My mother and I stared at each other across the length of the bedspread covering her frail body.  Neither of us spoke.  Finally, I eased my body down onto the corner of the mattress farthest from her bony and breakable legs.  I shook my head.

The cancer which her hapless gynecologist had mistaken for female hysteria spread to her bones after the botched hysterectomy which required additional healing and delayed treatment.  Earlier in the week, an X-Ray technician had broken one of her arms transferring her to a table for radiation.  Or maybe it was a wrist.  Either way, Mother had snapped that she was done.  They needed to let her go home and enjoy, to the extent that she could, whatever time remained.

I arrived by dinner the following Friday, a half-court day for me.  I had dragged my weary self across the state to do my shift and give my St. Louis siblings a chance to tend to their children, housework, or beauty sleep.  On Saturday, I helped my mother get clean and she noticed my careful maneuvering.  You’re so thin, she observed.  Do your legs hurt a lot today?  I couldn’t deny it so I stayed quiet, dusting and straightening her vanity, wiping its mirror.  I turned to her and smiled, saying, I’m fine, Mom; besides, I’m offering it up for you.

She gasped and responded, Oh no!  I’ve been offering my pain up for you!  Do you think we cancel each other out?  

We gaped at each other for a few minutes before I sank to the bed and burst into the giggles that only mothers and daughters can share.

I thought of my mother offering up her pain for me a lot this winter.  My degenerating back plagued me.  The spasticity in my legs seemed to worsen.  I gained more weight and struggled to keep myself from falling on stairs, curbs, and rough pavement.  All the while, I heard my mother’s gentle voice, asking me if I was all right and telling me that she had chosen to silently endure her pain to buy me a few more indulgences.  

By the time my mother died, the cancer riddled her brain and she wailed in the night, begging for mercy.  Yet in her conscious moments, she reminded me, I’m still your mother, and she held my hand, told me that she loved me, whispered that everything would be all right.  I believed her then and I believe her still.  Because of my mother, I’ve got a fistful of get-out-of-purgatory-free cards, and a golden ticket to paradise.

It’s the twenty-third day of the ninety-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My mother and me, at the Bissell House in Jennings, Missouri, 1970.  Always and ever my favorite photo.