Warm Hands
An Unexpected Visit from my mother
My husband and I sat on opposite ends of our living room sectional, watching "Law and Order." Half-asleep, I fiddled with a video game on my Chromebook.
A hand touched my right wrist, startling me. I recognized the touch as my mother's, radiating warmth up my arm. I remember my Mom patting me in the same manner growing up.
Mom's left hand displayed the thin gold wedding band soldered to her solitaire diamond engagement ring, but that was impossible. Her rings were in a multi-colored stone box in the bedroom. Dad gave me the set in 2012 after Mom's death from a decade-long struggle with dementia.
Yet there my mother stood. She watched me with a smile I'd not seen for a decade. But she wasn't a 79-year-old with white hair and facial scars from skin cancer surgeries. Instead, she was at the peak of her beauty: stylish and radiant. Her cheeks showed a dab of blush, and her lips featured her trademark red lipstick. Mom wore a blue tailored suit with white piping, and her dark, jet-black hair was in a bouffant. Mom appeared to me as she looked half a century ago, still free of life's wrinkles.
Why was Mom here? I've looked and listened for her in the years she's gone because I believe there's something beyond our physical body, a spirit, or a soul that doesn't die. But I could not grasp what I saw or why. Was I asleep? Is this a vision conjured in a dream? I felt her touch and saw her unwrinkled hands, absent the arthritis of later years.
Her smooth hands reminded me of the sunny young woman who was so present with my brother and me when we were small. Her hands helped build blanket forts on our black and white tiled living room floor. Mom was engaged in every aspect of her children's lives.
Our relationship changed when my brother and I entered high school two years apart. Mom's world inched closer to the empty nest. Coupled with the daily burden of her aging parents and their health concerns, she began experiencing depression.
When my brother and I left for college, each 90 miles away in opposite directions, Mom grieved. Driving my grandparents to their appointments and doing their bidding was her life. My Dad was at the peak of his career and extremely focused on work, not what happened at home.
As a teenager, I did not understand how her life changed and how alone she felt. Sometimes, I could see my Mom get lost in a room full of people. After family drama, Mom would collapse in her chair like a defeated prizefighter and fall asleep, "Ideals Magazine" across her lap.
After college graduation, my brother and I widened the divide, moving 1,000 miles from home in 1982. I went to Florida, and my brother moved to Oklahoma.
About a year after I moved to Florida, my Mom tried to take her own life by ingesting poison. Fortunately, she had no physical damage, but she blamed me for her problems. She told my father and me she was unhappy over my shameful choice to live with my boyfriend.
This incident began years of treatment for her. I also went into therapy and forgave Mom for real and perceived slights. I married my boyfriend. I understood Mom was as ill as if she had diabetes or cancer. I was not to blame for my Mom's issues. Over time, I learned to understand her pain and grew more empathetic. The turning point in our relationship was the birth of my son, her first grandson. Mom always adored babies, and I never babysat, so I needed her help after he was born. She stayed for two weeks, and I cried when she left.
An ironic soap opera twist changed the plot a dozen years after Mom finally rid herself of depression. Demon dementia came calling when Mom was in her sixties, and we lost her again over the next years. My Dad now gave his full attention to caring for her, dressing her each morning, selecting earrings and other jewelry, and always ensuring she looked nice. Whenever I came for the weekend, he insisted I take her to the local department store and buy her clothes, shoes, and jewelry.
Throughout her decline, I spent much time with my parents, often caring for Mom so Dad could go to a Cubs game or attend an alum meeting.
We often went to the symphony, and Mom held my hand like a trusting child. We shared our love of music. On Christmas, when the family played euchre, Mom and I would sneak away to watch "The Sound of Music" for the umpteenth time and sing with every song.
She couldn't remember my name in her last months and called me "Spunky." I have no idea where the name came from. She died in 2012. In some ways, her death was a relief. I was so tired of watching her die a little piece at a time, leaving her a shell of the person she had been. Sometimes, the pain and grief of lost time returns to me, and I feel waves of sadness about her depression years.
Science tells us that energy never dies. Did my Mom's energy present to me like a heavenly hologram? Or did my mind, hungry for her touch, conjure up a moment, a dream, to feel my mother's love again? After pondering the why of the appearance, I've settled on what I believe to be the reason for her visit. Mom didn't want to be thought of as left behind in a psychiatric facility, unable to care for herself from dementia or scared by skin cancer.
Whether Mom came to me from the cosmos or my subconscious, the brief visitation reminded me of Mom at her best. That's the person I want to remember.
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So much here I relate to and I appreciate the vulnerability and openness in this piece.
But on a lighter note, my attention snagged on the fact that you know euchre. I’ve never met anyone not related to me who has even heard of it. We teach all our friends it’s a right of passage for anyone who marries in, so NOW they know…
This is so kind and loving. You are more like her than you know. She visited now because she knows you’ve been through a lot lately 💕🌹