She Was Fine Even When She Was Not
My Mom, The Powerhouse
Like a pendulum swinging side to side, each day watching her becoming thinner and enduring more pain, I vacillated between praying for her release from the pain and selfishly wanting her to remain alive so she could still be a mom — our mom, grandmother and great-grandmother.
My mom hadn’t been vocal for weeks now, and as I looked at the frail figure lying in bed, my heart shattered. I hadn’t looked, really looked at her for weeks now because it was too painful.
The emaciated body lying there was not the powerhouse that we had come to know and love.
The powerhouse (my mom) struggled with a debilitating hereditary disease that left her in constant pain. It impaired her ability to walk, sit, lie down, exercise or do any physical day-to-day activities that most people take for granted.
She struggled to get to school, with pain visibly etched on her face.
My mom singlehandedly reared four children during the height of Apartheid and poverty, with the cherry on top of having limited rights as a woman. During those years, you could be educated and single, but heaven help you if you decided to divorce your husband. I recall her needing my father’s (her ex-husband’s) permission for us to move to a bigger house. He said no, and we remained in a one-roomed house where my brothers slept in the kitchen and my sister and I with my mom. Bunk beds were the order of the day, affording us children some veil of privacy.
She worked hard but never earned what she was worth because she was the “wrong” color and gender.
People are cruel, and too often, they would see her as a “cripple” with nothing to offer beyond her disability.
She was so much more than that.
Mom did not hide away in a corner but loved dancing and would play the radio every Saturday morning so we could all dance and sing. It was a beautiful tradition that I carried on with my children.
She would tutor and counsel children in the neighborhood and read and write letters for the many illiterate women. She taught some how to read and sign their names. Education was important to her, as was rising above the circumstances we grew up in. My mom held fundraisers to take her pupils to the beach, climb Table Mountain and have dance socials. She tried to do her best within the spaces she was allowed to be in.
When a teenager fell pregnant, it was my mom she confided in, who then went to break the news to the teen’s parents. She was an active member in our church and volunteered to read from Scripture and teach teenagers Bible classes.
Thinking back, I am exhausted by how much she accomplished within 24 hours. Financially, it was hard, but the love and togetherness made the poverty easier to bear.
At 65 years old, after years of teaching, she decided to apply to teach in England. Most people, including some family members, were skeptical and doubted that she would be successful with her application. After all, society was not as socially aware and inclusive as today. People had no problem verbally discriminating against her skin color, her age or her physical disability.
They never met my Mother, though. She removed the letters “dis” from disability, and with her positive attitude, faith and purposefulness, she focused on her ability to do things.
She taught English as a subject in England. We found it ironic but not surprising.
The words “I’m fine” became synonymous with her. Even in absolute agony, near the end, she would say, “I’m fine.”
Those two words were heartbreaking because I could see she wasn’t.
Often, what you fear most in life will happen to you.
In my case, I feared seeing a dead person. As a child, after many horror movies and open caskets at funerals we attended, it was traumatizing to see a person lie there, unmoving, forever locked in one position. I prayed not to be there to see life ebb from her body, but I think God gives you strength and carries you through the moments when you have to face your fears.
I was busy washing her and called my son to help so I could slip on her “adult brief.”
The disease had taken its toll and ravaged her body. She looked as if she was bending because her bones had fused, and the ribs on her right side were touching her hip bone, grinding into it with every breath she took.
The pain must have been unbearable, yet she whispered, “I’m fine,” as I tried to pull up the brief.
Suddenly, she sighed, a tiny sound laden with tiredness, and I consoled her, letting her know she would soon be back in bed.
She never acknowledged my words!
The sigh we had heard was her last breath.
My mom (the powerhouse) had passed away!
It’s been a year since her passing, and I miss her more than I thought possible. I miss her presence. I miss hearing her say, “I’m fine,” or reassuring me that whatever challenges I face, things will be fine.
I do not doubt that she is indeed fine now, dancing and laughing as she did when she was with us.
