There is a common witticism that says something to the effect that we don't appreciate what our parents have done for us until we do the same things for our own children.
I don't dream memorable dreams often. And the dreams I have that are still with me when I wake most often fade from memory before I'm out of bed. But I recently had a dream that some might say is haunting me; I would just say it lingers.
My mom and I were in a newer Toyota Camry. It was burgundy, with tan leather interior. She was driving, and I was sitting in the passenger seat with my carry on luggage at my feet.
We pulled up to the airport terminal. In the dreams I can remember where mass transit has been a part, terminals and stations are chaotic and confusing places with convoluted access and departure paths.
This was no different.
Streams of cars hurried by, filling many lanes of traffic. Ramps led to and from parking garages and overpasses and tunnels. My mom pulled up to the curb and I hopped out of the car and threw a quick, "Thanks, Mom!" over my shoulder as started to walk into the terminal.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her standing on the pavement, with the driver's door open, watching me leave. Her curly white hair was dignified. Her comfortable velour jacket almost matched the car's color and a gold necklace laid over her knit blouse. She was wearing pearl stud earrings, as she so often did. And she was smiling.
She had a brave look on her face, but in her eyes I could see anxiety - almost terror. And I suddenly remembered that she had dementia. There was no way that she would ever find her way out of the airport, let alone find her way home. My mind flashed to the trip I was scheduled to leave on, all the work I had to do, and the important things waiting for me.
"Ah, hell," I mentally muttered, not in resentment, and not in protest.
And in that instant I saw that my mom was doing what she had always done. She'd done it as a girl, part of a family of eight crowded into a tiny three-bedroom house in a blue collar Southern California neighborhood. She'd done it as a young wife, married to a man who, though good, could also be demanding. She'd done it as a mother to four boys whose antics and mischief were enough to try the best of women to the breaking point.
She had done what had to be done. She had borne what had to be borne. And she had given what had to be given, walking through the Valley of The Shadow of Death and refusing to stay.
There she stood, bravely letting me go, knowing that she would never be able to find her way back to 328 Semillon Circle, back to her swivel rocker, back to her picture window view of Mount Diablo.
There she stood again, willingly giving what she knew I needed to be happy and confident and successful.
I dropped my bag on the curb, helped my mom into the passenger seat, and climbed in to drive her home. And the dream ended there.
I hope in real life, that I was willing enough to drop my bag and take her home whenever she needed it. I don't think I understood fully how much she'd given for me until that dream, though.
And as is so often the case, it is too late now to tell her. But I'll do it here, trusting that she'll somehow see it.
Thank you, Mom, for giving every thing you had - the last full measure of devotion, I now see - for me.
I love you.
I don't dream memorable dreams often. And the dreams I have that are still with me when I wake most often fade from memory before I'm out of bed. But I recently had a dream that some might say is haunting me; I would just say it lingers.
My mom and I were in a newer Toyota Camry. It was burgundy, with tan leather interior. She was driving, and I was sitting in the passenger seat with my carry on luggage at my feet.
We pulled up to the airport terminal. In the dreams I can remember where mass transit has been a part, terminals and stations are chaotic and confusing places with convoluted access and departure paths.
This was no different.
Streams of cars hurried by, filling many lanes of traffic. Ramps led to and from parking garages and overpasses and tunnels. My mom pulled up to the curb and I hopped out of the car and threw a quick, "Thanks, Mom!" over my shoulder as started to walk into the terminal.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her standing on the pavement, with the driver's door open, watching me leave. Her curly white hair was dignified. Her comfortable velour jacket almost matched the car's color and a gold necklace laid over her knit blouse. She was wearing pearl stud earrings, as she so often did. And she was smiling.
She had a brave look on her face, but in her eyes I could see anxiety - almost terror. And I suddenly remembered that she had dementia. There was no way that she would ever find her way out of the airport, let alone find her way home. My mind flashed to the trip I was scheduled to leave on, all the work I had to do, and the important things waiting for me.
"Ah, hell," I mentally muttered, not in resentment, and not in protest.
And in that instant I saw that my mom was doing what she had always done. She'd done it as a girl, part of a family of eight crowded into a tiny three-bedroom house in a blue collar Southern California neighborhood. She'd done it as a young wife, married to a man who, though good, could also be demanding. She'd done it as a mother to four boys whose antics and mischief were enough to try the best of women to the breaking point.
She had done what had to be done. She had borne what had to be borne. And she had given what had to be given, walking through the Valley of The Shadow of Death and refusing to stay.
There she stood, bravely letting me go, knowing that she would never be able to find her way back to 328 Semillon Circle, back to her swivel rocker, back to her picture window view of Mount Diablo.
There she stood again, willingly giving what she knew I needed to be happy and confident and successful.
I dropped my bag on the curb, helped my mom into the passenger seat, and climbed in to drive her home. And the dream ended there.
I hope in real life, that I was willing enough to drop my bag and take her home whenever she needed it. I don't think I understood fully how much she'd given for me until that dream, though.
And as is so often the case, it is too late now to tell her. But I'll do it here, trusting that she'll somehow see it.
Thank you, Mom, for giving every thing you had - the last full measure of devotion, I now see - for me.
I love you.
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