The attacks were so bad, that I mercifully have blocked the finer details from memory. My mother Susee Mable, ever so lovingly would stay up all night, keeping watch and desperately try to get her youngest child to breathe. My father exhausted from work, could never stay awake. He would drift into a deep, snore-filled slumber. My brother, bless his heart, tried his best but he was just a kid and would often pass out into a well deserved sleep (the responsibility of looking after his little sister while Mum worked her shifts, fell on his capable young shoulders).
Anyone could tell that it was absolute heartbreak for Mum to witness her child suffer so, as it would be for any mother. She never thought much of her own varied health ailments, let alone the exhaustion of: running a household, raising two children, dealing with the foibles of married life and extended kin all whilst delving daily into the rigors of the nursing home where forlorn patients looked to her, for the same kind of comfort she gave us at home.
My Mum was amazing, to say the least. She put others first, regardless of what else was on her plate. I fondly recall her bringing me a cup of Postum and a slice of bread, whenever asthma reared its cruel head. She'd break off pieces of the bread, dip them into the piping hot cup and feed me. She'd blow the cup to cool down the Postum and then lift the cup to my mouth for a sip. I'd struggle to lift my head from the pillow, it's hard to eat when you cannot breathe. But those cups of Postum and slices of bread alongside Mum's sweet face were the balm for my aching lungs and saddened spirit.
Over the past decade, when Parkinson's crept into our lives, I was a mum to my Mum. I fed her, bathed her, dressed her and tended to her meds and needs night and day. I would tuck her into bed each night with prayer, song and passages from the Bible.
My mother cared for me with an unconditional and pure love throughout her life and it was an absolute honour and blessing to be given the chance to look after her in the final and most vulnerable years of her life. She was my best friend and baby girl—my everything.
Reflecting back on all of these memories: it's a strange, sad and beautiful reality all at once.
Posted by: Suhasini