I don’t remember the last time I had to battle that virus.
I had forgotten how it just wrings me of all my strength. I had forgotten how afraid I am to move, fearful of making the nausea worse. I had forgotten how I always begin to wonder if I’m just over-reacting, over-exaggerating…do I always feel like this but am just making a big deal about it right now? Will this roiling feeling ever end?
I find myself praying incessantly during this time. I always wonder if God’s giggling at me since I pray so passionately and fervently, as if my life is coming to an end.
I find myself thinking of my mom a lot, too.
I don’t know about you, but I always feel like I need my mommy at times like these. If for no other reason, I just need to hear the empathy in her voice. I just need a word or two of advice from her. But she’s not here, having passed on nearly three years ago.
I would have to rely on my memories.
Ahhh! What about those pink mints she always carried around? They always made me feel better.
I happened to have a whole bag of them in my nightstand. They’re part of our routine.
Every night after we’re washed up and ready for bed, I’ll have one, and I’ll give one to each dog in Mom’s honor. The poochers love this little nightly ritual and will stop whatever they’re doing to sit politely before me as soon as they hear the crinkle of the bag. (For some reason my husband gets two. I’m not sure why. That’s just how we’ve always done it—or, at least that’s how we’ve done it since I rediscovered the Wintergreen Lozenges in WalMart about six months ago.)
The mints. It would entail my sitting up, reaching over, pulling the nightstand’s drawer open, and rifling into the sealable bag, all while my stomach was flip-flopping, but it would be worth it. Having one would make me feel better. And it did.
By late afternoon, I felt strong enough to call my daughter, who was struggling with the same virus. When she picked up, she said, “Hi, Mommy,” in her cutest little-girl voice. I knew in an instant that she needed me as much as I needed my own mom.
I started reflecting with my daughter on how my mom used to have me sleep on the couch rather than in my room during my flu bouts. She used to cover the cushions with crisp, cool sheets that soothed me as I crawled between them. She used to drape a towel over the edge of the couch and toward the pail, in case I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.
She was always so gentle with me during those times, I remember, despite having five other kids and a husband and who knows which dog we had at the time to care for.
She took her time. She spoke softly. She called me Sweetie Britches. She brushed my hair from my face and held it back for me during the roughest parts, no matter what time of day or night. Her fingers always felt like angels’ wings during those times. And those mints, they worked wonders at taming my tummy.
In the middle of all this reflection, my daughter said, “I know. I remember when you used to do those things for me when I was little, too.”
It hit me. My mother’s legacy would carry on, even after I was gone, even after my daughter was gone because she would do these things for her kids, too. It’s what she knows. It’s what comforted her, too, back then. And she wouldn’t forget it.
What legacies will you leave behind for your children? For your grandchildren?
Enjoy your day. Enjoy this blog.
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