Pink Lady Slippers
Kathy T. Camp
"Mom, wake up. It's me, Kathy. The attorney's here to help you make out your will."
Her long, brunette hair, not one of them gray, draped across the stark white pillow. A thin blanket covered her bony frame. Her arms pressed down against her chest while she slept. Her eyes were shut tight, as if she were trying to keep out all the light.
"Miss Tollman, are you awake?" Mr. Rego stood in front of the window and leaned over the bed rail while he spoke. She turned her head towards his voice and opened her eyes.
"Hello." The sound seemed to scrape the sides of her throat as she spoke.
The attorney asked a few questions to determine if she were of sound mind. When he was finished, he asked me to find a witness for the signing.
"Why don't we get a table so your mother can sign the papers? All she needs to do is make an X on the line," he said.
"I can hold them for her. Do you have something she can bear down on?"
I turned the crank at the base of her bed and lifted her head high enough for her to look down. I sat beside her and situated the pen and papers. Her fingers were contorted, but in that moment they looked like the soft hands that I had watched make hundreds of stitches to form beautiful quilts. I saw them whipping eggs and battering chicken to fry. I saw them putting dirty clothes in the washing machine. I remembered them holding a damp washcloth and bathing my burnt skin. I could feel her cool hands supporting my forehead as I threw up into the toilet. How many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had those hands made for me? How many dresses?
When there was no money for a new dress or pants, she’d found a way to sew something. Now I saw her hands and remembered standing by her side, watching her cut the fabric, pin the pieces together, and stitch them on her Singer sewing machine. For the last seven years, I dreamed that one day she would recover enough to make quilts again. I imagined her sitting near me and quilting while I taught my daughter to make a simple purse, just as she had taught me. Now I had accepted that this dream was never going to come true.
A year after my mother’s stroke, she gave me all her fabric and her four sewing machines. I used the sewing machines for end tables and her fabric was in boxes collecting dust. I was able to use her fabric to make a small potholder that’s still in the rotation in my kitchen, far from artistic, by the only one in the lot made of tears. After the potholder was made, just looking at her calicos and soft vegetable-dyed cotton fabric filled me with an anguish so profound that I didn’t get it out again. I knew exactly where it was: sitting in my closet, collecting dust.
As we worked to get the pen situated in between her two good fingers, I remembered those same hands stretching out to pick flowers. When we used to drive up to our mountain cabin in North Georgia, her quiet demeanor changed. As we’d travel along the dirt road towards our secluded cabin, she often would holler to my father, “Stop Gary; stop the car!” From her urgent tone, I got the impression that there was danger lurking just ahead, but I was usually mistaken. Once, after my dad stopped the car, she bolted out and lunged towards the base of the mountain. “Look! Look! Do you see this?” She exclaimed, pointing at a tiny flower. My dad yelled back, “What is it?”
“It’s Bloodroot, I’m going to mark it in my book.” My dad never got out of the car. We just sat there as she’d pour over her wild flower book—searching for the flower she had just found. She’d date it. We’d drive on. Sometimes just a few miles later, the process was repeated. Sometimes a year would pass before she’d insist that my father stop the car. Once at the cabin, she’d get up early in the mornings and head out the door to walk in the wilderness with her little wildflower book. My sister and I would play in the nearby cemetery or we’d try and build a dam on the little mountain creek less than a half a mile from our cabin. When the sun would get high in the sky, my mother would return from her walk. Sometimes she’d say, “Come on girls. Let me show you what I found.” I never quite understood what this was all about for her, but I could tell from her voice that it was very important.
One particular time she led us deep into the woods and said, “Look at that! Aren’t they beautiful?” All I saw were trees and leaves on the ground.
“What?” I continued looking, but saw nothing interesting.
She walked a little farther and bent down, “See this,” she said, while holding a small pink petal in her hand, not much bigger than a quarter, “It’s a Pink Lady Slipper!”
“That’s pretty,” I replied.
“Look at all of them!” She said, while she waved her hand in front of her. The dense canopy blocked out most of the sunlight, making it difficult to see small details. But after she pointed them out, I saw them, too. It was a bed of about 50 Pink Lady Slippers. It looked like a fairyland.
“These are wild orchids. They are very rare. I’ve seen three or four together before, but finding a bed like this one is incredible.” Her voice lifted and filled with life. In the woods, standing beside her discovery, my mother would take on a different persona. She looked like a child who had just found a secret passage way into another world. I wanted to join her.
