My Mother, My Heart, My Graceland

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.

Sheri Lynch