margiesims.com - Faith. Funny. Life with Ten Kids.
RSS Follow Become a Fan

Delivered by FeedBurner


Recent Posts

Upward.
The Power of Presence
Proms and Prayers
Me? Sick?
Captain Fun Strikes Again

Most Popular Posts

The Green Tennis Ball
My High Flying Tiger
A Good Sign
A Whole, Entire, Complete Day Off.
Proms and Prayers

Categories

Faith
Family
Fan (Book Reviews)
Food
Friends
Fun
Fundamentals
Funds (paying for college)

Archives

May 2017
April 2017
January 2017
December 2016
November 2016
October 2016
May 2016
March 2016
February 2016
December 2015
November 2015
October 2015
September 2015
June 2015
May 2015
April 2015
March 2015
January 2015
December 2014
November 2014
September 2014
July 2014
June 2014
May 2014
April 2014
March 2014
February 2014
January 2014
December 2013
November 2013
October 2013
September 2013
August 2013
July 2013
June 2013
May 2013
April 2013
March 2013
February 2013
January 2013
December 2012
November 2012
October 2012
September 2012
August 2012
July 2012
June 2012
May 2012
April 2012
March 2012
February 2012
January 2012
December 2011
October 2011
September 2011
August 2011
July 2011
June 2011
May 2011
April 2011
March 2011
February 2011

powered by

The Bloggy Mommy

My Mother's Face

A tribute to my mother on the 9th anniversary of her death.
 
 
I've heard it all my life, "You look just like your mother." 
 
Not that I minded it. With red hair and Wine with Everything lipstick, Mama was as glamorous as a 1950's movie star.  Though I've never been the glamorous type, there is no denying I have my mother's face--minus the red lipstick.
 
Throughout her life, I observed an array of emotions on that face.  When I was small, my mother's face often wore a wrinkled brow, reflecting her fast-paced determination to meet all the demands of caring for eight kids.  As I grew older, her face revealed worry over problematic adolescents or my dad's unpredictable antics.
 
When I was a teenager, my mother's face mirrored her quick wit.  Though I was never rebellious, I still thought myself pretty clever, and I certainly knew more than my mother did.  At a very naive sixteen, I came home from my job as a waitress and handed her a napkin on which a boy had written his phone number and invited me out on a date.  "What do you think of this?" I asked, pleased that someone from school would find me attractive.
 
Her eyebrows arched as she tossed it back to me. "Use it for toilet paper," she quipped.
 
As a wife, I intentionally sought to wear my mother's face.  She had me--her eighth child--on her thirty-fifth birthday.  I had seven children by the time I was thirty-five.  During those years, my mother's face beamed approval with each pregnancy announced.  When everyone else was questioning my decision to have such a large family, I knew my mother would relish my news.  After the arrival of each baby, my mother's glowing face was always one of the first I saw. 
 
When my mother got cancer, I briefly lost sight of the beauty of her face.  Distracted by mottled skin and the loss of her lovely red hair, I grieved losing the mother I had always known.  I mourned the inevitable altered course of life as this woman who managed her housework much like Navy captain runs his ship now needed a walker even to saunter to the bathroom.  As I trailed behind her to keep her steady, I reflected on how, without her hair, she had an uncanny resemblance to her own father. 
 
But during the months of caring for her, each time I drew eyebrows on her with pencil or assisted her with her lipstick, I began to see glimpses of my mother's face.  And--whether through turban fashion shows or outrageous bathroom jokes--when her sense of humor again shone like a lighthouse during the greatest trial of her life, I saw her face as I had never seen it--so steadfast, so strong.
 
As the inoperable tumor in my mother's throat grew to the size of an orange, I watched desperation, panic, and and anxiety--but never surrender--govern her face.  "Go forward," she whispered with labored breath and raucous voice to the doctor's inquiry of the next steps to take.  She had much to live for, and to the end she wore her game face.
 
I was with her the night  a simple breathing treatment triggered coughing, and her coughing evolved into choking.  As I smashed the button to call the nurse, my mother's face was pure fear.  As she mouthed, "I can't breathe!  I can't breathe!" and the nurses rushed me out of the room, the look on her face is something I will never forget--it is stamped in my mind like a terrible song stuck on repeat.  Though she lived 36 more hours, she remained unconscious.
 
I wasn't with my mother as she drew her last breath. Consequently, as I approached the doors of the funeral home, part of me feared seeing her lying lifeless in a casket.  Then, as I crept toward her, I recognized her face.  Deliberately ignoring her counterfeit hair that hid cancer's scars, shunning her hands so gnarled from fighting cancer's battle, I kept my eyes on that face.
 
The face that had guided me and given me strength.  The face that personified determination both in life and in death.  The face that I had always been told I had, but knew I could never have, really.  As long as I live I will never quite trying to wear my mother's face.
 
 
From Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Mothers & Daughters, page 205
Reprinted with the author's permission.
 
 
 

9 Comments to My Mother's Face:

Comments RSS
Shari on Tuesday, March 22, 2011 9:32 AM
That's a beautiful tribute to your mom, Margie. I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet her.
Reply to comment


Sherry Shelton on Tuesday, March 22, 2011 11:19 AM
Margie, although I have read that story many times, today it really tugged at my heart. I miss her. time for a sister get together.
Reply to comment
 
margie on Wednesday, March 23, 2011 4:14 AM
Love you, both, sisters. And thank you for being such terrific big sisters, too. I appreciate it even more in Mom's absence.


Debbie Riley on Tuesday, March 22, 2011 3:23 PM
Thanks for that Margie - beautiful and perfect for today. Love you - Deb
Reply to comment


Beverly Griffin on Tuesday, March 22, 2011 4:07 PM
Margie, what a wonderful story and a real tribute to your wonderful mother.
Reply to comment
 
margie on Wednesday, March 23, 2011 4:13 AM
How kind of you to say so. Thankyou.


margie on Wednesday, March 23, 2011 4:15 AM
Me, too, Shari. She loved your dad and I know she would have loved you, too.
Reply to comment


Skin Care Supplement on Saturday, November 03, 2012 1:50 AM
A great information given over here looking forward for more such information from your blog.
Reply to comment


profile on Wednesday, October 22, 2014 3:29 AM
since the assistance available today that can be purchased can be a complete bunch Hall can be a destination in which the surfaces will never often be just whatever ordinary paint
Reply to comment

Add a Comment

Your Name:
Email Address: (Required)
Website:
Comment:
Make your text bigger, bold, italic and more with HTML tags. We'll show you how.
Post Comment
Website Builder provided by  Vistaprint