I Want My Mom

Over the summer of 2011, I stayed with my parents recovering from surgery. I was taking an online class, Composition 2, or Rhetoric: how to make and analyze arguments in writing, as opposed to classical logic argumentation. I had to do a lot of writing for the class, and in the process I discovered that I really do enjoy writing and can gain a great deal of understanding about myself and my own feelings about things if I break them down and put them into words on paper. It helped me over that summer, and helps me now, when things are a good deal worse (or at least more complicated). I had to write papers while on a lot of pain medications (and I'm still on some of them now) and lying in bed in Mom and Dad's living room.

During the period I stayed with them, from May to August, I had to rely on my Mom for just about everything. She was the one who took care of the dressing changes for the surgical site. She drove me to my numerous doctors' appointments, picked up medications for me, and when I became unable to eat normal food she bought me Ensure (at some trouble and expense, I might add). I took up their living room as my bedroom, took up her time, and basically upended her life. She did everything without complaining about it or saying one word to me about what a pain in the ass I was. Changing the dressings on my surgical site twice a day was no fun for either of us: for me, it was very painful and embarassing (the wound being in the bikini line on my leg) and for Mom, it took up her time and, as she told me once, she didn't like being the one to hurt me.

There were many good things that came out of my staying with Mom and Dad, but one of the best has been the improved relationship with my Mom. We were already on the right track, but being thrown together like that, with me being dependent on her for everything again, taught me more about how she expresses her love through service to others. She gave of herself completely. I understood her kind of love finally, and began to open myself up to her, talk to her, and be more open with her. Mom reminds me of the story of Martha and Mary in the Gospel, I forget which one...I'm just starting to read the Bible again, you see. The gist of the story is that Martha hears Jesus is coming and starts slaving away, cooking and cleaning for him and Mary just sits at his feet and listens. Both are expressing their love, just in different ways. My Mom's way is the way of Martha, she doesn't say it much, and she certainly doesn't sit at anyone's feet, but she loves intensely.

I want to share the piece I wrote, about when I first began to realize the importance of my Mom in my life, and the fact that I needed her. At that time, my Mom and I were just about at the very lowest point in our relationship. Yet something in me changed and I realized I needed her. Here's what I wrote, entitled "I Want My Mom:"

                                                      I Want My Mom
When I was 16 years old, I was an idiot. I fought constantly with my parents, especially my mom. I didn’t listen, and I didn’t care. As anyone but I could’ve seen, I was headed for big trouble. I ran away from home, stayed with my (older) boyfriend, and got pregnant. Even though it was incredibly hard from the very beginning, I didn’t turn to my parents for much help. I moved to Illinois to stay with family friends until the baby was born, when I planned to give her up for adoption.

Living in Illinois, I began to have problems with the pregnancy. I had to withdraw from classes at Bradley University, and eventually was hospitalized. The doctors didn’t expect me to make it to 28 weeks of pregnancy. I was given a tour of the neonatal intensive care unit, and counseled by nurses, doctors, psychologists, and priests to prepare for a very premature baby who may not survive. At this time, I started to realize I want my Mom.

I stayed in the hospital, in my own room, for nearly two months. I had the room set up like a dorm room, with pictures from my little brothers and sisters, art and craft equipment, and tons of books. The nurses on the floor became my friends and would come spend time with me every day, helping me with ideas for my sewing and drawing and talking to me about my family and my plans. My family came to Illinois for Thanksgiving, and we had Thanksgiving dinner in my hospital room with turkey and all the trimmings, brought in coolers. The room was full of people: my family. I didn’t want them to leave, but they had to go home and I was alone again. I still couldn’t say what was in my heart: I want my Mom.

The longer the pregnancy went on, the more I grew to love my baby girl. I had frequent ultrasounds because of the high-risk of the pregnancy, so I saw her growing week by week. I saw her heart, and her hair. I saw her sucking her thumb and playing with her toes. I rocked back and forth to put her to sleep when her kicking kept me awake at night. And I didn’t want to give her up. I knew it was the right thing to do, that the family who would adopt her could give her all the advantages I couldn’t: two parents, a stable home, financial support, private schools, and everything else a seventeen year old is incapable of providing. Every week it was harder to think of saying goodbye. Someday, I hoped she might say I want my Mom.

One day in December, my doctor came to me and said that there had been a “miracle” and my preterm labor had reversed. I could leave the hospital. I went back to the family I had been staying with, but I had mixed feelings. We had a conversation on the phone, and I said the words I hadn’t said for years: “I love you, Mom.” I was afraid, and I was able to admit to myself I want my Mom.

As it turned out, I was right to be afraid. On February 13th 2001, I had a nightmare that my daughter was dead. On Valentine’s Day 2001, I didn’t feel my baby moving. I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon, and lady of the house went with me. The doctor was horrified: she couldn’t find a heartbeat. My own heart broke. I think I screamed. I want my Mom. 

My friends, the nurses, and the doctor took over, calling my family and making arrangements for labor to be induced as soon as my parents made the 13 hour trip out from Michigan. They arrived in Illinois at around 10 pm on the 15th of February, and the process of induction began right away. Finally, I had my Mom.

 My Mom had to take care of my youngest brother, who was only a few months old. She couldn’t stay with me that night. But I had my Dad. My Dad stayed with me, watching movies with me, playing cards with me, talking to me, praying for me, and holding my hand. He slept on a cot at the foot of my bed.

Mom came back in the morning. That day, the 16th of February 2001, is mostly a blur, but I remember my Mom. She walked with me and encouraged me and she supported me while I was getting the epidural. She and Dad took care of the details related to what would happen to my daughter’s body. 

When I went into hard labor, my Mom was there holding my hand. At 11:02 pm, my daughter was born. Lillian Mary. The doctor cried, the nurses cried, and my Mom cried. I held her and cried.  

There are some things I will never forget. I’ll never forget the priest: blessing my daughter, kneeling down and kissing my daughter’s hand. I’ll never forget my Mom’s hands: holding my hands, holding my daughter. I’ll never forget my Dad’s presence: so reassuring and strong. And I’ll never forget my daughter’s face. She was so beautiful, perfect, sweet...and still.  

I learned a lot of things over those few days, things that are hard to put into words. The most important lesson was about love. Love of parents for their children. My daughter overwhelmed me with love. I would have died for her. And my parents laid down their lives for me. They dropped everything to come to me. Despite everything I had put them through, they were there. My Dad was a pillar of strength for the whole family and my Mom gave me something to hold onto: her hand, and her love for me. Our relationship wasn’t fixed, but it was the beginning. To this day, I can still say I want my Mom. And my Mom is still there.