Reflections

My mother was a pit bull.  I feared her sharp look and her beatings.  There wasn't a switch she didn't like or a belt she wouldn't use.  She forced us to eat with her strap over us. We weren't allowed to have friends.  She had no friends. We only visited with relatives.  School didn't end at the end of the day; we had to go to a teacher's house for extra lessons.  We were well fed, we were always clean, well-dressed and hair neatly combed.  We had no needs, plenty of wants but no needs.  She was fiercely protective of her brood. 

I can't say I loved my mother as a child; I feared her too much.  I came to appreciate her more as I got older and understood that she loved us the way she knew how.  The woman who never uttered "I love you," became the woman who would never let you leave her presence or get off the phone without her saying, "Love you."  The woman who had no friends, still didn't, but all our friends became hers.  Everyone loved her.  The woman who went nowhere, now loved to get dressed up to go any and everywhere.  She even became my traveling buddy.

I am happy my mother is not here today.  I feel sure, in my mind, that if my mother were here, she would have contracted Covid-19.  You see my mother was fiercely independent (everything about her was fierce) and she did what she wanted and when she wanted.  She never listened to her children.  Whereas in families, the roles of older parents and adult children switch, it never did for my mother.  She was always the mother and we, stayed children.  She had to be reminded all the time that we were grown.  It was worse for me because we lived in the same house, she on the first floor and I, the floor above.   

My mother would have been out shopping, taking public transportation and going to church, traveling on the church van.  Her pastor would have continued to open the doors of the church until he was forced to close.  I remember the blizzard one year, as it got darker and darker and later and later and she did not return from church.  I called the church and the pastor's numbers over and over with no answer.  By the time I considered the option of picking her up, it was too treacherous.  The police was no help.  It was night before she returned.  By this time, the driveway was impassable.  An SUV, not the van, dropped her off on the street and the driver held her as he walked her precariously up the long driveway, my mother in her flat patent leather shoes.  I was livid.  When I rushed down the stairs to give the pastor a piece of my mind, it wasn't him who had dropped her off.  It was an innocent fellow congregant.  Of course, she continued worshipping at the same church and kept loving the same pastor.  

When my mother got ill in April 2010, eventually passing from a lung disease in June of that year, she had moved through three hospitals and a nursing home.  My sister Sandra, who lived locally, and I visited her on schedule; I had the mornings and she the evenings.  I would go at 8:00 a.m. to bring her breakfast (even though visiting hour was 11am) and I would go back during the day.  My mother was well cared for while she was in these institutions, partially, I think, because they knew one of us could show up at any time.  My other siblings who resided in New Jersey, Florida, Jamaica and Canada also visited.  We were all there, along with grandchildren for Mother's Day 2010.  We, 21 strong, even took over the courtyard of the hospital to have our Mother's Day meal. On her birthday, June 4th, she agreed to not do intubation and go on a ventilator.  We called the other siblings so they could say their final goodbyes.  Three of us were there the day she passed, two days after her 86th birthday.  At her ear, we played Buju Banton and Gramps Morgan's rendition of "Sweet Hour Of Prayer" as she transitioned.  I can't imagine not being able to be with my mother.  I can't imagine my mother suffering alone.  It pains me just thinking about what families are going through, having to visit by looking through windows or Face Time and not being able to hug and comfort their loved ones. 

 

As a part of our 3 1/2 hour call on Mother's Day, my daughter, Jo-Ann, and I reflected on my mother.  Yes, you heard me 3 1/2 hours.  And there were three other calls later that day two for at least 1/2 hour each.  We reflected on a lot of things, family ties, family secrets, ancestry, family tree and more.  

But for COVID-19, my daughter and I would have spent the weekend together.  We would have gone out to a restaurant, we would have talked.   We would not have had a five hour conversation during the entire weekend.  

Mother's Day this year, was different for sure.  Brought out a lot of tethered emotions.  And I had unmitigated joy talking with my daughter.  This will be a Mother's Day for the ages.

I think that girl to the right (me) is sad because
she was scolded or hit to stand properly

With granddaughter, Jo-Ann, at the Bronx Zoo

Dressed for church

Always a hat

On stage at a play for her 85th birthday

At age 78, first time at Dunn's 
River Falls in her native Jamaica

Surrounded by family, Mother's Day 2010, at Lawrence 

Hospital, NY