“Mother’s Day”

"My doctor told me I would never walk again, my mother told me I would. I believed my mother." Wilma Rudolph, 3-time Olympic Gold Medalist

Whenever doubt gets in the way of my being the kid my parents raised, I read and edit this essay I wrote some 27-years ago; I edit it every year because it just never seems good enough.

I've long tried finding words that could come close to doing justice to honoring my parents. And my attempts have never really measured up; it seems like I’ve have writer’s block, hysterical bilateral finger paralysis, and a serious case of blurry vision that slow me down every time.

I've never loved anyone like I’ve loved my parents, and I've never received unconditional love that was anything like theirs.

Mom's been the source of unconditional radiant love every day of my life. I've kissed Mom goodnight and told her I loved her in person or over the phone (rarely) for more than fifty years and I can’t imagine what life would be like without her.

Mom's had a very tough year, to add to an increasingly trying decade, to add to an entire life marked by personal loss. Mom’s mother died when she was just a little girl; her daughter passed at age six months. My brother Jay suffered a fatal accident at age thirty-one and Dad died of a heart attack only one year after his retirement. Little by little, Mom’s freedom and independence have been stolen away by diabetes.

Mom has withstood every embarrassment and invasion medical tests, and care can offer, and done so with unwavering dignity, and even a smile. As I’m writing, I’m visiting Mom at Pasadena’s Huntington Memorial Hospital. Mom's been hospitalized for about the past twelve weeks.

So a lifelong fireball who’d rather run than walk at age seventy-five; who’s always enjoyed watching movies, plays, and USC football with her son, and could dance anyone off the floor at any family wedding, is now confined to a bed 24/7. Mom, who’s being turned every two hours and can’t clearly see the television right in front of her, is breathing oxygen through a cannula and being fed through a tube...and is now beautifully smiling at me and kissing me. God, I'll never be half as strong as my five feet tall, ninety-five-pound mom.

Mom’s never done a single thing in her life for which to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Her strength of faith and character has taken her through every challenge. Her ability to give love has been returned by all the people who’ve been part of her life.

My mom has never seen a baby she didn't love. The photos I'll never lose are family pictures of Mom surrounded by happy little faces.

Mom never let me leave the house without cautioning, "Be careful"; she never left a note without closing "Love, Mom." Mom’s never complained, never hurt anyone's feelings, and never stopped loving the sounds of Sinatra, Elvis, and the Stones. Mom made the best pasta sauce, ravioli, and enchiladas I've ever had and married the only man she ever loved. She knew she'd marry Dad the first time she saw him.

Mom’s never cared about new cars, new homes, jewelry, or the Joneses; she never really felt the need to discover who she really was. Mom never indulged in the time it took to express bitterness or sarcasm.

Although I've given her many opportunities, Mom has never expressed disappointment in me. Mom knew from the beginning, disappointing my parents was my worst fear.

But just this one time, my parents were both wrong. Good night, Mom. No matter what, I'll love you forever.