mothering

I was hoping that after therapy today, we'd go plant shopping or walk the botanical gardens but David is walking around the house with a scarf around his neck. Another cloudy, windy, chilly day. We are not going to walk the Farmer's Market this morning even though it might be the best day to do it. We will put another fake log in the fireplace today, eat soup, and be cosy.

David's last set of tests showed a nodule on a lung and so he needs a biopsy done next week. It can be many different things, it could be absolutely nothing, and could be a cause for worry, but whatever it is they will treat it aggressively because of his medically induced lack of immunity. I do worry. Of course, I do.

Last year, at this time, the day before Mother's Day, my mother was dying and Cheshire brought her a card and some of our favorite lotion. Cheshire's visits to her grandmother and attention during her last days was far beyond what my mother was entitled to from my child. Cheshire gave my mother what she always wanted in greater measure from her children -- respect and care due to her station not due to her actions or feelings. My mother never cherished Cheshire for who she was -- never sent her a note for a good concert, never congratulated her for school achievements, never had special words for her when Cheshire travelled, never stretched her vision to accommodate Cheshire's dreams. And yet, last year when my mother was dying, Cheshire visited and sat with her for some of her last weekends, doing what she could, abiding with her. Cheshire gave to my mother what my mother could not give to her children, an unconditional love with no strings, no guilt, no history. On a weekend when everyone is lauding mothers, my heart swells thinking of my marvelous daughter.