Growth within the void

My brother spent most of his life at odds with my mom. The dynamic began when he was a very young boy, became entrenched, and shaped both their lives. These last few months have been a growth time for him as he's come to terms with losing her as a pillar to orbit, a source of nurturing, and a habitual target for resentment. Sometimes a stone must be removed for seeds beneath it to receive light and germinate. The leaving in this case was my mother's maternal ability, and my physical presence as a caregiver. My brother had been relying on both and when they contracted, a space was left in which a nobler person could unfold. Tzimtzum, and there began a world. We spoke this morning and his voice sounded ragged.

"Yeah," he said, "she's resting all comfy now. I figured out her meds and we have it to where she only needs morphine drops every once a day or so. It's great." He was proud of himself, full-hearted that he'd learned to check every 15 minutes or half hour to make sure she hadn't brushed her oxygen line aside; that he'd learned to hold a basin for her so she could brush her teeth in bed; that he could help her to the bathroom and back, that it could be embarassing, but it was OK. Before, when it came to personal care, my brother said he couldn't do it. "I just can't," he said emphatically. "You will," I responded, "When you realize it's only you, and it's got to be done." "No," he replied. "I can't." I told him that in that case, it was up to him to find someone who could. But now, "I can't" has been replaced by "Look what I did for her; look what I know; she's OK and I have everything taken care of." When I call, even just to say hello, he lists the care he's given, the ways he's handled guests and calls, what Mom has eaten, how she feels.

"We got her up and into her wheelchair, and she wanted to sit out and look at the side yard," he reported this morning. My mother's peaceful, shaded side yard is afroth with fern beds pierced by spears of orchids. "She sat there for a while, talking softly to someone we couldn't see, and then she said, 'OK, I have to go now.' I asked her where she had to go, and she said 'to the hospital.' So I got her back inside and put her to bed." There was a pause. "This is breaking my heart. I'm going to need to see a counselor soon." I told him I'd already sought one up here, and reminded him of Hospice counseling services. We talked about knowing we're doing the right thing, the most difficult though uplifting thing. "It's the best, most loving thing we can do for her," he said. "It's the best and the hardest thing we've ever done."

I see my sisters growing in similar ways, reaching deeper and becoming greater than they thought themselves capable of. Before, we were soft metal forms, shaped but not hardened. Now, forged, these days with our mother are honing us. Our mother is retreating and in her leaving she reveals to us a different place for our hearts to dwell. The steel we're becoming will be our strength as we move forward, together, on this new ground.