You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Moms.
There’s something wonderful about moms.
Mom are life. Moms are warmth. Moms are the life blood of creation.
Even when you are a 50-year-old man, mom makes you feel like a snuggly 2-year-old.
Moms have the power to remind you what it’s like to wear feety pajamas and sit at the kitchen counter, your tiny legs dangling over the stool.
Moms are cookies and milk before bed. Moms are a shoulder to cry on. Moms are the one who makes the bad dreams go away.
Moms are wonderful and reassuring. Moms are rich, fertile soil that allows a root to sprout, to grow, to become a flower or a mighty tree.
I am visiting the life-giver today.
And it is nice.
I have just landed in Portland. I have endured 4 hours of two women talking loudly, excessively.
The women in row 11 talked about their grand children and the death of Grandma Taylor and the family member who wouldn’t come to the funeral.
From Kansas City to Portland, the middle seat and the window seat droned on like a tired episode of Dr. Phil.
“And then all the grand children got up and sang a song. Only their children didn’t have nothing to say, so they just go up there and looked like dummies. And their parents thought we had practiced that song. But we didn’t practice any song. It just came out. It came out from their hearts.”
They drone on and on and on.
Over the roar of the engines, over the roar of turbulence, Window Seat and Middle Seat discussed Grandma Taylor’s funeral and the family dynamic associated with it.
The only problem? There were no commercial breaks in this daytime soap opera.
I wish the flight attendant had stepped up and said “And we’ll be right back after this word from our sponsors.”
I’d have given anything to hear about Southwest Peanuts and the new cocktail napkin showing where Southwest flies.
But it was not to be. Blah blah blah blah.
I pulled my sunglasses down over my face and tried to sleep.
I tried not to care about their lives in Iowa or the conference they were attending in Portland.
Instead, I thought about my own reason for going West.
I am visiting my mom who has been battling illness for the past 5 years.
She has been a sickness warrior fighting breast cancer and radiation and now more chemo therapy.
When I booked the flight, months ago, nobody was very optimistic.
We were talking months to live.
That’s not encouraging.
I was flying here with the notion that this might be goodbye.
But this latest cocktail of drugs has been a good mix, and the tumor has shrunk dramatically and the prognosis has shifted to one with more time and happiness.
Knowing this is a relief for me. It allows me to tolerate the Dr. Phil show in row 11 at 33,000 feet.
A positive prognosis allows me to endure the 90 minute delay due to icy conditions in KC.
The good news keeps me afloat as I move through an interminably long airport looking for a baggage carousel at the end of the building that never begins to turn.
Finally I get my bag.
There’s a sense of relief as I watch the old bag head down the conveyor belt.
She is scuffed and tattered, but she is a sight sore eyes. Anytime your bag arrives, it is reason to celebrate.
I lug the old girl to the loading zone outside.
It is dark and there is the roar of a hotel shuttle bus.
I scan the cars parked close by and there she is.
She has been battling cancer. Her hair is white and cropped very short from an arsenal of chemo.
She looks great. Her face is alert and sparkly. She is moving with ease, thanks to a hip replacement procedure 9 months ago. What a difference? The last time I was here, she was in so much pain. She was wobbling on a bum joint that gave her the stability of a bull fighter who had lost his last bout.
Beside a new hip, she has a new little dog. The dog is her new reason to live. He is a fluffy little boy and she walks her new dog with her new hip helping here get in new shape. She’s is in best shape I have seen in some time.
Our gaze meets and there is a spark. It is that moment when the sun hits the horizon and you see the blue flash. It’s quick, and you have to look for it, but when you catch it you remember it for ever. For in that moment, a lifetime is revealed.
I feel my anxiousness melt away and my face bends into a smile.
Though the loading zone is dark, I can see the light in her blue eyes. There is a spark of life and the bond between mother and child.
Her smile is big and rich and reminds me of another place.
How do moms do that?
In a single smile, a single look, from 15 yards away in the dark, I am a child again.
Just a look takes you back to a child hood moment when you skinned your knee and you cried and she made your boo boo feel better.
I put my bag down and move toward her.
Mom is warm and inviting like the sun on a chilly February day.
She opens her arms and I am drawn to her being. She possesses a gravitational force of love.
I am a small planetoid being pulled into her solar system.
Suddenly her arms close around me. I am secure, like a baby kangaroo in a pouch.
Nothing bad can happen here. The air is warm and the space nurturing.
It is a hug that transcends time and encompasses decades.
It’s a life blanket that makes everything feel right.
She pulls back from me and stares into my eyes.
Her face is older, wiser, a little worn down from an onslaught of sickness.
But my prevailing image is that of light and health and renewed spunk.
“You look great,” she says.
I smile. The lady going through her 2nd round of chemo tells me that I look great.
What have I done to earn that? Nothing.
This woman has battled the cancer demons. She will come to tell me that her death sentence has been commuted.
She will tell me that the cancer inside her has shrunk and that somewhere along the way, she turned the fight around and is now running the diabolical enemy out of her body.
“You are the one who looks great,” I respond.
I feel the smile on my face pushing ear to ear. I don’t remember smiling for a few weeks and the feeling is nice.
I am a little boy jack-o-lantern. I am lit up and happy.
“I want you to meet your dog brother,” she says alluding to the little puppy in the back of her car.
The tiny dog looks like a fluffy toy you buy at FAO Scwarz in New York City.
“I love this little dog,” she will say.
The little dog with the big brown eyes cocks his head and stares at me curiously.
I am glad she loves this dog.
I am glad she is bubbly and her eyes crystal clear with hope and designs on another day.
As we pull away from the curb, her stories flowing on top of one another, I forget Grandma Taylor and the ice in Kansas City.
I look back at the little dog.
Is that a smile on his little furry face?
Sure it is.
What’s not to smile about.
Life’s Crazy™