Love letter to my parents, and yours

There is a new thing happening on conversations around me. I am of the age when talk of our children—often teenagers, sometimes young adults—sprinkles into most conversation in the first few minutes. But now, these same friends and colleagues who have been so distracted by the delights and challenges of raising their young over the past 5 or 10 or 20 years, now we are asking each other about parents.

“How’s your mom holding up?” people ask me. They know that Mom had a stroke in July and has been living in an assisted living center since September. They know that this place was wonderful for her. And they know that now it is dangerous.

I saw Mom ten days ago, before the spread of the virus made such a move obviously unadvisable. I didn’t hold her hand or brush her hair. I washed my hands every hour at least. We sat in her room and my brother and I cracked jokes and made her laugh until she was bent over and squealing. The next day, a dear friend and I took her out for the day to get new glasses, to have lunch in an empty café, to walk by the sea (well, she, paralyzed now, wheeled). She told me stories of herself as a young woman, going to see Bob Dylan play the electric guitar for the first time. She told me about her first job in a glamorous department store as a teenager. How had I never heard these stories before? I hung on her every word.

The relationship between a parent and child is bound to be complex. We have our whole lives to develop small resentments, to remember unintended hurts, to resent the disowned pieces of ourselves that show up in the other. Mom and I had an easier time than most, I think, and our relationship has always been close. But these days, since her stroke and surely amplified since COVID19 came to town, the love I feel for this woman is the purest emotion I can ever remember having. I delight in every syllable she speaks. I gaze with amazement at how beautiful her silver hair is. I am dazzled with profound admiration at the way she has managed first the stroke and rehabilitation and now the threat of the coronavirus. I can hardly believe the graciousness of the universe to give me a mother who is also such a brilliant mentor and companion.

And then there’s my dad. I talk to him more often now too, now that my eyes have (re)opened to the preciousness of my parents. Last week he was recovering from a simple cold, heating up an old pot of coffee in a way I have teased him about for years. Ah, the unheralded joy of teasing your father! How have I missed that this is one of the most important delights in the world? I love the sound of his laugh, the timbre of his voice. Our long-planned trip to visit over Easter is gone, but his stories are still vibrant and sparkling. I have always adored my father, but I have been a Busy Woman who has Important Things on her mind. Now, as this virus sends hospitals into overdrive, I understand the Important Things. I am now in constant touch with the love I feel for him. My eyes fill with tears at the good fortune that this man is my father and that I have lived nearly fifty years in his company.

This might be absurd in some ways, this newfound deepening of love of my parents, whom I’ve loved every day of my life. But it is teaching me about love in the way holding Naomi in my arms for the first time taught me about love. While the love I felt for this infant grew my capacity to love her distinctly, it also grew my capacity to love more generally.

And so it is happening now. The love I feel for my parents, for your parents, for everyone’s parents, rushes through me. I walked by an old woman at the farmer’s market way back on Saturday, when it still seemed allowable to go to farmers markets. She was covering her face and mouth, and she looked so afraid there, doing her weekly shopping. I felt my whole body lurch towards her and I wanted to hug her, hear her stories, show her that I see her and honor her years of experience. I imagine the way her life story stretches out in endlessly interesting ways. I take notice of the elderly everywhere now. The woman pushing her walker down our street, the man walking his small old dog in the park.

I worry about these people, all of them. We will measure their loss in the hundreds of thousands. Will we have cherished them enough? Will we have learned enough from them? Will we have helped them feel seen, even as their days on the planet dwindled? I hope, I hope, I hope.

And I am hopeful that one of the side effects of COVID19 that will last longer than the physical distancing is the pure light of love that we all feel for those who have lived more years on the planet than we have. Those of us lucky enough to have parents or grandparents in our lives today will continue to be awed by the miracle of them, the wonder it is to be a race of beings that is—by whatever quirk or grace of nature and evolution—alive to see one or two or even three generations born. I hope we will quiet ourselves, walk more slowly in their company, listen to their stories. These are precious ones. These are our elders.  May our love for them shine pure.

 

12 thoughts on “Love letter to my parents, and yours

  1. Hi Jennifer, Your post moved me to tears and so resonated with me.I have had the experience of being with elderly parents as their health and physical capacities declined and in that time spent many hours in the company of other elderly people in the care home. They taught me so much about grace and love and acceptance and vulnerability and courage so that now wherever I go, I see the elderly as you mentioned with new eyes treasuring them anew.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Jen,

    No we haven’t cherished them enough….but those are things we learn from absence rather than presence.

    Kind of like friends—how are you? This is miles and miles from Cambridge.

    Julie Stewart

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Thanks for your thoughtful notes. Just last night Noah and I talked about what we would do if one of our parents got sick and we are 2000 miles away. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get them to tell their stories and ways for me to remember them. Perhaps writing is the simplest way. As always, I am grateful for your insight and thoughtfulness. Hope you are well. Xoxo Deb

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Jennifer

    There are the tears that have waited to appear. Your story is beautiful and poignant and captures many thoughts and feelings I have had lately.

    My mom has dementia and she no longer can reminisce about days gone by and doesn’t know us by name. But she has recognition of our energy and lightens up when we visit. Sadly we can’t do that now as the nursing home is in lockdown.

    Reminder here to me and others to reach out and connect. Use video when you can, I know I will to hear the voices of those I love and see their energy.

    Take you for your gift of story!

    Roz

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Oh, Jennifer, how touching and heartfelt. Even as a geezer at times like this I often think of my parents ( long gone) and have such a deep appreciation for what their lives must have been like what challenges they faced, what brought them peace. Growing up they were almost 2 dimensional to me as I was attempting to live my life it is only now when I, now older than they were at their passing can truly understand who they were and the lives that they led. I think of them often and can be found walking around the house talking to them at times when now I would so appreciate their love and their guidance. Love and hugs to you for sharing your vulnerability as a reminder for us to not lose sight of what is so important right now! Dan

    Liked by 2 people

  6. I too felt my heart lurch when I called my mum yesterday to check in on how she is faring alone at 84. I’m fortunate she is 30 minutes away – we will spend Monday together.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s