't know it would be her last. I travelled down to where she lived in the eastern end of the state and gave her a flower-decorated large wooden box for her things by her arm-chair where she sat day after day, unable to move around.
She had periods of energy during the day but other times when she dozed. She was painfully thin but still fatter now she was having a break from the chemo.
At that stage we all thought things were ok and she would reach a 'maintenance' stage with her cancer.
It was only a few weeks after that wretched Mothers Day that we got the news that things had deteriorated rapidly and she was admitted to hospital for the final time.
None of us ever really got to say good bye. And three years on that still chills me.
My mum was an artist: before she got sick she painted me a beautiful large acrylic of a wild, tumultous vase of flowers, a riot of colours.
Each morning as I lie sipping my early cup of tea my eyes rest on her painting.
Each morning I have to remind myself she is gone.
Each day I think of something I want to say to her.
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Comment by Heracles