Do You Remember Me?

To my sons,

There was a time I was active. We went on hikes after school, even though you couldn’t figure out “Why do we have to do this?” Watching out front when you went out to play in order to intercept fights with neighbors or general mischief. I did yardwork while you rode bikes and ran around.

Remember how I came to school for special days, events, and holidays? I volunteered in your classes, but you acted like you didn’t know me. Working from home doing medical transcription, I was able to care for you when you were sick or pick you up from school. I was also available to respond when the school called because there was trouble, but we don’t have to go there. I was able to pick you up from school to attend guitar or piano lessons.

Can you see me in your mind, running after a dog or climbing a trail in the woods? Do you recall I was present for your childhood? When one of you requested we do more homemade family dinners, I listened and made it happen. In 2009, after I almost died, one of you said you wanted to see me up and about more, so even though I was unknowingly severely anemic, I made sure not to lie down until you were home from school, did homework, ate a snack, and then went on to play, though my whole body ached for relief.

When you were younger, even during high school, I was working, fitting in school and sporting events. I was right there, supporting and cheering for you. The pride I felt watching you guys grow filled my heart, still does as I see you becoming men.

I hope you have memories of me coming to your rescue when an older boy took your bike at the park. How about me getting you out of trouble for throwing snowballs at a car? We went to Disneyland for spring break one year and you enjoyed the pool at our hotel just as much. After swimming lessons, we explored local lakes and pools; I swam out to the log jutting from the waters at Skookum Lake, suprising you and your dad.

My heart aches for you to remember me, not as I am now, but the way I was all the years of your growing up in Gleneden. Please don’t let my current condition be all that comes to mind when you think of me or describe me to others. Please, please remember more of me.

Love, Mom