Mother’s Day or The first time I saw my mother in the nude

She sat on the shower chair, eyes closed, feeling the spray of warm water on her body. Taking her time, she shampoos, conditions, soaps up with her washcloth all that she can reach on her upper body. Her belly being the main obstacle for parts below the waist. She hadn’t had a shower in a while and was unsure who would be able to help her have another one. This is the first time I have ever seen my mother nude. She was always so modest, so contained, so remote.

She was frail, awkward, but still with a grace of a crane, she moved slowly. Her head balanced precariously on her tiny withered neck. She had lost so much flesh she seemed to be otherworldly, she was of the species Audrey Hepburn right out of Auschwitz. I had never noticed how graceful she was until there was so little of her left that now she was a wisp. Her pixie hair recently colored to a chestnut brown, her body was incongruous to this youthful shade. She could blow away in a strong wind. I have been watching my greatest adversary disappear right in front of me. The experience has been agonizing. She was only 5’ 4”, but to me she was immense.

Mom.

The one who could devastate me with a simple observation of how I looked that day. Or how I didn’t go to a ‘real’ college. The one I would not allow to come and help me after I had a hysterectomy. I could not handle the thought of her nurturing me when I was so vulnerable. So I turned to newer family members, those willing to stand in for the ones I could not trust. I think about that decision now, I know it hurt her, maybe I wanted it to. I had so many feelings about how she wasn’t there for me when my dad was abusing me, how she even found a way to blame me for the abuse. How could I trust her now? It seemed necessary to separate from her, to protect myself. Now I wonder if perhaps her seeing me so helpless would have erased all of the resentment she felt for me. Would it have opened her heart? Would she have found that core of love that I am finding for her now? Could we have had a few good years enjoying each other instead of keeping score? Numbering our resentments and wounds in a battle that only seemed to shrink our hearts. She steps out of the shower, suddenly shy. She pulls her towel around her protectively. I ask her if she wants me to put some lotion on her back. She agrees, turns around, and offers her back. Scapulae jutting out, every vertebrae visible, every rib. I warm the lotion on my hands and gently smooth the lotion on, feeling every bone. Softly my hands make circles on her back, she lowers the towel. I put lotion on her arms – like sticks now. How could these be the arms that taught me how to swim at Jones Beach? I work my way towards her low back, trying to knead the muscles that are not there. Wanting to offer real comfort, real contact. My training in massage had been about kneading muscles, releasing knots. Allowing the body to come back to wholeness. This body was not going to become whole again. This body was ready to shed itself. She drops the towel, an invitation to put lotion on her buttocks, her legs. I make a comment on how small her butt has become. She states with wonder – ‘I feel everything now. I didn’t know how nice it was to have all that padding. It made the chairs softer, it made me warmer.’ I’m holding back the tears now. Trying to stay in the role of the healer, the one who can bless. I silently send her light and healing. I had hoped that I could be there when she dies, to anoint her body, to send it off with real ceremony. My friend had asked me why I was helping her die and the only answer I could come up with was that I wanted this to end well. That wherever she and I had been, I would do my best to see that we finished in a ‘good place.’ This was that place. I could feel it. All of the tenderness, all of the love I had held back for all of these years came rushing in. Not allowing myself to love her because it would somehow invalidate my story, my truth. Because she was incapable of accepting her role in my story, I could not allow myself to be close to her. Truth becomes a valuable commodity in a family where lies are created and lived out to silence the pain.

She sits in her chair, under the heat lamp, wearing a fluffy cotton candy pink robe – a gift from her husband 45 years ago, still keeping her warm after he has left her, where he waits for her now. She lets me tweeze her eyebrows, fix her hair. She looks at herself in the mirror. “I feel wonderful,” she says with a real smile. I have for a moment stopped time. The tension leaves my body, I am assured. We have ended well.

Happy mother’s day, mom. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

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