Love Lived In Her Eyes

One year ago today, my sweet Mommy left this earth, leaving behind a quiet in the air that still feels unnatural.  My life has forever been altered, and my days will never be the same. It has taken me a year to write anything about her, and even now, this post will not be adequate or contain all I want to say about my mother. But what remains untouched is who she was - a spectacular human being whose love shaped so many parts of me.

I was the firstborn – first child, first daughter, first granddaughter, first girl.  It was my mother and me in the beginning and my mother and me at the very end.  She brought me into this world, and I cared for her as she left it.

My mother and me.  She was pregnant with my brother.  I was first.

On March 19, 2025, my mother had a stroke.  I found her on the floor when I went to pick her up for a dentist appointment.  Seeing her there took my breath away.  I was scared, but that quickly shifted when she looked up at me.  Her eyes searched mine, and I was overwhelmed with emotion as I spoke to her, telling her she was okay, I was there, I was going to take care of her, and help was coming.  I was thankful she was alive, but I wasn’t sure she was aware of what was going on at that moment.  Help did come, and she was immediately whisked to the hospital.  Three days later, they sent her home with me.  She couldn’t speak or walk – she had right-side paralysis from the stroke, so only her left arm and leg worked – but she had me.  And I had her. 

Those first few weeks were incredibly difficult.  I didn’t know what to do.  It was like taking care of a new baby, something I had never done.  I struggled with trying to determine if she was hot or cold, comfortable or in pain, happy or sad, hungry or tired.  I watched her like a hawk.  I was afraid she’d fall out of bed, especially the times she wound up crooked in the bed, with her leg hanging over the side.  At night, I would put the chair up against the side of her bed so she couldn’t fall out.  I set my alarm and got up to check on her hourly.  I got no sleep.

I was feeding her ice chips and water with a tablespoon.  I mashed up flavored ice pops to give her a bit of sweetness, but all the while she was just eating ice chips and water I was thinking that she was getting no real nutrition.  Hospice nurses suggested not giving her anything if she didn’t ask for it.  How the fuck could she ask for something if she couldn’t talk??? I was furious with that suggestion.  Honestly, Hospice wasn’t much help.  Their stance was “do whatever you think is best,” but I didn’t know what was best.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was in control of someone’s LIFE.  Me.  I was making decisions as to whether someone would live or die.  It was overwhelming and sad and difficult and confusing and made me feel like throwing up.

My mother and father, October 1974.

Needless to say, I am still infuriated with the healthcare system and the inability to get speech and physical therapists out immediately, at the very time she needed the most help.  And I’m disappointed in Hospice, not because they don’t do a good job with their end-of-life services, but because they don’t DO anything if someone is still actively living. They were helpful with supplies, baths, and nursing visits, but when something seemed medically wrong, they weren’t the people to call.  They’re just not in the business of saving people. I still think if we had speech and physical therapy from the very beginning, there may have been a different outcome.

The six months she spent with me after leaving the hospital were life-changing for me.  I cared for her twenty-four hours a day until she died.  I did not leave the house for four months.  My first time out was a doctor’s appointment I couldn’t miss, and even then, I rushed home because I couldn’t bear to be away from her.  The only thing I wanted to do was to keep my mother alive.  I wasn’t ready for her to leave me. I wanted to take care of her.  I wanted her to get better.  I wasn’t ready to let go. 

My mother at 15 years old.

I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her face or smelling her.  But I also wondered if keeping her in the state she was in was the right thing.  Then the better she seemed to get, the more she ate, the more she responded, the more she “talked”, it gave me hope.  It made me think that maybe she could come back.  I never thought she’d go back to what she was, but I thought maybe she’d get to the point where she could talk more and communicate better.  Even if she had a bum leg and had to use a wheelchair, I thought maybe she would be okay that way. She could still have a life. 

My mother with her stepfather, Frank.  March 1981.

I’ve lived near my parents most of my life, especially my mother.  I moved away a few times – Kentucky, California, Tennessee, Washington, Virginia – but I always came back to wherever she was.  We were close, and I liked being in proximity to her.  That’s not to say that we always got along, but even through the teenage outbursts and adult arguments, we came back to our core.  Our unbreakable bond.  She was my home.

Those six months now feel like a blur.  Taking care of her was unlike any experience I’d ever had, and I honestly never thought I’d be in that position.  Oh, I knew I’d take care of her until the end of her life; I promised her I would, but I thought she’d simply grow old and pass away in her sleep, like my other relatives.  I never, EVER, thought she’d have a stroke.  We never talked about it.  I didn’t plan for it.

