Mom’s Hand Dance (with an Angel as her Witness)

I noticed that my Mom’s right hand moved. I got up from my chair and stretched to readjust her hand thinking Mom was uncomfortable. My intent was to make my Mom as comfortable as possible. Since she couldn’t do anything for herself and couldn’t speak I was her hands, her feet, and her voice.

Mom’s hand moved again. I moved it back to its spot. She moved it again. A light bulb went on. Mom is doing a hand dance. She is moving or marking some boundary. She is spreading flour on the bread board. She is putting lotion on one of her babies. She is working out the details of her life.

In that moment I felt awe-struck and included in her dance. My body responded with excitement and pleasure in seeing my Mom’s dance. Perhaps she is touching an angel’s cheek or lightly brushing rose pedals in her garden.

I said to my brother, Mom is dancing with her hand. He said, yah, I get it.

I said, No, she is so clear. I am very excited for her.

Dying is very much like the labor process, a few big contractions and then a resting spell. I sat with her as her daughter and her witness massaging her, reading and singing to her. I dance by the bedside as a partner in her hand dance.