You Were There

“But what am I good for? I’m not good for anybody! Why am I still here?”

How can you ask me that? What am I supposed to say? I’m your daughter. It’s true, life is more difficult than it was a year ago, even a month ago. But it’s not fair to say those things. You’re my mother. You’re supposed to be here. For me. For Elaine and Nancy. For the rest of your family. I know the day will come when you won’t, but for now, you are and always have been there as long as I’ve been alive.

You were there to teach me how to spell my name while we sat on the old piano bench; you were there when I sang my first solo in church as a child, standing in front of all those people. I froze and forgot the words to the second verse. I remember it to this day. You were there when I walked the aisle of that same church and gave my heart to Jesus. You were there to take me to “eat donuts with the Christians” during our two-week revivals. For some reason, I loved to go, so you went out of your way to take me. You were there on Parents’ Night when I showed you all of the fun things I made in Vacation Bible School. You were there to drop me off at kindergarten with my special mat you got me for nap time. You didn’t feel the same pain I felt when someone stole my animal cards on the playground that you ordered from the cereal box, but you hugged me when I cried. You were there when my fourth-grade teacher died in a car accident, explaining to me what happened.

You were there to make me a Miss Mousey costume when I got a lead role in the school play. You didn’t know how to sew that well, but that was okay. I think you thought you were a better seamstress than you actually were because you made those awful tent dresses that stuck out, well . . . like tents!

You listened when I told you I wanted to learn how to play the piano. I didn’t know we didn’t have enough money for lessons. I didn’t know a lot of things we didn’t have enough money for because you and Daddy never made it seem that way. But you got me those lessons. You didn’t think I was old enough, but you still let me.

You were there when my first love moved away. He was never good for me. You knew that, but you knew I had to come to understand that on my own. When you saw me crying on the sofa, you sat next to me to console me. You didn’t try to tell me I would meet someone else, someone better. You just said you were sorry.

You were there at my college graduation when I became a medical technologist. Oh, how proud you and Daddy were to see me get that B.S. degree from a school we never intended for me to go to. You paid my out-of-state tuition for a full year because you believed in me and my dream. We held our graduation ceremony at the hospital, so naturally, I wanted to offer you a free panel of lab tests. When I drew your blood, it spurted everywhere. I panicked, but you didn’t. Instead, you offered your other arm so I could redeem myself, which I did. I’m still embarrassed to this day.

You were there to direct my wedding, stepping in when the flowers and candles weren’t right. Neither was the groom’s cake icing, but you got it fixed with haste.

You rode with me to Opelika to help fix up our first apartment. We saw a mangy puppy on the highway and decided to stop. We schemed how to tell Parky about this mite-eaten pup with no fur. Rosco became our first rescue. He turned out to be a beautiful dog. You were there 14 years later to say goodbye.

You and I have traveled to some fun places. I loved our United Kingdom trip the most. Just you and me. I could barely keep up with you. We stayed up late every night, taking turns writing a travel journal.

You were there when I called you from home in Louisiana, all alone after Parky was hit by a drunk driver. Praise God, he recovered, but you helped ground me.

You were there with listening ears and teary eyes when I informed you about my breast cancer. I assured you I was alright. Maybe you weren’t, but you pretended to be. After surgery, you helped me take a shower without flinching, holding those horrible drains. Thank you for being strong. I wasn’t.

You served as editor when I decided to write a book about my cancer experience. You gave valuable feedback and helped me come up with a book title — Confronting Cancer with Faith — a book that is helping people worldwide. You have no idea how motivating your comments were to me as a novice writer.

You were always proud of me for my work accomplishments. You listened with interest as I unloaded my frustrations. You celebrated my achievements and got angry at my bosses when they didn’t treat your little girl right.

I was glad you were there when I took my certification exam in Florida to become a clinical research professional.  

You came a few days after my heart attack. I told you not to, but Nancy brought you anyway. And I was glad she did. I wanted my mama. You brought little roses you picked in your backyard and presented them in a plastic honeybear syrup container. You wrote, “Love, Mama.” I still have that container.

The doctor told me I would have to wear a LifeVest as an external defibrillator since I was a high-risk candidate. I was devastated, but you were with me for the fitting and helped me absorb the shock.

My sweet mama, there are so many times you were there for me.

What are you good for? I hope you have a better understanding now. Why are you still here? I can’t answer that question. All I know is, it is time for me to be there for you.