My mother's first visit to a truck stop, on our trip to Palm Springs, CA

What I didn’t know when she was in the hospital, with the doctors saying she wasn’t going to make it, was that I was going to have six more months with her.  Six months of her in the middle of my living room, greeting me in the morning with her smile and kissing me at night when I tucked her in.  It took weeks for her to relearn how to purse her lips for a kiss.  I talked; she listened.  She laughed.  She loved.  Even in her most fragile moments, she was who she’s always been – gentle, expressive, full of love.  She was in there.

Her wedding day to my father, October 1963

That time with her is now priceless.  It was personal and important but also upsetting and guilt-inducing for me.  I have always spent a LOT of time with my mother.  I included her in every aspect of my life.  But at that time, I felt bad that I was hugging her more in those six months than I did in the six months prior. Although I talked to her daily, I now think I should have visited her more often when I was home.  I often let my annoyance at cat hair getting on my clothes, the hassle of getting dressed and going out in the heat, or just the inconvenience of leaving my home, override the importance of sitting with my mother and just being.  I knew she missed me.  I knew she was lonely sometimes.  But I justified it because we talked daily, I could see her all throughout the day on the security cameras we installed in her house, and she told me she was okay.

One of the saddest things for me was that, even though I still heard her voice - first as “nah nah nah nah nah” in the rhythm of a sentence, and later as “Yeah,” “Yes,” or sometimes “No” - she never said my name again. She never called out to me from another room. She never said, “Good morning, sweetheart,” or “Goodnight, baby.” We practiced “I love you” in a sing‑song way, and she could repeat it, but she never said it on her own. I knew she loved me - her smile carried decades of devotion, and she always answered “Yeah” when I asked if she loved me - but I missed hearing the words. She tried to speak. She listened. She loved. And even in her most vulnerable state, she remained herself: gentle, expressive, and full of love.

Smoldering in 1981

When she first came home, I didn’t think she was going to make it through the week.  The hospital gave us such a dire prognosis that I remember telling someone, “She’s not going to make it.” But she did, and she even improved, and I started to feel a little better.  Everyone worried about her aspirating food or drink.  But they didn’t know my mother and how much she loved to eat.  I started with liquids and soft foods, then moved to regular meals.  She ate with enthusiasm.  She ate everything - oatmeal, fruit, grilled cheese, soup, pasta, chicken, hamburgers, ice cream.  In one video, she was eating yogurt, and when I asked if she liked it, she said, “I’d like some more, Nee.”  I almost fell off my chair.  She didn’t speak much, so hearing that was incredible.

My first day of school

Once I settled into a routine of feeding her, getting her ready for bed, and learning how to care for her, I felt more relaxed. And when she began to “talk” to us - first with those “nah nah nah’s,” and later with more “Yeahs” in response to our questions and interactions - it felt as normal as anything could at the time. It became our new baseline.

The Three Musketeers, always together.

I’m very grateful for those six months. They helped me be more okay with the idea of her one day not being here.  A few times, I went to bed saying to Ed, “If Mommy doesn’t wake up tomorrow, I’ll be okay.”  I felt the need to say that out loud, to know that if she did go that I would be able to go on.  I knew that she would be in a better place, not having to live her life from a hospital bed, unable to speak.  I often wondered what she was thinking, whether she fully understood what happened to her.  I’d tell her, “Mommy, you had a stroke.  It hurt your brain, and now some things are difficult for you.  But we are going to work on your words and help you communicate.  Do you understand what I’m telling you?”  And she would say yes.  I think she did understand.

My father and mother.

When she had her stroke, everything changed, but her essence didn’t.  Even when words were hard for her, she communicated with her eyes, her smile, her facial expressions, her spirit.  She still responded with love.  She still recognized all of us.  She still tried.  She still fought.  She still showed us who she was.

Mommy and Ed

I want to say something about Ed.  My mother loved him like a son.  She loved his gentle nature, kind spirit, and was proud of his accomplishments.  She felt safe with him.  She saw how he loved me - his generosity, honesty, and integrity.   She appreciated everything he did for her, and she told him often.  He treated her like his own mother, maybe even better.  He loved her tenderly.  And he did SO much for her.  Always. He was respectful, generous, helpful, and present.  When my stepfather died, Ed helped me look after her.  He helped her around the house, with her phone/TV/remote controls/gadgets, installed Alexas in every room so she would be able to call for help if needed, took care of household chores, helped set up her new townhouse, bought her a car!! He took her on trips with us, was always open to her coming to our house or going out to dinner with us, and he often called her from the road while he was driving just to see how she was doing.  He went above and beyond.  Everyone should have a son-in-law like him. 