Every summer we would take walks in the mountains, heading for a waterfall or a creek, and my mother would end up way behind the rest of the family. She would never tell us that she was stopping. I’d somehow notice her absence and turn to look back. I’d see her bent over, sometimes on a steep bank, other times she’d be under a huge boulder, and always, she’d be as close to the damp ground as she could get, holding her wildflower book. Sometimes I’d walk back to see what she had found. “Look at these tiny little plants; don’t they look like little soldiers marching?” She saw the world in these tiny plants and she wanted me to see it too.
Even back in the city, as she would take walks in our neighborhood, she would find wildflowers, at the edge of someone’s highly manicured lawn, and bring them home and put them in tiny, jelly-jar vases.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” she would say, as if each bouquet were the prettiest one she’d ever seen. One year she bought a camera and took close-ups of all her favorite wildflowers, framed the prints, and gave them to her friends as Christmas presents. Some of those friends had emailed me recently to tell me that my mother’s love of the simple things in life had touched their hearts.
"Mom, all you need to do is make an X on the line."
Her stroke, which had happened eight years earlier, had left her partially paralyzed on her left side. When she accepted that she would never be able to use her left arm or hand again, she began to spend more and more time in her bed. I saw her sinking into an abyss, beyond the reach of anybody. During the last few months, she only got out of her bed once a week for the dreaded bath. Her body began to deteriorate rapidly. Within a few months, the only appendages still in her control were her right thumb and forefinger. Using them was painful; nevertheless, she pressed them tightly on the pen and with great effort signed her name on the paper. She made a small oval on the line and then dragged the pen down to form a beautiful cursive A. She carefully controlled her hand’s movements as if these were the most important words she would ever write.
She finished writing “Anna Sue” in black ink and then shifted her arm to begin writing her last name. It looked as if she were moving a large boulder off a small child. I felt a pressure in my stomach that moved to my throat, arms and face. The ache quickly spread to my entire body. Finally, the pain came rushing out with a force that made the bed shake. She kept writing.
My mother had allowed people, especially my father, to hurt her emotionally. I never heard her say, “I won’t let you talk to me that way.” She would just sit in silence. Many times, I saw a twinge of pain in her face when my father would belittle her and the things that she loved. Whether it is was from a personal belief in loyalty, or a fear that she couldn’t survive alone, my mother stayed with my father, no matter what he said or did.
A year after her stroke, I came by for a visit. She and my father were eating lunch together, and a bowl of grapes sat between them. My father made a wisecrack about my mom not trying hard enough at her exercises. She picked up a grape and hit him directly on the forehead. My dad laughed it off, explaining that the stroke had caused this odd change in her personality. My mother looked at him and said, “Shut up, you son of a bitch.” He laughed again and spoke about her as if she weren’t there. “See what I mean; she’s not herself.” Next, she picked up the bowl of grapes and threatened to throw the whole bowl at him if he didn’t shut up. My mom, quiet and docile in her youth, had indeed changed, into a woman of courage.
After she signed the papers, I hugged her for my benefit more than hers. Between my whimpers, I told her that I was proud of her.
She didn’t say anything; she just listened to my sobs. I wanted to see her pick flowers again. I wanted to watch her quilt again. I wanted to hold her hand as we crossed the dirt road to see a beautiful wildflower.
A few weeks later, I sensed that she was slipping away, so I began stopping by more frequently. A friend counseled me about the coming transition. His suggestion was very simple, “Ask her what she wants, or needs, and give it to her if you can.”
I tried out his suggestion, on my next visit, along with my brother and sister. My brother initiated the conversation, “Mom, is there anything you want?”
“A brownie.”
We all looked at each other and smiled. “Is there anything else?”
“No.”
My mom was refusing her food most of the time, so I was glad she wanted something to eat. When the nurses asked me if I was going to let her go naturally, or choose the tube feeding route, I knew the right answer without hesitation. Her deep respect of nature made it easy to reject any artificial means of prolonging her life.
We took turns feeding her the brownie. She ate the entire thing.
On another visit, I asked her what I could do for her, feeling certain she would ask for something I couldn’t do.
“Bring your guitar and sing to me.” I hadn’t played my guitar much in the past ten years. I wasn’t even sure where it was. But I promised her I’d bring it.
As I entered the nursing home with my guitar slung on my back, the residents sitting by the door smiled, eyes widening in anticipation. As I moved past them, I felt guilty that I wasn’t offering my time to them. I walked quickly towards my mother’s room.
