One of the Last Things My Mother Ever Said to Me
My mother loved William Holden. That was not unusual, I’m sure; many women were in love with William Holden. But this was my mother, and as strange as it sounds, I never thought of her as anything more than that.
Yes, she was a person, but she was my mother.
Remember, this was a time when parents were not our “friends.” This was long before social media and spontaneous cell phone pictures shared with the world. It was the era of black-and-white photos, imprisoned behind plastic-sheet-covered pages in books hidden in the attic.
Parents were our parents. They rarely showed emotion outside the family. They made breakfast, lunch, and dinner, provided us with clothes and shelter, and kept us safe at night.
And they were never wrong.
My mother was sick for a long time. It began at the start of the seventies, and by the end of the decade, she was gone. During that time, I did not handle the situation well. If I’m generous with myself, I chalk it up to my age.
She had been sick throughout my teenage years. At the time, I didn’t understand the relationship between a parent and a child. To clarify, I’m not talking about the relationship of a child with a parent. I knew that one, and I was flawed. I’m talking about the relationship of a parent with a child.
I was clueless.
The brunt of the hardship from my mother’s illness fell upon my sister’s shoulders. Maybe women are just better at this than men (am I a sexist for saying that? I don’t know anymore.) With my mother sick, my sister handled everything. Perhaps that prepared her for the challenges she would face in her own life.
My sister is the strongest person I know. In fact, her conversation with Governor Corzine at her husband’s funeral is a family legend (story for another time.) Our mother’s illness was just the first round.
For years, my mom was in and out of the hospital. When she was back home, I carried her up the steps after her chemotherapy treatments. Even then, she made jokes and made us laugh while spending most of her time on a couch in our living room.
I always wondered about the last day they took her from the house. On that last day, did she know she might never return home? Did she think about the cracked window in the living room, the one that was never fixed?
(I told you, kids, don’t play ball in the house!)
And if she knew, did she worry that the house would not be clean enough for the inevitable company that would soon arrive?
In the hospital room, before she slipped into a coma, she spoke to each of us. I’m not sure what she said to my brother, and I’m sure she told my sister to take care of me (Sheesh, Mom, I’m not a kid anymore).
When I stood by her bedside, her face and body frail, she took my hand. It took me years to realize it, but what she said to me at that moment was wrong.
She whispered, “You’ll never know how much I love you.”
As the person living on the child’s end of the parent-child relationship, it was wonderful to hear, even under the horrific conditions in which we found ourselves.
It gives credence to the saying, “Tell the people you love that you love them because you’ll never know if you’ll ever get the chance again.”
(Is that a saying? Seems awfully long for a saying, but you get the idea.)
It wasn’t until years later, after I was married and about to start a family of my own, that my mother’s words echoed in my head.
“You’ll never know how much I love you.”
No, Mom, I do.
Not then, but now. The moment I held my first child in my arms, I knew exactly how much you loved me.
Say hello to Bill Holden for me.
