Thinking About My Mom

One afternoon about 25 years ago, I went back to my parents’ house to surprise my mom. She wasn’t in her usual spot – the kitchen, so I went to her second most frequented place – the basement. This is where I often found her doing the laundry, or every now and then taking a Rolling Rock beer from her stash in the refrigerator.

My mom was very predictable when I came to visit. She always smiled when she saw me and leaned in for our kiss. Without fail, she’d ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. Then we’d sit at the kitchen table and she’d rattle off a gamut of questions, depending on where I was in my life:  How are you? How’re the kids?  How’s your job?  How’re your friends? and so on. She usually did all the asking, and I did all the telling.

On this particular day when I located her in the basement, she didn’t see me come downstairs, as she was busy transferring the clothing from the washer to the dryer.

My presence startled her. I can still picture her face. She had a strange, unfamiliar and rather disturbing expression. She uttered “Judy!” in a very abrupt, accusatory manner. I was confused, but I soon saw what was happening, as she quickly moved her one arm to her back. 

In her hand was a lit cigarette.

My mom had been a smoker for most of her life. It stands to reason that she got sick with COPD – a respiratory condition – as she aged. There’s even a picture I have of her breastfeeding me with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. 

She had quit several years before this incident, and weaning herself had been a very difficult task. She also experienced mounting frustration relating to the weight gain that noshing caused. These factors added to my confusion.   

         

“Mom!  Why did you start again?” I asked, after I caught her in the act. Unlike in prior visits, this time around it was me asking her to respond…except that she didn’t, in words.  

Her face, however, spoke to me. She looked so upset that she might cry, which kind of freaked me out, because this wasn’t a reaction that I was familiar with, at all. She had always been very steady…unshaken…unless she was voicing an opinion about something that she felt passionate about.  

    

As I looked at my mom in this unusual state, I began to think of her very differently, almost like I was seeing her for the very first time. I realized that she was her own person; she wasn’t just my mom. Her very first layer was Florence – the individual – before the roles of wife and mother of 4 were piled on.    

The last thing I ever wanted her to feel was judged or shamed or embarrassed. Yet, I put her on the spot. She didn’t deserve to be questioned. She was 80 years old. She spent her whole life serving others, with enormous compassion, commitment and energy. She certainly didn’t owe me an explanation. I’d assume she was at peace with her decision to start again, for whatever the reason.

I just wish I could have a do-over.