To Love Enough

[Guest guest]

To Love Enough

M. Hamond

My mother isn't speaking to my father. She hasn't spoken to him in five

years, and for that, my father is truly grateful.

I was crying the last time she did speak to him. I saw the exchange though I

could not hear the words. His whisperings, her whisperings.

The two of them silhouetted against the window light at the end of the long

hall. My father leaning over my mother's gurney, pressed forehead to

forehead. The word " Surgery " on the doors behind them forming a caption for

the picture they made. Hands clasped together as if believing they held each

other's hearts. As longingly as the first time they had reached for each

other, as desperately as two lovers being forced apart.

Being forced to part on this day of life and death.

They had made the decision together, to do or die . . . to do and die. These

two who had lived for and in each other's dreams these past forty years.

My mother with a disease that was cutting the blood flow to her brain. It

was deteriorating her life and it would take it in three years. Her life

could be prolonged if the surgery was done now. Twelve brave hearts had gone

before her but only three of them had walked away.

I watched their process of decision making, both prayerful in the face of

death. My mother wanting to live, wanting to try. The churning and turning

until there was peace.

How brave we knew she was; we three sisters gathered around her hospital bed

feeling time pushing us toward her fate the next day. We were quick to

smile, slow to leave, hoping our " Good nights " were not our good-byes. Our

father was left to keep his prayerful, loving vigil. It was painful to leave

him that night, too painful to think of him alone. But he reminded us that

he would not be alone, at least for this night, he had his Love.

And morning came. We gathered and prayed. We kissed our mother, hugged our

father and then followed her gurney until we were told that only one of us

could go any farther.

My father continued to walk alongside her as he always had. Two people who

had stood together against all odds. My mother orphaned at a young age and

moved from place to place. My father the youngest of nine in a family

hurting with poverty.

They who had found their home in each other.

We children were loved in their home. Given by these two what they had not

been given in their own childhoods: safety, nurturing, moral guidance.

We knew that we were created from their love but that their love was an

entity separate from us, a circle complete within itself.

I see the kiss, the parting. My mother wheeled through the door, alone. My

father, his back to me, placing his hand on that door, praying love and

strength and hope to the woman on the other side.

He turned and walked slowly toward me. The sunrise lit his face and I

glimpsed the depth of this man's love.

This love of great self-sacrificing. A love so great that he was willing to

bear the pain of being the one to walk alone.

And though surrounded by our love, my father walked alone for the two weeks

we waited out her coma, the months of doubt and rehabilitation.

In the end, my mother had lost her speech but she had won her fight to live.

She has not spoken to my father for five years, and for that, he is truly

grateful