My Mother's Shoes

"All these people and I don't recognize anyone."

Another of her nonsensical ramblings, yet I still look around the
Medical Imaging Center waiting room. "Who are you expecting to see
here?"

"I used to recognize people all the time from work."

"From five years ago, you are going to remember someone who walked
into your office. You don't even remember the names of the nurses
that come visit you each week," I joke with her.

"I'm bad with names, good with faces."

"True."

"Besides, people would somehow always remember me, though they
couldn't immediately place me. They'd come up to me, 'I know you
from somewhere.' I'd look at them and say, 'I don’t' know . . . '
then I'd ask, 'Did you apply for your homestead exemption recently?'
and then they would say, 'Yes, you are the one that was so helpful!'"

I remember in one of our clutter purging sessions the pile of
informational pamphlets for all kinds of local services she still had
from her office drawer. "Just stuff I collected because they were
common questions people had and I tried to be helpful." Sounds
simple, but having worked in my mom's office to put myself through
college, I know that her small effort was an exception.

Just an office clerk, someone in customer service for the county
government, is how even her co-workers saw her. But in everything
she did, my mother was first and foremost a human being dealing with
other human beings. Not glamorously beautiful or lauded with special
degrees, I remember stories of the condescension, if not outright
nasty abusiveness, my mother took from her coworkers who thought she
catered too much to the needy citizens who walked in. It was with
this same condescension that they served the public, leaving my
mother to deal with frustrated and unsatisfied citizens. My mother,
rather than working to shuffle them out the door and let them be
someone else's problem, chose to find and have ready the information
she new people needed (especially as she served many new residents to
the county who did not know their way around). Moreover, she gladly
gave it out, even unsolicited at times.

"Practice random acts of kindness," preach many bumper stickers and
books of quips to keep on the coffee table. Yet, I am sure, many of
even those who so proudly display these trinkets would scoff at civil
servants.

Such as my mother.

My mother who taught me about helping others as well as about asking
for help. It is a two way street after all.

I believe one reason my mother wanted to be so helpful was her own
experience in the unreliability of others. As a young girl, her and
her mother benefited from the kindness of strangers or distant
relatives when they arrived in this country after WWII. Once she
learned English, my mother had to translate for her mother in many
government offices, "No one wanted to deal with my mother and they
would look at her as if she were stupid, not even human, just because
she could never really pick up English."

When my father died, she was on her own again, this time the
mother. Yet, rather than making her withdraw from relationships and
connections and allowing bitterness and anger to seep out to all who
crossed her path, her own struggles for survival cultivated a
compassion. She could see people's needs and would help before
others had to ask, just as she would have liked done for her. My
mother is the kind of person you are glad you ran into because you
leave with more than you expected to get.

Energy shifts from one place or form to another, but never dies. My
mom 's small kindnesses emanated positive energy out of her humble
desk at the property appraiser's office for over ten years.

Though this doesn't always work best with those closest to us (she is
too entwined with my sister and I to anticipate our needs that are
separate from hers), I am blessed to witness how my mother is loved
and valued by many around her. The nurses and nurse's aides that
come into her home several times a week love to sit and chat with my
mom who is able to make a tough job feel appreciated and light. Her
friends rely on her for levity and organization. Now that she is
housebound, there is no one to drive them around past sundown. Even
up until her illness set in, my mom was helping others, driving an
elderly woman to concerts, helping friends with mail and bills. Many
of my childhood memories involve my mother caring for friends of her
mother: taking them to doctor's appointments, organizing their
paperwork, or visiting and having tea. It wasn't always fun for
her. I remember at times she would complain, exhausted and
frustrated with others who could not take care of their own affairs.
But it is who she is and she could not let someone else be neglected,
unloved.

I cannot fill her shoes. She knows the routine; she knows self-
sacrifice. Maybe this is why I feel I always fall short as I am
here. I can't seem to do enough or do it quickly enough or with
enough attention and patience. I have always been the impatient one
in the family.

"Could you grab me a half dozen brown eggs," I turn to the voice,
which is from an old man in a wheelchair. I hand him the eggs.
"Thanks." "No problem," I am forced to slow down from the rush I am
in, frustrated by the demands of my mother's detailed list and the
illogical organization of the oversized supermarket. A simple act, I
think, just as my mother would do. I realize this is all I need to
do in each moment with her; caring for her with the same compassion
she showed others is not an insurmountable task. Now, I am thankful
for the long walk to the to the checkout line and my legs that carry
me. Just as I am more thankful for each breath as I sit listening to
the constant pulsating hum of the concentrator that provides my
mother with the oxygen she needs for each breath.