Today was the anniversary of the death of my mother, Helen Ida (Smith) Chern. So, I have been a motherless child for 17 years. That is every bit as long as I was a child living (for the most part) with a mother. It is starting to sink in.
She really was a wonderful, magical person when she wasn’t under the shadow of her depression, illnesses, chronic fatigue, suicidal episodes, and a certain stubborn dramatic holding on to that state of mind once it had set in. I think that some of that was a desperate mechanism to get the rest of us to back off and leave her alone for a moment. Intellect really can be as much of a curse as a blessing. I guess we were a couple of the last of our kind, since I failed to pass along any genes. (as far as I know. as of yet. as they say.)
Then of course there was the decades long darkening shadows bringing on the decline of that intellect, ending finally in full-blown dementia. Though, once she had finally let go of all effort, she seemed as happy as I had ever seen her.
One of the last times I saw her in the hospital, I asked her if she knew who I was. Apparently you’re not supposed to ask that, but it didn’t seem to phase her. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. She might have been dodging the specifics. But, she replied, “Yes. You’re the love of my life.”
Now I can look back to my early childhood and see the vivacious, beautiful young version of her, prancing about the house singing during the chores when she wasn’t hating and being oppressed by them. “Today is Monday! Today is Monday…”