Comforting the comforter: a conversation between my left brain to my right brain

Much of the pain we suffer is self-inflicted. If not all of it.

Guilt and fear, prime examples.

My mother is going to die. I always knew this, so why is that fact
that a medical professional has now given us a time limit suddenly
hurled into a hole of fear and guilt and despair?

"Are you flying down there and leaving work?"

"No."

Guilt overwhelms me. Aren't I supposed to be in a state of panic and
action as well as sadness? Aren't I supposed to do something other
than sob and caress my loneliness and fear?

One year. Tomorrow? or three hundred and sixty days from now?

"We've had years of great memories. You'll be here for my birthday
and make me my torte. If you come for too long we'll just get on
each other's nerves."

The guilt and fear of losing this amazing woman who does not fear
reality and does not harbor illusions about finding perfection in her
final days suffocates me and spills over, stinging my eyes.

I long to take back all my irritated quips and unloving words that
sprinkle my lifetime.

Why did I not stay a bit longer last time? Why did I allow my need
for separation from the person I cannot imagine being permanently
separated from to act in such a childish way so many times? Around
her, must I always play the role of the youngest child, the baby of
the family? Now, I must grow up.

Maybe, if I go there now, and stay, until the end . . . it still
would not be exactly right. We are who we are, as my mother seems to
know.

"The best thing you could do is live your life and call and tell me
about it, not sit here and watch me for who knows how long."

The peace, the clarity of mind, a clarity I have not heard from her
in years, shakes my core. I know, before the call with the doctor,
that my next visit might be the last.

Or it might not. Maybe Christmas? Suddenly, paying extra to be
there on that day and do nothing with her seems to be an upmost
priority.

"I am so proud of you and your sister and I know I don't have to
worry about you."

My weakened and ill mother comforting and bolstering the strength of
my sister and I, young and healthy. Lost, to be left behind.
Unlike ever before, I understand how blessed I am to have a mother
who is wise and loving unlike many I know. Her faith is unwavering.
She is humble (too humble, too self-critical). She is not always
eloquent, but her character transcends such petty descriptions.

As I wallow in my fear of being an orphan (even at my age, the term
carries the weight of the fear I feel, the loss I anticipate), I
realize all the visits, the panic, the action, is not for her, but
for me, the one to be left behind. To comfort myself, to assuage my
own guilt and fear, to try to stop the inevitable. It is resentment
at being forced to face my own mortality, to really know what it will
mean to be alone.

My mother seems to possess the acceptance of the yogi I am practicing
to be. My model was there all along, I just couldn't always see
clearly.

I have not words to express my reverence. No language is sufficient.

Anyuka, namaste