More Dead Flowers

256 Marbles

    I went to see my Mom three days ago.  Five days before, on Mother’s Day, I brought her a gardenia plant for her room.  I thought the sweet-smelling flowers would override the stagnant smell of her room in the seniors’ home and add some life. 
    This week, I found the plant wilting and the flowers dead.  My mother smiled up at me from her bed and held out her shaky hand for me to take.  So much has changed and my mother, who was once such a great caretaker, is now being tended.  I looked over at the wilted plant with disappointment and sadness.  It’s not that I expected it to survive without water, but come on, five days?  Couldn’t it be sturdier than that?
    Understandably, the nurses in the home don’t water plants so I took the plant home with me and tended to it.  It is now revived and is sitting on my kitchen sill.  I feel that, in addition to the wee plant, I’ve taken a metaphoric baton from my mother – the baton that is passed from mother to daughter – the caretaker baton.  And then I’m aware of the guilt of not having the resources to care for my mother myself.  Sure, I take the gardenia plant home, but my mother is dying in that home.  Would she be more alive if I took her home with me?   
    I know that I sometimes judge myself against a “perfect world” scenario.  In a perfect world, I think that the woman who has given so much to me in my life should receive the same in return. I think she should have a home with people around her that love her but instead she has so much less - an institution with people who are paid to take care of her. 
    For a moment, I feel the energy of acceptance. My mother has dementia and needs full-time care.  I’m a mother of three who is in school and working a job.  Where would caring for my mother fit into this equation? Is it okay if the world is simultaneously perfect and imperfect? 

Are there areas in your life that you judge yourself for?  Could you allow yourself to be perfectly imperfect?