He was by my side every day from the moment of her stroke.  He arrived at her house before the EMTs.  He spent endless hours at the hospital with me, drove me back and forth, and did everything I needed outside of the home because I didn’t want to leave the house and be away from her.  He cooked, cleaned, and did laundry.  He set up the room for her when they first sent her home from the hospital – even going to her house to get her big Jesus picture, family photos, set up a TV, and advocated for the low-air-loss mattress from Hospice so she wouldn’t get bedsores. He helped me move her, held her hand, talked to her, made her laugh, preserved her dignity, practiced speech and physical therapy with her, sang songs, and did exercises.  His contribution was unconditional and priceless. We were lucky to have him. 

My mother's big Jesus picture that Ed retrieved from her house to
hang in our house, where she could see it every day.

My mother was a spectacular human being – loving, kind, funny, smart, talented, creative, forgiving, generous, and a good listener.  She was an extraordinary mother. We always knew how loved we were.  She didn’t hold back.  She always told us.  She always praised us.  She always let us know she’d be there for us. She was patient and always gave us unconditional love. 

My brother Michael, my mother, and I.

She taught me how to read before I even went to school, taught us crafts, cooked with us, played in the yard, and even went in the pool, never expressing fear to us, which was a big deal because she couldn’t swim.  She taught me how to sew, do macrame, and paint with watercolors.  She encouraged our interests and was always our biggest fan. She loved us deeply.  I know I will never experience a love like hers again.  She gave joy, laughter, and love freely.  She was one of a kind. 

My mother and father, April 1966.

I’ve been looking at the photos and videos from those last six months, and they make me smile and laugh.  I keep going back to them when I’m feeling sad because they lift my spirits.  They remind me of her humor, her sweetness, her stubbornness, her spark.  They remind me of the sound of her voice, even when it was just her saying, “Yeah.”  After she died, I started sleeping with “Bunny,” the stuffed animal my sister-in-law Pam bought her for Easter.  I spritzed it with my mother’s signature scent, Shalimar.  That scent is so powerful, and I loved getting a little whiff of her.  It brought her back to me in an instant.

My mother's 82nd birthday at our house, 2024.

I have cried probably every day since she’s been gone. Grief rises like a tide; it’s unstoppable.  It bubbles up when I least expect it.  Something I see or hear or smell makes me think of her.  I still can’t fully grasp that she’s gone.  It feels like I’m living an alternate life, next to the one I used to live in when she was here. 

My mother and I, side-by-side.

All her possessions are now in my home.  I have touched every single thing that belonged to her.  I’ve gotten rid of a few items - Dollar Store trinkets, Walmart pots and pans - but I’ve kept the pots she used for decades, her wooden spoons, and clothing with stories behind them. These things feel like pieces of her, reminders of the woman who shaped me, loved me, and stayed by my side from my first breath to her last.

My mother and her sister, Ronni, at my cousin's wedding.  November 2023.

As I go through her things, I am still learning about who she was.  But what I do know for sure is that her love was steady, generous, and transformative.  I feel a deep sadness that I can no longer share everything I do with her, but I know she’d want me to do everything I can.  She loved hearing about our travels, reading things I wrote, looking at the photos I took.

My beautiful mother and my stepfather, Frank, in 1981.

I miss her every day, but I carry her with me, in the way I think, the way I love, the way I move through the world.   I see the parts of her that live in me, even as I know I will never reach the quiet greatness she embodied.  Everyone who knew her knows she was a once-in-a-lifetime soul.  You were lucky to be loved by her.  She was the warmth in every room and the love that shaped my life.

She was my mother.  My rock.  My first and purest love.  My biggest fan.  My whole heart.  And she will live on in every breath of the life she gave me, in the deepest part of who I am.

In the airport on our trip to New York, November 2023.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
2025: The Purest Love You Can Find
2024: One Of The Boys
2023: Sorry, no post on this day.
2022: Sorry, no post on this day.
2021: Sorry, no post on this day.
2020: Sorry, no post on this day.
2019: Sorry, no post on this day.
2018: A Little Bit Of Emotion
2017: Rainy Arezzo
2016: Snippet Of Texas
2015: Half The Size, Twice The Violence!
2014: Wildly Fierce Candy Cactus
2013: How I Spent The Day
2012: From Farm To Table
2011: Ups And Downs
2010: Three Men, Two Generations, One Passion
2009: Miss Tooth Reigns Supreme
2008: And This Is Why She Will Always Be A Maid At A Hotel
2007: I’ve Been Everywhere Sunday
2006: Family Reunion Rules
2005: Chillin’ In Anchorage