RETROSPECTIVE PERFECTION

"My mom is a never-ending song in my heart of
comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget
the words but I always remember the tune."

~Graycie Harmon

My mother stood in the doorway on that Easter Sunday afternoon, tilting her head to visualize my presence through the murky cloud of macular degeneration. An ocular stroke in her left eye and the ravages of eighty-three years had left her legally blind.

Her face showed the simple life she desired. Deep wrinkles and random age spots were tattooed badges of survival. Her brown-graying hair was slightly whiter around the edges since the last time I was home. She still curled it with pink sponges in her ever-simple way.

She was never glamorous, always uncomplicated. Her dress, worn in the vein of a plain, life-long uniform, was a light-blue, small-flowered pattern with food stains on the front, undetected by her ailing eyes.
My family were already loading the car, and as I subtly tried to pull away, I could not let go of my angry disappointment.

Her name had finally come to the top of the list on a nearby senior housing unit; but despite her life-long desire to live in a new place, she denied herself the luxury. The threadbare linoleum in the narrow hall reflected her choice to remain within her own familiarity. Fear took away another dream.

A couple of years earlier when Mom had suffered the stroke, she attempted to lay guilt on me by hinting that she should consider a nursing home. I suggested that all she had needed was a roommate, thinking of someone with healthy eyes.

She assumed I meant the company of a man and shook her head, "I'm afraid I'd get a talker.” My dad had the Irish gift of gab and when he went into assisted living, she may have enjoyed the peace of being alone.
Torn between my waiting family and abandoning her, I blurted out, "I've got to go."
Mom pulled me back into her musty apartment, chilled from her frugal thermostat, curtains pulled as life had closed upon her vision, to say her private good-bye. Her family were stoic Norwegians, so a nod and a wink would always do for a hug.

"I tried to do my best,” she said. “There were a couple of things that I didn’t like about myself. I was a jealous person, and I wish I’d known better how to show my love."

Then she hugged me hard, a hug that’s lasted forever.

A week later on Monday night, she died in the hall on her way to bed.

Looking back at our final moments, I understand the meaning of perfect parenting. I've never felt the need to be jealous and although I express my love daily, it's never enough.

No regrets.


-- Patrick J Foy, DDS