Melancholy thoughts on mom, submission and a polar bear

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

The need to get words down and out of mind became urgent yesterday. After visiting my mom at the hospital where she lives, I felt a deep sense of sadness taking hold of my senses. 

Her eyes were so huge as I told her I had to go - we'd just spent 2 hours with her, trying to comfort her about not being permitted to go for a whirl in her wheelchair because of an infection on her back from being in the wheelchair too long on most days.

"Noooo, nooooo," she moaned softly, and I even had to get her nurse - a wonderful gift of a woman- to her bedside. That didn't help either.

Finally, adjusting her in bed by pulling the sheet gently beneath her so she would slide and face the other wall, she seemed settled for the disappointment. Cottage cheese and other soft foods managed to lift her spirits. A bit.

As I pushed the girls out of the room in their double stroller, I felt completely wrong for wanting to spend so much time on other things when my mom is so obviously in need of constant companionship these days. I tried resolving to visit her every night - but that would be hard with children who need to be slowly eased into bedtime from about 8. And besides, she needs someone to help her escape the sameness of a room that occupies her mind for most of her days - and that is only possible during the day.

* * *

I took the long but scenic way back to our neighbourhood, finding so much comfort in the shades of green that were starting to push their way off branches, dressing the trees for the first time since the fall.  No matter how strong our souls are - or how strong we think they are - being in the heart of the beauty created by a Creator far more gentle and kind than any human, is the surest way to reinforce our convictions and feelings.

" . . . for in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest" (Quran 13:28).

* * *

Two different scenes have carried significant weight in my mind's eye this past week; scenes from on screen, that I came upon quite by accident.

The first was of my mother in a home video during a trip we had made to Canada while we were living in Indonesia. It was at the beginning of her illness, when the MS had only gone far enough to affect her balance, requiring she hold on to a cane.

Seeing her chatting with friends, talking to the camera after prompting from my dad (and grabbing onto the car door as she almost lost her footing); seeing her so full of ideas and thoughts and - life - made me feel strange. Almost like I was looking at another woman, at her past that is no more part of her reality.

She is different. Twenty years, over 10 spent in hospital, have changed her - as I suspect they would change any one of us. None of her vivacious personality remains - although, once in awhile, I see remnants of what once was when I joke with her about her love of fashion --"you're always the most chic, mom" - or when I muse about having more children and her eyes light up. Sometimes a few extra, big kisses will bring that warm smile to her face - a smile she still shares but that now takes a lot of effort to muster.

And then, I superimpose all of this on the scene of a polar bear, struggling to survive, swimming through frigid waters, half his body weight gone from a long winter searching for food while his family remain well-fed but far away. He spots some walruses and out of sheer desperation, lunges at the black, heavy mass of noisy flesh and fat and hasn't the energy to fight for a bite. They are too strong, too insistent that he is a mere annoyance. He moves away from them, head low to the snow-covered ground in this Arctic scene. He puts his heavy head on a rock and, after all the struggle he's made to live -  after swimming for who knows how long, searching for land; after trying to find anything to sustain him in this cold, stark place - he closes his eyes. . .

Submission. The struggle has lifted.