MOTHER'S DAY ... A TRIBUTE
A published VISIONS Column
By Toney Atkins
(c) 2005 Toney Atkins/Daytona Times
In past years, I have received a number of wonderful and inspiring phone calls and letters about what has become my annual tribute in the Daytona Times to my beautiful mother, who passed from this world on April 17, 1994.
There have been requests to repeat that tribute, at least in part, to share with those who know what it means to have lost a mother and with those who are fortunate enough to still be able to look their mothers in the eyes on Mother's Day and say, "I love you."
This year marks the 11th anniversary of my mother's death and the 11th year that I still get choked up when I pass a counter in a store stocked with Mother's Day cards - especially the giant ones, which would truly have impressed my mom.
I recently traveled back to the town in which I was born to be with my dad, who currently is going through several different health crises which threaten to take him from me, too.
During the last few months of her life, my mother pleaded with me to get closer to my earthly father and to take care of him. He and I, indeed, have bridged a terrible gap that always seemed to be between us for far too many years, so the prayers of a loving mother were answered - and I am grateful. My dad, who took tender care of Mother during her final months, and I both still miss the woman who had a tremendous impact on both our lives.
My mother is eternal now, but in a spiritual sphere where I can't pick up the telephone and call her and tell her how concerned I am about my father and to hear her words of comfort and advice. Oh, how I miss her! Oh, how I realize how much I took her for granted! Time has increased my appreciation and love for her, but she's not here for me to tell her so.
Somewhere in my belongings is the Mother's Day card I had bought ahead of time in 1994 - the first time I had gotten one in years to send early so she would get it on or before Mother's Day, not several days or a week afterwards. "Better late than never," I always said with a laugh as I excused myself and apologized when she inevitably received it late, and she always said she forgave and thanked me profusely.
I still vividly remember the night that I walked into a dimly lit room in a Georgia hospital and looked down at the shell of my mother on the bed. She appeared to be so at peace and looked so much younger than her 74 years.
An hour earlier, she had been struggling for breath as she lay in a coma on a bed in another room in the hospital, with tubes running into her nose and into her arms that seemed brutally bruised by too many intravenous needles. There were fewer of them than there had been before, because they were relatively useless now. The doctors and nurses had told my dad and me that her body was shutting down, its parts failing rapidly, and that soon the few breaths we heard rattling through the room would be silent.
They were right. Her battle with cancer, congestive heart failure and other ailments - especially the stroke that sent her to the hospital for the last time - would be over that Sunday night - three weeks to the day before Mother's Day that year.
The card she never got to see was still in Daytona Beach.
The blessing was that, at least by appearances, she died without apparent agony from the horrible pain she could have been feeling. She had suffered very much. After her last breath, even with the hospital paraphernalia still attached to her, her years of struggle melted away. As her spirit entered a realm free of suffering, her face expressed its relief.
My mother loved me - sometimes, I thought, too much. She never liked my living 550 miles away. I lived under the "curse" of being an only child and being "smothered with love."
She was an outspoken woman, even moreso with age. You could always depend on her speaking her mind to anyone and everyone. If you didn't like it - tough! But most people, young and old, including the minister who preached at her funeral, loved her for her simplistic, down-to-earth qualities. They saw her goodness as well as her human frailties, and the minister made special note that she indeed was one of a kind.
My mother was proud of me. It wasn't that I could do no wrong, because she would always be the first to let me know that I often did. But whether she approved or disapproved, she tried to act as though she respected my feelings and decisions.
I was required to send her copies of the Daytona Times (and the Daytona Beach News-Journal, when I was a writer and editor there) so she could proudly show off my writings to her friends and neighbors.
Oh, the many things I miss about Mother! She was always there when I needed someone to talk to. In our long distance telephone conversations, she worried about me, concerned about whether I was eating right, whether I was staying out of trouble and always wanting to know when I was going to get married and give her a grandchild to dote over. Even though I had crossed the threshold of 50 at the time of her passing, I was always her "little boy."
Eleven years later, I still sometimes find it hard to accept that my mother and my best friend is gone and I can't tell her how I feel about her and let her know that she did a wonderful job in trying to raise a good son. (None of my character defects can be blamed on her.)
How I wish I could hug her tightly and talk to her now!
The purpose of this writing is simple. It's not just therapeutic. I hope it prompts each and every reader whose mother is still alive to stop and think about that special woman, to remember her and treasure her while she's here, especially on the upcoming Mother's Day.
Pay her a visit. Send a card. Send flowers. Give her a telephone call. Buy a gift. Make her feel special, because after all, she brought someone special into the world - you.
