Portal

Despite its constancy, time has an almost bipolar way of slowing down to a point of restless panic and speeding up leaving little time for reflection. There is so much to say, so many moments left undefined, yet not nearly enough time or mental space in which to properly address them. Instead of journal pages, repurposed half sheets of paper, old mail envelopes, napkins, and receipts serve as placeholders for later reflection. The memories they hold lie about my apartment like a blinking cursor on a page, waiting for the next sentence.

Friday night, I rummaged through a manila folder I had with me when taking care of Mom and Craig. In between old work notes, bill statements and unread articles, I found written on a small white sticky note Mom's top 5 travel destinations...in her handwriting. Something so small and seemingly trivial at any other time in life was my instant portal back to Mom.

I remember watching her as she'd write. It was almost as if she started the letter in the air before placing "pen to paper" (one of her catch phrases-"let's put pen and paper to it"). Her handwriting was always embelished with curves, precise, and always the same. In 6^th grade, I made the regrettable mistake of having her write down answers to an interview I conducted with her simply because I couldn't keep up with her spoken word. When I presented in front of the class, I couldn't make out one loopy-loo from the other. I don't remember the topic but I do recall the teacher's advice-"next time you might consider writing it in your own handwriting. It'd be a whole lot easier for you" (eyes widen in the universal sign of having witnessed a train wreck). (For those concerned, I still got an A.)

Tears welled in my eyes as I studied the curves of each letter; the alignment of her writing as if she had used a legal pad to form lines; the use of numbers as she jotted down her top five: 1. England, 2. Sweden, 3. Ireland, 4. France, 5. Austria.

A small white sticky note captured a tenuous time between determination and desperation, between tumor remission and recognizing that time was running out. I remembered rallying Craig, Jill and Diane to help Mom make the most of the time that remained, fulfill as many life goals she could under the all too short "sentence" her cancer had given her. Even if these goals were unachievable in the end, it gave her hope that they could be.

I asked each person to list the top 3-5 places Mom had never been but might like to visit. One night, Diane had Mom write hers down. I flew in not long after and remember smiling when I noticed our ideas had influenced Mom's list. We had a listener among us, apparently. 

We never made it to those dream destinations. Tumor growth, chemo schedules, steroid complications, fatigue and motor instability were hurdles we could not overcome despite our best intentions. Yet, in late March, when using a walker was no longer a choice but a safety necessity, Depends had replaced underwear, and leaning far to the left was a way of life, she boarded a plane to a dream destination not on her list but etched in her heart. She journeyed back home to Michigan for a final farewell. It was the last time she would see her family.

I joined Mom and Dad as their "escort". Nestled among the white sticky note and my other documents are the memories from that trip scribbled on hotel paper and stolen napkins.

I'm grateful I wrote down my half-baked thoughts before they escaped me, and captured the details of being with Mom and Craig as I witnessed them. Many memories/notes/thoughts I have already written about; others lay waiting like a cursor on a page. Yet, all are my portals back to Mom and Craig.

~E