A Mother’s Love

One day, when I was three or four years old, Mom and I went to visit Dad during his lunch break. As we sat with him on the steps outside, his colleague offered me a piece of cheese. I took the cheese, put it in my mouth, and told Mom that I had to go to the bathroom. When we were alone I said, “I don’t really have to go to the bathroom. I just don’t want to eat this cheese.”

She heard me. I spit out the cheese, and the story became family lore.

This cheese story brings comfort to my small self because it shows that, at one point in time, my voice and feelings mattered. I am proud of that clever little person who came up with a strategy, on the spot, to get rid of the cheese.

I am proud of my mom for tending to me as she did.

This was the beginning. Maybe it was still just me and my parents, or maybe by then a sister had been born, and I was jealous. Then a brother was born, and I was helpful. Another sister came, and I was eager. Another brother came, and I was confused. Another brother came, and I was excited. Finally another sister came. I was jealous again.

But for a brief moment I can access the feeling of being mothered before it faded, and I became the mother. Instead of nurturing and growing my own wings, I tended to those of the ones around me, ensuring they would someday be able to fly. It was not okay to tend to myself. My wings felt clipped—or maybe broken. I had to make do with them.

Throughout her dying process, Mom was the star of the show. In my experience, she was always the star, but this season accentuated the fact that it was truly all about her. Now she was leaving, and I did not know when, and I did not know how, and I did not know what would happen next.

The subplot of my life continued in the margins with concurrent loss. The week of Thanksgiving, my sister-in-law, Kris, tested positive for COVID. She was one of the vulnerable and rapidly declined. Her brother, my husband, drove a long distance to say goodbye in person at her assisted living home in Wisconsin. He dressed in full PPE to sit by her deathbed for ten minutes. Protocol.

She died the next day. Steve returned home and quarantined outside of our house for two weeks—also protocol in November and early December of 2020. I held down the fort, solo.

I am aware of the weight this segue holds, yet it is consistent with the story of my life. Brush past. Move on. Deal with it. Brace for incoming.

The weekend following Kris’s death, I stopped in to see Mom. My brother and sister-in-law were visiting from out of town, and I was surprised and comforted by their unexpected presence. Everyone in the room had known Kris and, with me, felt the weight of her loss. I sat on the couch next to Mom, feeling heavier than usual.

“Come sit by me,” she said, patting the space beside her, motioning for me to come closer. I scooted over, and she put her arm around me. I rested my head on her shoulder.

“I am so sorry about Kris,” Mom said, squeezing my shoulder, hugging me to her. I tucked my head into her neck and began sobbing. She held me. I cried harder. For a moment, this visit was not about Mom’s cancer. Something shifted, and it became about me and my losses.

I was a girl, losing someone she loved, being comforted by her mom. She squeezed me tighter. I wanted to freeze time forever as I felt my mother’s love filling up my broken heart, tending to and mending my broken wings.

I remember thinking, “So this is what a mother’s love feels like,” and then sobbing harder for what I was experiencing for the first time and would soon be losing forever.

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Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her partner of 31 years, four of their eight children, and six fur and feather babies. Two precious grandchildren bring deep joy and delight. Julie is a lover of stories and words. She serves clients, both in person and virtually, through Heart Path Story Coaching, offering a creative space of kindness, curiosity, and Story Work. Writing and Art Journaling are key elements of her process.