I am my mother’s daughter

My brother and sister-in-law came to see me today to check on how I am doing—and he to reassure himself, for he brought his stethoscope, listened to my lungs and heart, declared lungs fine, heart strong but irregular. Lots of people live with irregular heartbeat, as the cardiologist told me, and I was not concerned, at least not more than I already am.

At one point Cindy commented that I was bright and happy for just getting out of the hospital, and I said, “It’s a choice we each have—we can be happy or we can choose to be unhappy.” At which point, my brother said, “Thank you, Mother.” And it’s true—that’s an approach to life that our other gave us in daily doses.

She was a wonderful woman who brought light, laughter and love to her world and often reached beyond it to those she deemed in need. I am forever grateful for all that she gave me, including a love of cooking. And reading.

Mom was passionate in her political dislikes.The mere appearance of Richard Nixon would transform my gentle, refined mother into a screaming harridan. I can hear her still, “Look at him! Look at his eyes! You can see how dishonest he is.” I shudder to think how she would react to the current pretender (I heard him referred to that way recently and thought it the perfect nomenclature).

But Mom was a nurturer. Stories abound of her taking care of others. She would be distressed today at the dissolution of DACA and wringing her hands over the fate of 800,000 Dreamers, worrying about their future, trying to figure out how she could help. Were she in Florida, she would be helping nail boards over windows, all the while making plans for how to feed storm refugees. The same if she were in Houston. And if she were still among us, she would wonder how she could help those in peril from the wildfires in our West and Northwest.

Mom would agree that in the face of such overwhelming tragedy widespread across our hemisphere, not to mention the floods around the world, North Korea’s ongoing threat, instability in Asian governments, the world sometimes looks a grim place. Petty disagreements, arguments between friends, colleagues, and lovers—all pale in the face of what faces the world now. Even the bathroom bill looks pretty silly in the face of these disasters.

Thanks, Mom, for arming me to live in these times.