I was sitting with my mom in her kitchen out west. Her face was half-covered by an enormous pair of black sunglasses courtesy of her eye surgeon. I was busy making dose charts for her – big block letters: Pink Cap Every 3 Hours. Tan Cap every 4 Hours. White Cap Bedtime Only. Colorful magic marker borders. The sort of thing you could read from 4 to 6 feet away. She sat with her hands in her lap, head slightly bowed. I knew she was miserable.
She’s had issues with her vision for decades now. Macular degeneration. Multiple surgeries over the years – a detached retina in her right eye. That operation was a nightmare to recover from: 10 days face-down. Thank God for her bestie, Carolyn, who moved my mom into her home and looked after her for that entire process. Since then, it seems like she’s at the eye specialist every other month. Injections into the eye – like something out of a Saw movie.
“Oh, Sheri, it’s not like I feel the needle. It’s just strange, that’s all.”
People, if anyone stuck a needle into my eye, you’d hear me screaming from three time zones over. But my mom is used to this now and takes it all like a champ.
So, when I arrived at her house last month for a 2-week visit, it wasn’t all that alarming when she said that she was having some trouble with her left eye. Blurry, but her next appointment was just a month away and it was probably nothing. That was at about 10 pm on a Friday night. The next day, it was blurrier. By Sunday, I was saying things like, “let’s call the doctor”, and “we really, really need to call your doctor.”
She woke up Monday morning blind in her left eye – and agreed we needed to call the doctor. But we also needed to go to Walmart to buy a new toaster and shouldn’t we do that first?
It’s a good thing we skipped the toaster because she needed emergency surgery. As in, right now, you know, immediately. As they wheeled her away, she was calling out, “Sheri! My taxes! We have an appointment……” her voice trailing away like one of Scrooge’s ghosts. (Which launched a whole comic side quest since my mom, like many folks in their ‘80’s, doesn’t put much info into her phone, preferring to write it all down somewhere else.)
Hours later, the medical team helped me load her into the car. Her left eye was covered by a big plastic shield held in place with surgical tape. I had a folder full of instructions, and a small pile of prescriptions to be filled. All I could think was how crazy lucky it was that I happened to already be there when Retina #2 decided to make its escape.
And lucky again that this time, the recovery would turn out to be a little easier. Face-down for just a few days this time, then resting on her opposite as much as possible for a minimum of a week. We quickly figured out how to handle the logistics of meds, and showering, and what exactly she could safely do. But the one thing that was impossible is the one thing she really can’t live without: reading. After 10 days of this, I could see that the forced stillness was wearing on her.
As we sat in the kitchen, and arranged her dose charts, she said, “I would just love to go for a ride in the gorge and listen to music. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
The gorge she meant is the Virgin River Gorge – on the borders of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah. It’s a spectacular drive, one of my favorites in the whole world. Takes your breath away no matter how many times you see it. And the music she wanted to hear? Paul Simon’s Graceland, and vintage Elton John.
And so, the next day, that’s what we did. It was overcast, the sky heavy with dark swollen rainclouds – something you don’t often see in the desert. The light was soft and muted, perfect for her good eye. No glare at all, no harsh shadows. All around us were mountains, and jagged outcroppings, usually vivid red, cream, and grey against the bluest of blue skies, but now all dreamy pastels.
We were cruising along and Paul was singing about wearing diamonds on the soles of your shoes and the myth of fingerprints, and going to Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee. Glancing over at my mom now and again. She had her head down, per doctor’s orders, giant goggles on. Swaying to the beat, singing along here and there and that’s when it hit me with such force that my own eyes blurred. The day that might come, when I can no longer hear this music without remembering this moment, this drive. The gift of this day, this time with my mother.
There were no big revelations, no stunning epiphanies. Eventually Graceland ended and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road began, and we stopped at a favorite bakery to snag a treat for later. I thought about how independent she’s always been, and how her world has shrunk little by little and so gradually that I didn’t realize how long it had been since she felt comfortable making that drive through the gorge on her own. Such a simple thing, but it had slipped away. She missed it, and now that I know how much, it’s a drive we’ll make again and again for as long as we can.
My family story is complicated. Maybe yours is too. Out there doing your best and wondering if your best will ever, ever be enough? If you’ll ever find the peace you crave. It’s hard to be a person, almost impossibly hard to be a mother – so many expectations and a lot of those are either overwhelming or completely insane. Or both, honestly. No wonder we’re all so worn out.
I’m a mom and I know from experience that it isn’t gifts and cards that fill my heart. It’s not reservations for brunch or expensive flowers. It’s time. Silly time, time that isn’t weighed down by expectations. Just regular, everyday sort of stuff – hitting a used bookstore, drinking bubble tea outside on a bench near the fountain. A long, long walk. Nothing that would blow up on Instagram if you posted it. Those are the moments I treasure with my daughters. Now I can add one more sparkling little gem to that pile: a new memory made with my own mother. Our own version of being received in Graceland.
What a great story, an opportunity taken, now a memory.
I hope your mom is doing well. Had to fight back tears.
