Mom fought a hard fight, and was the "miracle lady" to survive as long as she did. Three years ago, when I ran her doctor out of her room who told her she was going to die in that hospital bed, my dad could not cook, clean, wash clothes, or even dress himself. He's color-blind, and wears a suit seven days a week, so you can imagine the possibilities. Mom used to shake her head over things that he thought looked good together. I truly believe that the reason she lived as long as she did was because she knew Dad would be even more lost than he is today had she died then.
Those two loved each other so much. Mom once told Dad that she wouldn't marry him if he was the last man on earth, something I bet they told me a million times. Just three weeks short of making their 50th wedding anniversary, she obviously changed her mind many years ago, and my brother and I, and my wife and Mom's six grandchildren are glad she did.
Mom supported Dad in so many ways, but she also had a way of keeping Dad grounded. Dad told some old stories while we were there looking at pictures, some of which I had heard many times, and others that were new to me. One story he told couldn't help but make me laugh. Dad was giving a speech one day at one of his conventions, and he thought he did a pretty good job. Mom had traveled to the convention with him, and at the end of the speech, he received a standing ovation. (Dad later said that it didn't hurt that he was their boss, and that "might've" had something to do with it.)
Anyway, after the speech, he and Mom went to lunch together, and Dad--feeling his oats, looked over at Mom and told her, "You know, there aren't that many great speechmakers in the world."
Without batting an eye, Mom looked at him and said, "And there's one less than you think there is."
That was Mom, keeping the equilibrium where it should be. Mom and Dad have lived a modest life, never having much money, but plenty to make them happy. When she survived the April, 2006 hospital stay, Dad told her that they could do anything she wanted--he asked her if she wanted to go to Paris or Italy, or anywhere, and they could. Of course, she was on oxygen and traveling anywhere was an ordeal, but she told him that she was happy being right where she was. And she was.
Mom loved Kentucky basketball, and as we did our moving from Kentucky, her love for the Wildcats didn't stop. Some of the logistics became difficult following them--living in Mobile, and finding radio reception for games was troublesome, having the rare televised game in the early to mid 1970's was like finding gold. Mom and Dad were polar opposites when it came to being a Kentucky fan--Mom was patient, never gave up (she and I would watch the 31-point comeback; Dad calls it a UK loss when they fall behind in a game, turns the game off, walks out of the room--and then returns). They were a perfect yin and yang.
The story I remember most about Mom and Kentucky basketball was when we lived in Mobile. The year that Adolph Rupp retired, Kentucky was struggling with "new" coach Joe B. Hall, and one of the Mobile Press Register sportswriters wrote a column that said, "Rupp is gone, and so are the Wildcats."
Mom cut out the article and saved it--she knew she would need it, and showing her patience, sure enough, the Wildcats rallied and won the Southeastern Conference. She wrote a letter to the newspaper and told the writer he was right--"Rupp is gone, and so are the Wildcats....straight to the NCAA tournament as SEC champions."
They published her letter in the paper and I think it embarrassed her. She never wanted fanfare; that wasn't why she wrote the letter--but her husband and children were proud of that letter.
I could tell so many stories--we all have them of our Moms and Dads, I know. So many good memories.
As most of you know, I have five children, a rather large family in today's times, and it comes with the price of a very busy lifestyle. I wished we had time to visit more with Mom and Dad, and I wished we lived close enough where she could've visited more with us. Several years ago, I thought about calling Mom one night as I drove to teach the Tuesday night law school class I teach, and did. It's about a 30-40 minute trip. The next week I made the same call. And for almost every Tuesday night after that, we had the same tradition. My brother would laugh about Mom running him off the phone--"It's Tuesday night, and Darrell will be calling," she would tell him.
Mom would "take notes" of our phone conversations--she would tell me about Dad and work (he's 74, and still working), my brother Ray and his little boy Casey, and I would go down the list and tell her about the week's activities with all five of my children. She was so, so proud of her grandchildren--and would've been if they never accomplished anything. After Dad arrived home, she would take those notes, and relive our telephone conversation with him.
Mom never minded that I was in a car, with the cell phone occasionally dropping, or an occasional child or my wife calling in where I'd have to take that call. It worked so well with my busy life that often if I found myself in a car for 20-30 minutes, I'd make a call to her. In fact, while I was taking care of a few minor errands before leaving town for her funeral, I thought of something I wanted to tell Mom, and instinctively reached for my phone to call her. I bet I'm going to do that a million times.
Since Mom went to the hospital, I've either been there, or have called daily to check on her. I often spoke with my brother, who was probably a little more accurate on giving me the straight scoop than my Dad, who was often around my Mom after she arrived back at home, and probably wanted to stay optimistic the entire time.
I've been emotionally preparing for what happened this week for almost three years, knowing the ultimate outcome would be what it was. I called Mom Monday night--the last week or so, it was really calling Dad, as she was weak and slept a lot--and during the conversation with my Dad, she woke up before I ended it, and told me she loved me. I told her I loved her.
That was the last thing I ever heard her say, and the last thing she ever heard me say. It wouldn't matter-we know our family's love is strong--but I'm still glad I called Monday night before she died. I'm also glad I spent six days with her in the hospital right before she came home. Losing Mom, it's hard to appreciate all the blessings we truly had, some of these among them. Not too many people are fortunate enough to know and be able to cherish those moments.
Thanks for letting me write just a little about Mom. As Dad told his preacher and my brother and I, if she's not in heaven in a better place, there's not much chance for the rest of us.
God bless us all. He blessed my life with my Mom for all 48 of my years.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment