I can honestly say it was the best of times and the
worst
of times. I was joyfully expecting my first child at
the same
time that my once-energetic, zestful mother was losing
her
battle with a brain tumor.
For ten years, my fiercely independent and courageous
mother had fought, but none of the surgeries or
treatments had
been successful. Still, she never lost her ability to
smile.
But now, finally, at only fifty-five, she became
totally
disabled -- unable to speak, walk, eat or dress on her
own.
As she grew closer and closer to death, my baby grew
closer
and closer to life inside me. My biggest fear was
that their
lives would never connect. I grieved not only for the
upcoming
loss of my mother, but also that she and my baby would
never
know each other.
My fear seemed well-founded. A few weeks before my
due
date, Mother lapsed into a deep coma. Her doctors did
not hold
any hope; they told us her time was up. It was
useless to put
in a feeding tube, they said; she would never awaken.
We brought Mother home to her own bed in her own
house, and
we insisted on care to keep her comfortable. As often
as I
could, I sat beside her and talked to her about the
baby moving
inside me. I hoped that somehow deep inside, she
knew.
On February 3, 1989, at about the same time my labor
started, Mother opened her eyes. When they told me
this at the
hospital, I called her home and asked for the phone to
be put to
Mom's ear.
"Mom -- Mom -- listen. The baby is coming! You're
going
to have a new grandchild. Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
What a wonderful word! The first clear word she'd
spoken
in months!
When I called again an hour later, the nurse at her
house
told me the impossible: Mom was sitting up, her
oxygen tubes
removed. She was smiling.
"Mom, it's a boy! You have a new grandson!"
"Yes! Yes! I know!"
Four words. Four beautiful words.
By the time I brought Jacob home, Mom was sitting in
her
chair, dressed and ready to welcome him. Tears of joy
blocked
my vision as I laid my son in her arms and she clucked
at him.
They stared at each other.
They knew.
For two more weeks, Mother clucked, smiled and held
Jacob.
For two weeks she spoke to my father, her children and
grandchildren in complete sentences. For two miracle
weeks, she
gave us joy.
Then she quietly slipped back into a coma and, after
visits
from all her children, was finally free of the pain
and confines
of a body that no longer did her will.
Memories of my son's birth will always be bittersweet
for
me, but it was at this time that I learned an
important truth
about living. For while both joy and sorrow are
fleeting, and
often intertwined, love has the power to overcome
both. And
love can last forever.
