Dear readers, as we approach the anniversary of my beloved mama, Evangelia's, passing on November 26, I share a moment that rose above the ordinary, highlighting that in acts of caring, we encounter the divine, the eternal.
Travel back with me to the heart of Victoria, BC, within the walls of my first home, where a tender story unfolds.
It was then, that my beloved mother, Evangelia, came to live with us (me and my then-husband), under the same roof that sheltered my growing family. Her arrival signaled a subtle yet significant shift, unveiling the delicate dance of aging.
I was pregnant, considered a high-risk, geriatric mom-to-be, and confined to home. Yet, I found solace in those quiet days. My mother, who once had a spine of steel, now revealed the gentle impact of time. The vibrancy of her stories dimmed as her memory began to fade, and her once steady hands, now tinged with frailty, sought my support.
Our days developed into a comforting rhythm, filled with the familiar sounds of Greek soap operas and the lively atmosphere of game shows like “Wheel of Fortune.” These moments, previously mundane, became sacred pauses, where I observed my mother with a new sense of understanding and empathy.
One typical afternoon, my mother’s voice, now vulnerable, asked for my help with bathing. This simple request bridged the years, taking me back to my childhood and the big white bathtub in our house on 7th Avenue.
And so, together, we stepped into the walk-in shower in my bedroom. Assisting her, I realized how our lives had intertwined, coming full circle. In the shower, with my mother’s skin marked by the passage of time and my enormous egg belly embracing new life, there was a moment of heartfelt connection. Her hand, reaching out to touch my belly, spoke volumes of love and a shared history without uttering a single word.
Memories of my childhood, of her bathing me with gentle, reassuring hands, flooded back. Now, it was my turn to offer that same tenderness and love. This exchange, simple in its action but deep in its significance, marked a sacred moment between mother and daughter.
That day's memory, vibrant and alive, akin to the vivid colours of a Gustav Klimt painting, remains indelibly etched in my mind. Sadly, my mother's health began to decline further. A fall, resulting in a fractured clavicle, necessitated her hospitalization.
The steady march of dementia continued its course, gradually diminishing her presence. Yet, amidst this loss, the memory of our shared moment in the shower endured, shining as a symbol of our enduring bond.
As I share this story, my heart fills with gratitude for those sacred moments spent with my mother. They define our unbreakable bond and illuminate the enduring legacy of a mother's love.
Beautiful. I too remember when my mother required my help bathing. When the roles reversed. There is a sacred bond between mother and daughter for those of us that have been lucky enough to have been blessed with the task of helping our mothers come to terms with end of life. To those who still have a mother in their lives don’t waste a minute of it. Tell her you love her. Ask her about her childhood. Ask about the family tree. Write it all down and treasure it.