"...SOMETIMES DREAMS ARE WISER THAN WAKING."

---Black Elk, Oglala Sioux, ca. 1932

September 15, 2000

I dreamt that Mother died. It was after the funeral and I was in her house, surrounded by family members. I smiled as I walked past them all on my way to the living room, where I sat down crossed legged on the floor, facing the sliding glass doors that led to the patio. I sat there and looked at all the tiny nick- knacks that hung on the glass by small suction cup hooks. Small, silly garage sale finds she considered worthy of her favor for some reason. Not unlike the people scattered through the days her life.  Little treasures... her life was made up of little treasures, each one valuable simply because she found pleasure in it.

Then I wept, my heart aching for the treasure I had lost.

The house in my dream, the patio doors and the nick- knacks, were all creations of my dream, symbolic of my mothers fondness for collecting things she thought were pretty or valuable. My mother had not lived in a house of her own for over two years. She was in a nursing home during the last two years of her life...not because we wanted her there, but because of family circumstances at the time, there was no alternative.

Those two years were agonizing and heart wrenching. At the end of each visit, she would ask to go with me; and I would have to tell her that she needed to stay because someone else was coming to see her. It was a lie that lived only moments for her, but for me it lived on as I sat in my car and cried...and swore at the unfairness of life.

Thirty two days later.

October 17, 2000

My mother is dying.

How did this time come so soon? I am not ready for her go!

How do I give up the light in her eyes when she looks at me? How do I give up the smile she gifts because she is happy to see me? How do I give up the feel of her small frail hand in mine as we sit and talk about loved ones who have passed on as though they are about life as usual? I want to know that I can fix her hair, paint her nails, and bring her little gifts tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...

I want to scream in protest...I want to take her in my arms as I would a child - hold her close to my heart, and whisper words of comfort as I rock in time to the memory of long-ago lullabies. But I can't because of all the tubes; so I just hold her hand, smooth her hair, and caress her forehead...tell her things I'm not sure she hears or understands. I kiss her, and believe that my love for her seeps through into that other place that holds her in silence. I pray for a miracle - I pray for release - but mostly I just cry out to God in wordless agony, not knowing what to pray for, except for Him to notice her...my mother.

He knew she was there all the time; but I wanted her for myself...whole, the way she used to be. I wanted life to rewind and undo what had been done, so I would not hurt.

Love is often a selfish thing, blinding us to it's ultimate fulfillment.

To be continued.  "....Call Me Maxine" part 3