I pulled up an uncomfortable chair and sat beside her. Her eyes were closed, but I could see her slow breathing. “Mom, hey. Wake up.”
She opened her eyes and managed a half a smile.
“I have my guitar. Look.” I said to her, as I began unzipping the soft case.
“Anything special you want to hear?”
“Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” she stated with strength and clarity. I couldn’t believe she wanted me to sing that song. It seemed almost cruel. But it wasn’t about me anymore. I was trying to comfort her, so I slowly strummed the chords, and sang it through. She stared at me when I began, but towards the middle she began looking at some distant point in the room. Her face looked so peaceful. I sensed her longing to be somewhere else, out of that cold, empty room. Her peaceful look harmonized with the anguish in my heart at an almost equal volume. I somehow sang to her without crying. Between the lyrics, the phrase “This just can’t be happening” turned over and over in my head. It felt like something was left undone, but I didn’t know what it was.
I continued my trips to her room, with my guitar, singing some of her favorite simple country or bluegrass songs.
One day, I stopped by spontaneously, without my guitar. As I entered her room, she spoke to me, sounding almost frantic.
“Kathy, I’m scared,” came thrusting out at me.
As I approached her bed, I lowered the protective railing so I could sit beside her.
“What are you scared of, Mom?” I asked, afraid, myself, of what she might say.
“I’m scared.” She said again. Her eyes opened wide, like she was seeing a speeding train headed straight ahead.
I held her cool thin hand, like a sandwich between my two warm ones.
I remembered the night she held my hand, leading me away from our cabin, through the woods, to an open meadow. I complained about the darkness, but she assured me I’d soon be able to see. When we got to the clearing, she spread out a blanket for us to lie on. As my sight adjusted to the blackness, the stars seemed to dance just above my head. My mother waved her arm in an arch, directing my focus on the Milky Way. It seemed like a dream to me. I was amazed at how the darkness faded as the stars began to appear in the purple-black sky. I had never seen this before; I was a child of the suburbs. Darkness only ended when someone turned on a light.
“Kathy.” She called my name, sounding so far away.
I was searching for something comforting to say, but I had no words.
“I’m dying,” she whispered.
“Yes, I know you are dying, mom.” Her awareness stunned me. Her boldness frightened me.
“I’m scared!” She spoke insistently. Her tone had a message that I could not ignore. “Help me not be afraid!” I was frozen.
I took a deep breath hoping that a nurse or LPN or even another resident would pop in and do this for me. I knew that I was not the first person to be faced with this immense load. For a moment, I felt very angry that no one in my family, immediate or extended, including the intellectuals and the simple country folks, nor any course in college, had prepared me for this moment. Facing death was probably the least discussed topic of my entire life.
Thankfully, I had recently begun believing and trusting in something bigger than myself. This offered some comfort when I hit a wall in my limited thinking. I uttered a silent prayer.
“What are you scared of?” I asked again.
“Of dying.” She put it together for me.
My mind swirled into clouds of leaves and dust and flowers and thread and rain and tears and waterfalls. My prayer changed to a desperate plea.
“So, you are afraid of dying?” I put it together for her and for me. “Mom, you aren’t going to die,” came out of my mouth. I felt like I had just betrayed her. I didn’t know why I said that; it made no sense at all. The facts were very clear. She was going to die, and very soon.
“Your body will die, but your spirit will live on,” left my lips. It was as if I was reading a script written by someone who had died long ago.
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. The part of you that I love will never die.”
She took a deep breath. And I could tell that she was still feeling uneasy. “Can I pray for you, or with you, or ask the pastor to come see you?”
“Get the Bible on my night stand,” she said with great strength.
I reached for it without leaving her side.
“What would you like to hear?”
“Psalm 139.”
I was relieved to have something concrete to focus on, the tiny words in the miniature Bible, left by some local church, seemed to enlarge as I slowly read them. I glanced at her as I read.
She began to relax her breathing, as did I.
On my next visit, she looked more peaceful. She seemed to stare at that distant point in the room for most of our visit. I had my guitar with me, so I asked her, “What do you want me to play?”
“Country Roads, Take Me Home.”
As I played it, I saw her approaching the perfect dirt road—smiling and happy— headed towards fields and fields of wildflowers. I cried. I cried because I knew that she was not going to turn around and ask me to look at the Pink Lady Slippers. She was just going to keep on walking—because she was going home.
Some of us are closer than others, but all of us are walking under a darkening sky that will illuminate our way home.
