From Tuesday to Friday

I was always told that the best writers write about what they know. This story is about a healing process that started on a Tuesday.

My mother had been a sickly person all of her life - filled with bitterness against her own mother for not taking her to a doctor at age fifteen. As it turned out, the rheumatic fever left scaring on her heart. My mother was one of the first persons to undergo open heart surgery in 1968. Secretly, I wished she would die. I told one of my aunts what I thought and she told me not to think that because my mother was having a very serious operation. You see, I had been abused. My mother abused me emotionally and physically for a good portion of my life. The “good portion” lasted for about 23 years in the home and almost 47 years in total until her death. As a young girl, I thought there was a conspiracy against me because the people in my house were not always there for me. Each person seemed independent and on her own. So, there was no refuge in my home. Certainly, other people must be experiencing the same thing? This was the constant thought on my mind. There was absolutely no place to turn. The small world in which I lived held no peace. I operated in the realm of dysfunction. Every day, there was an argument, of some sort. Some of the arguments were very heated. Some arguments were scary. As in any type of disagreement, one can never predict just how someone else will react under the passion of anger. I found that being ready to take charge of my physical well-being had to be an option at any moment.

 It is funny how people who knew my mother and me separately thought that we got along just fine. A perfect façade was established for so long that no one thought to question it. The problem was that they did not know the truth. The house, the expensive furniture, the lavish gifts – all represented something that was superficial. There was no love in the house. A friend of mine once commented to me that if life on the “hill” was like this, then she would rather remain in the valley. I did not blame my friends for the way they felt. They were very special to me and I needed them – very much.

I saw my mother physically and spiritually transformed at death. Her hands and face became as supple as a new born baby’s. Her face began to change as if she were 30 years younger. This happened right before my eyes. I witnessed this for myself! I first thought that I was in another time and space. Was this real? The transformation took place all over at once. The wrinkles from around the areas where she had been connected to machines had disappeared. Her hard hands were now soft as cotton. Her hair even had a new shine to it. She looked peacefully asleep. There were no blemishes – only gentleness.