#동묘앞대화방

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Mamma’s daughter

Into the Wilderness: Story 46

June marks two sad milestones for my sister and me. On June 15, 33 years ago, our dear mother passed away. June 29 would have been her 88th birthday. In some years, these dates slip by, the loss a pattern of early summer, as familiar as the still-blossoming trees, the chirping baby birds and the bouncing fawns. But other years, the loss leaches parasitically into my heart and lungs and squeezes. This year was one of those, a symbiotic ache. I didn’t need to look at the calendar. I knew what date it was.

My mom died of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), made famous by baseball player Lou Gerhrig. It’s a devastating motor neuron disease. Nerve cells in the brain and spine degenerate so that the neurons no longer respond to stimuli, paralyzing the person’s ability to walk, eat, speak and breathe. As the disease progresses, the sufferer becomes locked inside, unable to interact, communicate or care for one’s self. With no available cure, a person will die, usually an average of 2.5 years from diagnosis.

The degenerative symptoms are devastating. A once healthy person erodes and immobilizes. Their cognitive processes, hearing and eyesight remain, so they are essentially alive in a mummified body. The ensuing anxiety is terrifying. Can you imagine a state of aware immobilization? Connection is the human condition. That is gone.

My father, sister and I, with the help of many medical professionals, hospice nurses and health aides, cared for my mom. I helped bathe my mother, fix her hair and makeup and dress her. I also cooked her meals moving to softer and softer foods until a feeding tube had to be inserted. One day, an oxygen cannula was added and multiple ports for pain and anxiety management. Special equipment, Hoyer lifts, hospital beds, wheelchairs, leg braces, food pumps and much more took over the atrium-like, sun-filled room she laid in. She could watch the birds at the feeders- cardinals, blue jays, robins, grackles, goldfinches, doves, hummingbirds- perch, swoop, soar and nibble. It was her joy to watch nature’s display. Now, my mother is an automatic thought when I see cardinals, doves and hummingbirds.

My mother was lonely most of her adult like. She had left her family in New Orleans to marry my father and move to Oklahoma. She knew no one. She maintained a too-perfect house, always provided a homemade dinner, exercised and cared for everyone but herself. She made many friends but those eventually fizzled out.

So she turned to food- not eating it, but rather learning chef-level cooking skills. She met and took lessons from Julia Child, Simone Beck, Jacques Pepin, Alice Waters, Madhur Jaffery, and countless others. My sister and I still have their cookbooks signed with personal notes and encouragement. She took cooking lessons in France, New York, and San Francisco. She made elaborate 7-course dinners for my dad’s out of town clients. On these occasions, I was her sous chef, cutting, chopping, stirring, washing the delicate China, crystal and silver. I’d sit in the kitchen listening to the adults laughing and joking while praising her incredible food. With each ended course, I’d wash the dishes and help her ready the next dish.

This is how I learned to cook: by osmosis. Mamma didn’t use recipes unless absolutely necessary, so I innately got the feel for measurements- a pinch, a teaspoon, tablespoon and cup. I can still eyeball them with incredible accuracy. I never wanted to be the chef she dreamed of being, but I did want to be her tutee absorbing every trick she learned. By the time I moved away for graduate school, I had my memorized lists of dishes and the few cookbooks my mom appreciated. This was my inheritance.

My mother became ill two years into my grad school. I knew I would go home to her, in spite of academic discouragement. I headed back to Oklahoma and began to fix the dishes she loved while she could eat it. Louisiana-style Barbecue shrimp, her bolognese sauce, avgolemono soup, pastitsio, soufflés, meatballs. As her ability to swallow diminished, I made crema- a soft Greek custard with which she could swallow her medications. When those days ended, I started baking cakes, cheesecakes, cookies and other yummies she had once enjoyed making. I didn’t want to forget while she could still point and nod. I especially loved a lemon bar recipe that I have misplaced. These kitchen endeavors were my way of embedding her memories in my brain.

Being 33 years without a mother is like climbing free solo. There’s no one to guide, encourage, advise. There’s no one to steady you, warn you, say. “Don’t do it.” It’s incredibly risky. I was in my 20s when she died. I have, therefore, spent all of my adult experiences without her presence or guidance. I would finish graduate school, start an academic career, get married and move across the US, change careers, move again without any of her words to guide me. More school, more work, children, divorce, financial loss, traumas- all occurred without a mother’s wisdom to prod and guide. I had to figure out on my own- and sometimes I did a lousy job.

Not having a mamma has created a shadow behind me, her small feet stepping into my own small footsteps rather than my larger ones expansively remolding hers. I carry her with me, because even today, I don’t want to live without her. With each dish I make, her words on seasonings and measurements and stirring enfold my hands as if she enfolds me. The loss will never be gone. But her memories fill the gaps grief has carved. With these, I am my mother’s daughter

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Source: Mamma’s daughter