Sheri, that was so beautifully written and you are so lucky to spend this time with your Mom. Savor each moment, as I know you do. My Mom has been gone for 17 years now, but she is with me every day….and I do treasure the memories. Love you, Dori
Oh Sheri, as you would say this gave me “all the feels” both as a daughter whose mom died suddenly 7 years ago and who I miss with every fiber of my being but also as a mom with millennial age daughters and a son who wishes all of them lived in the same city let alone same part of the country. You are such a good daughter and as an aging person (73 in August) who is fiercely independent, losing that independence is so scary and hard as is asking for that help from your children. My mom used to say getting old is “not for sissies” and I am finding that to be true. Your mom doesn’t need to ask you for help, you are there anticipating the needs, being such an amazing daughter. Thanks for writing this beautiful piece.
My mom fell a few weeks ago and had some major injuries from hitting her head. I thought we were going to lose her because she had lost her will. That emergency trip to see her meant a lot. She slept most of the time, but I was with her. Thank you for the reminder that every moment counts at this stage in both of our lives.
Freaking A! Once again, you’ve made me tear up! Love the imagery you provided, too.
You are such a gifted writer Sheri. I have listened to you since I first moved to Charlotte in the 90s. Thirty years later I am aging and dealing with serious vision problems of my own. Your mom is so very fortunate to have you, but so are all of us that have had the blessing of your company through radio, podcasts and your beautiful stories.
Time is truly a gift. I’m glad you both got to make a good memory of that drive together.
That was beautiful. So true! It is the day-to-day moments that you will remember. I had a terrible childhood, but it was peppered with great summer visits to my grandparents who lived an entire state away. There I could escape the trauma of a physically and mentally abusive father. My brothers and I would make a house out of dried-up mud puddles in the backyard next to the lumberyard where my Grandaddy worked. My Grandmother would have a feast fit for a king every day at lunch. Skillet fried chicken, fluffy mashed potatoes with a lump of butter sitting in the middle waiting to slide down the sides, succotash, drop biscuits, and so much more loaded down the table. We couldn’t wait for Granddaddy to walk home from the sawmill to so we could dive into all that southern goodness. When we saw the top of his railroad cap coming through the weeds in the back forty, we were was so joyous we would literally jump up and down and scream, “Here he comes!” “Here he comes!” Sometimes he would have a Junebug tied to a string for us, and it would fly around our heads like a buzzing whirlybird. The best entertainment ever! We tied it to a tree while we ran in to enjoy the fresh summer bounty. Sliced home-grown tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers with cold sweet tea were as permanent on the lunch table as salt and pepper. The entire meal was finished with peach cobbler and Everyday Cake…homemade vanilla cake with thick fudge icing. Everyday Cake was always a choice so it was appropriately named. We ate until we were stuffed to the gills and then everyone took a 30-minute nap. Afterward, I was required to take a bath to get the dried mud off and it was such a challenge to try to hold on to the giant cake of Ivory soap. After a dusting of my Grandmother’s Jean Nate, a special treat, we would walk uptown and sit on my cousin’s front porch and wait for the train to come through. The engineers would always throw us candy while we screamed and danced around like banshees. After more play time with cousins, we would come home and lie down on those webbed lawn chairs in the backyard with lime sherbert ginger ale shakes that were devoured through a straw in record time. We would stare up at the sky, littered with stars that looked like jewels, each of us watching for the satellite to go over. Who would be the first to find it?? We strained our eyes to be the winner! Many lightning bugs were caught in mason jars so we could watch them gently blink their soft lanterns in the dark. Then we were off to beds covered with chenille and pom-pom bedspreads. I am able to still smell the Pledge furniture polish that my grandmother had lovingly buffed on the homemade furniture passed down to her from my great grandparents. I remember attempting to hold onto and flip through those giant Seventeen Magazines left under the bed by aunts who had moved on to have families of their own. What a treasure to hold those magazines in my little eight-year-old hands. Twiggy would stare back at me from the glossy pages. Oh, to be a chic teen like her. She didn’t have Everyday Cake though, I am sure! What a tragedy! Cicadas, the confirmation of a hot summer, would be deafening until they were drowned out by the sound of a box window fan. Maybe around 4 am it would cool down to about 79 degrees but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. The summer flew by and my brothers and I would have to return to Kentucky. My Grandparents had to trick me to get me in the car. They said we were going to Gastonia which was about 20 minutes from my hometown of Stanley. Grandmother said about eight hours into our trip, I would ask, are we in Gasatonia yet?? Then I would recognize sites near to my home and start crying. I held onto the armrest as I was pried out of the car, and I would hear my dad whisper sternly in my ear… you’re going to get a whipping if you don’t get out of this car! Wow, I had been tricked, hoodooed, betrayed by the people that I treasured. Then reality set in and I prayed my Seventeen magazines would still be there when I came back the next year. So, Lamar and Sheri, I am able to relate to you both. It is the simplicity of Summer and the repetitive routines that made our summers complete. I didn’t mention a TV, a computer, even a radio. We were entertained by people, nature, and an occasional magazine or comic strip in the Sunday paper. We lived by the faith that the next day would bring us another lazy hot summer day. What I wouldn’t give to relive just one day of those summers. The people are gone and the routines went with them. I could never make an Everyday Cake like my grandmother and rightly so. That was her gift, not mine but those summer memories are as tooth achingly sweet as the fudge icing on that cake. Thank God for summer days. They are frames of the chapters of our lives that we lovingly take down from the wall, dust off, and revel in the fact that we still have them to hold close to our hearts. We hang them back on the wall and keep moving forward as we add more to our collection. The new frames are never as treasured as the old but oh how comforting to know that the old will always be there when we need a reminder of how the good ol’ days were.