Tribute To My Mom
My mom was a private person. She wasn’t flashy and never wanted the spotlight.
I realize that shining a light on her like this might have made her a little uncomfortable.
And yet I think sometimes the people who live the quietest lives have the most profound wisdom to share.
You just have to listen.
As a retired fifth-grade teacher, teaching was in her bones. She wasn’t a know-it-all teacher. Her lessons were subtle, you had to be paying attention to learn them.
I believe one of the greatest lessons of all, perhaps even the most impactful part of my mom’s life, was the way she approached her death.
She was a queen in this final stage of her life.
The seer.
The nurturer.
The wise sage who somehow knew.
About a year ago my mom told me she thought that looking back, she had been a C+ parent. As a retired teacher and former top-notch student, this was not a flattering self-assessment.
She said it plainly, not seeking pity or reassurance. Just reflecting.
A few weeks ago, as I brought her to a doctor’s appointment, it dawned on me to ask in the waiting room, “Why the C+ mom?”
She answered immediately, without pause:
“I wasn’t present enough. I was busy, rushing around. I wasn’t as present as I could have been.”
My mom and I took our final walk together just a few weeks ago at Anna Jaques, in the halls of the third floor. As we walked past the entry desk, she noticed that the Institution for Savings had donated to the wing.
“Someone should tell them they did a great job,” she said.
Then she noticed a flyer about the Daisy Award. It was about nominating a nurse you appreciated.
In her johnny, baby-blue non-slip socks, and her green Irish sweater, we walked a bit more before returning to her room.
“I want to nominate Mike for the Daisy award,” she said.
Mike, an emotionally attuned nurse, had been fantastic during her few days at Anna Jaques.
“Get my phone. Can you type for me?”
I scanned the Daisy Award code and typed the nomination for Mike.
I reminded her, “Mom, daisies were your wedding flower.”
“Oh yes,” she responded.
My parents were as broke as could be during their early years together, and the story goes that my mom had daisies at her wedding because they were more affordable.
She nominated Mike for the Daisy Award just three days before her death.
My mom was present. She noticed the flyer. She noticed the care. She noticed the fullness of love around her.
“I’m so lucky,” she’d remark during her hospital stay.
She wasn’t scared at the end. The anxiety had vanished. She didn’t forget a thing. Clear as a whistle, generous as ever, my mom rose to the occasion of her death. She met the moment. She didn’t fight it. She gracefully surrendered. She felt complete.
She didn’t just rise from a C+ to an A student.
In those final days, she became the teacher.
She showed me, and all of us, that death, just like other phases of our life, can be beautiful if we stay present and allow it to be.
I’ve come to value daisies more over the years. I love the story of my parents’ humble beginnings. I love the simple elegance of a daisy, pure white, clean lines, no attempt at being flashy or showy.
It could be easy to overlook a daisy. But for those of us who pause and really look at the stunning simplicity of the humble daisy, you realize it’s perhaps the most precious of them all.
If my mom were a flower, she’d be a daisy.
Stunning in its clean lines, purity, and delicate simplicity.
A wildflower.
Daisies will forever be my favorite flower now.