OUR HANDS

            Every time I open a door, sign my name, brush my teeth, wave goodbye or simply fold my hands together for my evening prayers I am reminded of her. My mother and I had almost nothing physically in common. She stood no greater than 5 foot 2 inches with short brown hair, just slightly speckled with grey. A bright pair of sparkling chameleon colored eyes that changed from blue to green. Her beautiful smile with perfectly straight pearly white teeth that never required braces. She had broad shoulders, but still a petite frame. She was the only woman in the family that was naturally busty. We often laughed at her skinny thighs and overdeveloped calves.  The one physical trait we shared were our soft to the touch, rarely manicured except with a light coat of gloss, hands.

            My mother was born and raised in Germany where she lived until her late years of high school. She had a passion to work with horses. She enjoyed training and showing them at local horse shows. To this day I still keep all the ribbons she won at all the judged exhibitions where she displayed her talent in several equestrian disciplines. At the age of 19 my mother married my father. Two short years later came the birth of my brother, with me to follow just 12 months after.

            She was more than just a mother to me; she was my inspiration and still is. My mother was left alone to raise my brother and me due to my father being gone a lot for work. She always tried to drive home the point to ensure you can always support yourself and not to rely on someone else. When I was nine years old my mother sat my brother and I down at our wooden kitchen table for what we thought was a routine dinner. Even with a typical meal served before us, something felt a little different that night. My mother inhaled deeply as she attempted to keep her composure. She went on to tell us at her routine doctors appointment that day they had found a brain tumor the size of a small sweet potato. Emergency surgery was required. Much to everyone’s surprise my mother survived the operation, but her life was forever different and so was ours.

            Seven years passed before the next “typical” dinner meal regarding bad news came again. Another tumor this time it was rapidly growing as a very fierce form of Cancer. This tumor was negatively triggering many points in her brain. The doctors performed the second operation, which she again astonished even the most prestigious neurosurgeons with her rapid recovery, and will to survive. Due to the disturbance in the blood vessels supplying blood to the brain, my mother had a stroke. She was immediately admitted to the hospitals inpatient therapy ward where she stayed for months. It was there where she had to learn tasks that we consider mundane to everyday life. Things such as how to open a door, sign her name, brush her teeth, wave goodbye or simply fold her hands together for her evening prayers. If it required involvement of the right side of her body she had to learn again how to accomplish it.

            During my first tour to Iraq I was filled with dread when I received the long awaited letter concerning the presence of another tumor. My mother was going on the table yet again for a third operation. The doctors predicted an 80% chance of death, and unfortunately due to operational tempo of the war, I couldn’t be there with her to hold her hand. My mother, the strongest woman who ever lived, survived the surgery again. The doctor’s prognosis this time was worse than ever. What brain mass was left, after the removal of the three tumors, was severally damaged. The cancer was aggressive and spreading.

Upon my retrograde back the United States I ended up back home to find my mother making a fair recovery.  We sat together at the kitchen table where she held my hand close to her as I looked into her blue-green chameleon colored eyes; I was looking through the windows to her soul. I could then see all the pain that she held back for so many years for the sake of me and my brother. While holding my hands she tried to explain to me, with her now limited vocabulary, that she was going to die very soon. She reassured me that she was very proud of my accomplishments to date and for the ones to come that she would not be able to see.

            On September 9^Th, in my arms, holding my hand, my mother died. My mother was there from the moment I took my very first breath and I was there the moment she took her very last. All the days in between were times she taught me some of the most valuable life lessons that I carry with me. Everywhere I go, and through everything I do. It is comforting to know that even though I no longer have my mother, she will help me in everything I do. She is there every time I open a door, sign my name, brush my teeth, wave goodbye or simply fold my hands together for my evening prayers.



JAN 22,1990



2004

SEPT 1993