A Mother’s Strength
Today I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. I wonder if mom feels this way all the time, with her passageways closing up on her, gasping for breath. Felt like a close call today, she had issues breathing, so much so that my sister and true caregiver took mom to the hospital, where no one knew of her condition, and they all wanted to play God, telling my sister things that scared her, and scared us, things we didn’t have to believe, like it was over, get the Will ready, or else. Things that made me cry, and cry. And made me furious. Why should I believe them? Why should anyone? They didn’t know anything about mom and her condition, they didn’t know how breathing was just another problem for her now. Like everything was.
The things we take for granted. Eating. Drinking. Swallowing. Breathing. All of it gets harder with PSP, or Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, the condition my mom was diagnosed with three years ago. Walking. Talking. ALL OF IT. All of it diminishes, dissipates. All that we do every day, like breathing, becomes a struggle.
She was my dad’s Audrey Hepburn. She was our Martha Stewart. A gorgeous woman who could do anything and everything, and did. She raised five kids in Tokyo while dad traveled the world to pay our bills. She fed us everything she could think of and did practically everything for us — cleaning five kids’ worth of laundry, five kids’ worth of dishes, five kids’ worth of dirty house — with little complaint. She conjured Halloween masks out of cardboard, Mickey Mouse illustrations out of paper without reference, and made fruit baskets out of watermelon.
Now, she lives in a hospital bed, one that moves every which way, so my sister can feed her and help her breathe.
This lithe ballerina of a mom was once a free-wheeling bird, racing around on her bicycle in Tokyo, doing all kinds of errands. Now everything she wants to do is determined by a a thumbs-up to indicate a “yes,” or a thumb and an index finger to say “no,” to any question my sister asks of her. That is all the decision-making she can do now. The woman who would argue with my dad fearlessly, at night, not caring if we could hear her, was now silenced by the disease. My sister, who handles every obstacle with such grace, used to be able to make mom laugh often. It is getting harder by the day.
Still, there are blessings. She isn’t afraid to tell us when she needs something, ever. If she is in pain, she hits her stomach. If she has trouble breathing, she pulls at her trachestomy tube. If she wants food, or medicine, or sleep, you will know.
It’s a minor miracle mom wants to fight for this life now. I’m grateful for it.
The trouble with feeling sorry for yourself is there’s always someone else who has it worse. Using my mother’s strength to pick myself up and start over, each and every day, is what I do to survive. Thanks for reading.
