Lisa Geichman Prosek

My mother and I disagreed about everything. Religion. Politics. Women’s roles. Parenting. Fashion. Even cornbread.

We spoke on the phone barely once a month and saw each other even more infrequently. Holidays, that was about it. Somehow, we stiffened our spines and got through them.

Still, on July 3, 2008, when Dad told me Mom had been stricken with a ruptured brain aneurysm, I knew I’d be right there by her side through her illness.

I had just started working towards a master’s degree in creative writing, and I expected to write warm-and-fuzzy stories about my dogs and cats. But when Mom presented me with the story of a lifetime, my creative track took a drastic and painful turn.

It necessitated coming to terms with my feelings about Mom…and her feelings about me. As I wrote, I tried to remember and present the whole story, good and bad, painting word pictures I could hold on to.

Mental snapshots drove my work. Mom lying on the gurney in the emergency department, her eyes darting like a frightened little animal’s. My family trying to hide their terrified expressions behind painted-on smiles. Mom four days later—having defied doctors’ expectations—desperately mouthing “I love you” around the breathing tube as I stood by her bedside. Mom struggling to breathe as her body failed. Dad clenching his jaw. Doctors scratching their heads and stroking their chins trying to find a way to keep Mom alive. My own helpless hands. The crematory.

When I shared an excerpt of my developing book with one supposedly learned person, he told me that this work wasn’t worth it. That it was “nothing new.”

That stung. And I, too, started thinking it wasn’t worth it.

Then, I remembered. Late one evening three months before Mom died, she’d called and said, “Whatever happens, Lis, keep writing. Do you promise me you will?” She wouldn’t hang up until I vowed that I would.

So, Mom, I did. I took my stinging ego and went back underground to continue. Through sorrow, family illness, self-doubt. I kept going.

Though I still have a few more I’s to dot and T’s to cross—there’s always something that can be improved—it’s done for now. I dedicate it to you.

Happy Mother’s Day. I love you. Thanks for everything.