Her hands

Even after a long day at work, my mother’s hands worked tirelessly: chopping vegetables for dinner, stitching our clothes, and doing whatever needed doing. I loved her hands and admired them. I wanted to be strong like her. But at the time, I couldn’t be. I would have, and gladly, if I weren’t so headstrong in proving to her that I was like her.

There was this one time, I think I was 13, when she was working on my little brother’s costume for the play. She wanted to teach me how to use the sewing machine. I sat down in the chair. She leaned over me, helped me guide the thread into the needle, fed the fabric in, gently pressed down on the peddle, and let the sewing machine do its job. I was so excited that I was able to do a stitch and help make the costume.

I remember when I was 16 years old, she called me into the kitchen to teach me how to cook a particular dish. I believe it was chicken parmesan.

“Lisa!” she called out.

“Yes, Mom?” I replied from the living room.

“Can you come here a minute, dear?”

“Coming.” I yelled back, sighing as I texted Mick, my boyfriend, ‘Brb mom’s calling me.’

“What?” I asked her with some frustration in my voice.

“You said you wanted to learn to cook, so I thought you could help me make dinner tonight?”

“Okay, let me go tell Mick it’s going to be a while.”

I was short with her. Each time she went to help me grade the cheese or make the batter, I would snap at her, saying, “I got this!”

She was patient with me; she understood how a teenage girl thought. I loved it when she showed me how to make a meal, sew clothes, or work in the garden; I never showed her I did.

~          ~          ~

After high school, I was determined to prove that I could stand on my own. I wanted to show her that I was capable, independent, and ready to build my own life. It was a stubborn kind of independence, the kind I thought she’d admire, though I never stopped to ask.

I applied to every college far from home- West Coast and East Coast- and was eager for a new start. Eventually, I landed in North Carolina at UNC, chasing my dream of becoming a director of communications for the FBI. At the time, it felt like a perfect plan.

My sophomore year had barely begun when my phone buzzed. It was her. Her voice, steady but soft, told me they’d found a lump in her left breast. She told me not to worry, to focus on my schoolwork, and that she was getting chemo and was considering having a mastectomy.

So, I did or tried, which would probably be more accurate.

All I could focus on was that my mom was sick. I was so mad at her; I accused her of being selfish not caring about what I needed or wanted for my life.

I remember this one phone call; it was the worst. It started with me calling her from my dorm room and asking her how she was doing. She was so weak and short of breath that she had to pause after every couple of words. She wanted to hear about how my schoolwork was going, whether I had met any boys, and whether I was getting enough to eat and enough rest. Eventually, my dad got on the phone to tell me that she was weak and needed rest.

 I think he was disappointed with me for not being home to help with her.

I didn’t understand.

The weeks that followed blurred into one long stretch of worry. I tried to focus on classes and friends, but every time my phone rang, my chest tightened. I dreaded updates, yet I wanted to hear her voice, even if it was weak.

About a month later, my phone buzzed again—this time, it was Dad. His voice, steady but heavy, sent a chill through me.

“Lisa, hun, are you are you at a place where you can talk?

“Umm, yeah, give me just a moment. I can be,” I answered, telling my roommate I needed privacy. She gave me a strange look, grunted, then grabbed her purse and left the dorm room, slamming the door.

“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.”

“Oh yeah, that’s just Cindy; she’s in a bad mood today.” I replied, “What’s going on, Dad? Is Mom okay?”

“That’s why I’m calling dear. She’s taken a turn for the worst, and I think you need to come home.”

“Umm, I have mid-terms next week.”

“I know this isn’t the best time for you. Will your teachers give you time off?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, I’ll ask, what’s going on, Dad? You’re scaring me.”

“She said she doesn’t want any more treatments; she’s so weak and in so much pain she just wants to be done with this.”

“Oh, umm, okay, I’ll get a flight and be home this weekend.”

“Okay, please hurry, honey. We don’t know how much longer she has,” Dad said with a crack in his voice.

“I will, Dad, I promise.” I tried to say reassuringly.

What I didn’t realize then was how quickly life can change in just a few days. After speaking with my instructors and hastily packing, I booked the earliest flight I could find. At 7 a.m., two days later, I was on a plane, gripping the armrests, caught between fear and guilt. When I landed, my brother texted me to grab an Uber. He was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to pick me up.

When I walked in through the front door of the house where I grew up, where my mother was the backbone of our family, I immediately knew that something was wrong.

My dad saw me come in, ran up to me, pulled me into a hug, and broke down in tears. In all my life, I have never seen this man cry.

“Mom?” I managed to squeak out.

Gathering himself, he took my shoulders in his hands, looked at me, crying. He said, “I’m sorry, dear, she died early this morning.”

“Mom!” I screamed, pushing my dad back and running for the stairs just as my brother stepped in front of me and wrapped his arms around me.

“She’s not upstairs,” he told me as he pulled me in tighter.

“Where is she?” I cried.

“She’s in the den. We moved her into there when she was too weak to take the stairs anymore, ” my dad said as he put his arm around me, pulling me close and guiding me back towards where she lay.

I remember looking over her as she lay there, her eyes closed, and what I could have sworn was a smile on her face. She looked as beautiful as she did when she would call me into the kitchen to cook with her or kneel beside me in the yard as we planted the new perennials in the flowerbed.

“I’m going to my room,” I say to my father and brother as I leave my mother’s side, trying to hide my tears of grief and shame.

“I’ll take your bags up…” my brother started.

“No,” I say sharply, interrupting as I throw my backpack over my shoulder and pick up my carry-on bag, “I’ve got it, but thanks.”

I feel overwhelmed with anger, fear, and what I later understood was guilt. I was angry that she got sick that she left me. I was scared, not knowing how I would make it through school; who would talk to me and calm my anxieties when I didn’t think I was good enough? I felt a horrible feeling of guilt that I was never the daughter she wanted me to be, that I was the one who abandoned her, that I didn’t get to say goodbye.

~          ~          ~

You know how they say hindsight is 20/20? Well, looking back, I see now that whenever she tried to teach me something, instead of learning from her, I wanted, no, I needed to show her that I was smart and I knew what/how to do what she just wanted to share with me.

What I know now is that she never saw it that way. She saw me as an independent teenage girl, a young woman who was learning to find her way. I learned that my mother was proud of me.

I didn’t finish that term, but I was able to go back to school the following spring and finish my degree in communications two and half years later.

After graduation, I spent some time with my dad and brother, who was now in college, before leaving for Chicago to start my career as a columnist.

One evening, we all sat on the floor, reminiscing about our times with Mom, the vacations, and the games we played. My dad—I’ll never forget this—reached back and grabbed an envelope behind him, handing it to me and saying, “Your mother wanted you to have this when you became a grown woman.” Opening it, it read.

“Lisa,
I want you to know how proud I am of you. I wish I could see you now, the woman you have become. Hold in your heart, knowing I am here with you and will always be with you. Live your life the way you always wanted to, the way you always did.

Be uniquely you.

I love you,

Mom”