At 6:15 AM, I was up letting the dogs out. I considered getting up for the day but luckily was able to fall back asleep.
I’m now awake again and it’s almost 8 AM. I am reliving this nicest dream of my mom. She’s sick but she’s home. No tubes. No devices. She’s in her long night gown and lying across her bed, watching TV. She’s resting, an activity you rarely saw her do while she was well. Prior to diagnosis, her mind and her body were in constant motion. So if she was participating in a relaxing activity such as watching tv, she was also organizing, or scrapbooking, or creating some other unnecessary project.
Back to the dream… My boys and I arrive. Quentin immediately lays by her. I do too. My head lies opposite of hers. And Dion, my middle and energetic child, remains standing, talking, walking around, being Dion. What was said wasn’t important. What was felt is continuing to stew in my guts as I race to get these words out before this moment of solitude is over. A sense of peace radiated through the room. But I felt an underlying anticipation, like when the alarm or timer is inching closer to interrupt you in your sleep, in your task, or in this case, in your life. Her tv volume wasn’t overwhelming this time. Narrators of crime programs don’t appear to be yelling through the surround sound today. There was no clutter in her room. No papers for her to sort. No projects awaiting her attention. Her bed was clear. The air – so clear.
I missed out on so many days with her while she was still home after her first treatment. I lost that precious time because she didn’t seem like she wanted visitors and I didn’t seem to know how to just show up and be there for my mom.
I just want to lay here for a few more minutes revisiting some visions of my mom in my head.
And I wish I would’ve kept one of her nightgowns.
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