Doctoring Mothers

My mother was our doctor. She had absolutely no training, and I must say that she was not very good at it. Dangerous, in fact. Her pharmacopedia consisted of two medications: iodine and mercurochrome, both of which burned like hell.

She would pour these red concoctions into my gaping wounds with righteous and perverse pleasure. She seemed to enjoy seeing me writhe in pain as she chastised me about playing in the creek. My physical wounds were then dressed in a clean rag. Any emotional wounds were not acknowledged. I would limp off to play in the creek again.

My mother is 86 years old now and suffering from severe dementia. Her dementia has progressed quite rapidly over the last year. She does not know who I am, or how much I would like to doctor her now. Unfortunately, not even mercurochrome will not cure her aging and confused mind.

My older brother is her main caregiver, making sure that she is safe, clean, and well-fed. She is provided medications to lower her cholesterol and maintain her blood pressure to prevent additional cerebrovascular accidents (strokes). Her years of cigarette smoking have indeed been contributory to her current state of health. At least she doesn't smoke anymore.

Although her body has remained surprisingly healthy, we suspect that she will die soon--not a pleasant thought as Mother's Day approaches. We have pledged that her life transition will be peaceful and compassionate. Medical science cannot fix our mother.

Sadly, my mother was not a mother that hugged her children. We were clothed, fed, and housed; perhaps the only way that she could show love. Although my mother's lack of overt love and compassion was due in part to her own damaged childhood, she did manage to produce sons that do hug their children...and their mother.

My only daughter informed me two weeks ago that she would soon be a mother for the first time. It was my surprise birthday gift from her. A few days later, she saw this new, little beating heart by ultrasound and anticipated the soul within.

A few days after that joyful event, my daughter had a sudden miscarriage. Nature had determined that this pregnancy could not continue, for whatever reason. This is a primitive mechanism that has protected the human race since the Dawn of Mankind, but that doesn't make it any easier to comprehend when it happens.

As a medical provider, we have held the hands of our patients for years who have had the rug of motherhood pulled out from under them, reassuring them that most women who miscarry will eventually carry a baby to term. Intellectually, my daughter knows this as well.

But, as Mother's Day approaches, I am having a hard time holding back the tears. As her father, I feel so empty and sad, but there is no way that I can fully comprehend my daughter's disappointment of this life interrupted. My daughter is strong and independent and I know she will be fine, both physically and emotionally. My daughter is already a wonderful mother--inside, where it counts. She will most definitely hug her children.

My wife started getting calls this week from our children (all adults now, more or less) asking her what she wanted for Mother's Day. They don't realize that what she wants, she already has. Children...and, grandchildren, and the opportunity to love and hug them.

Mother's Day is really more than just flowers or the obligatory breakfast or dinner. It is a celebration for the person that gave them life. Sure, we fathers had an important role in the parenthood process, but we would be fools to try and compare our contribution to that of a mother.

Every day is Mother's Day. We only celebrate it once a year.

Related Topics: Dana Buchman on Learning Disabilities and Labeling Children, Mother Knows Best

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