My Mother's Hands by Jane Domian Cordova (Jane's Domain)

About a week after Mom died, I caught a cold. And then I gave it to Vince. (I'm good at sharing that way...!)

Whenever I've gotten sick throughout my life, I have always wanted my mom. Even in my adult life, I will utter under my breath, "I want my mommy!" Part of it was me making a "funny" as I knew Mom wouldn't run down to Columbus every time I caught a sniffle just to hand me a tissue. 

But part of it was real - because a mother's love, care and concern for her children help make it better. Always.

When I think about it, it wasn't mom's comforting words I was hearing in my head - it was her hands: her efficient nurse's palm feeling my forehead to check if I had a fever. Rubbing my temples to ease the pain. And patting my head or rubbing my back to let me know it would all be okay.

As an adult, mom would hear in my voice if I was sick during our weekly calls. Sometimes I would downplay it so she wouldn't worry. But she did anyway. And she'd call and check on me until I was better. 

The last time I remember mom comforting me was only last year. She was in truly bad shape after her second broken hip. She could no longer walk and was declining in all ways more than I ever thought my little, tough-as-nails mom would ever decline. 

It was the last time I sat with her in her apartment at Parkside Village. Usually, I met her in the dining room and fed her as her hands were no longer steady enough to hold a utensil and bring the food to her mouth. 

But that day, we went back to her room after dinner. I was sitting in my normal spot and moved her wheelchair close to me so we were facing each other. We no longer had conversations - I would just talk and she would listen. Once in a while, she made murmuring noises as if to let me know she was following along - or trying to, anyway. 

It had been a hard time for me. I was missing my mom even though she was sitting right in front of me. I was missing our conversations and our time together as we drank a glass of wine and I told her the news of the day. 

I was also sad because Vince's stepmother had recently died unexpectedly and we were trying to help his 89-year-old dad maneuver through the mourning process and the business side of handling details following a death.

And I was tired.

So as I was sitting there talking to her, I got overwhelmed and choked up. I put my head down in her lap because I didn't want to upset her by crying in front of her.

Suddenly, she pulled her hands out from underneath the blanket and started patting my head. 

Of course, that made me want to cry even harder...but I got myself under control, sat back up - and said I was okay. And I thanked her and told her I loved her. Back then, she was able to tell me she loved me, too.

It was another poignant moment that mom and I shared that I will never forget. 

But Mom's hands weren't only there for comfort. In my mind's eye, I can see her standing at the stove stirring a pot preparing dinner for her four children and her husband. I see her squinting at the needle in her hand trying to thread it to fix a tear or a hole in our clothes to eke out a few more months of wear. 

And I see her doing laundry and folding clothes in that efficient, no-nonsense manner that told me it was a task she didn't particularly care to do but knew it had to be done. We had no Laundry Fairies that would handle those tasks. Well, that is, until the four of us kids were old enough to help.

But let me tell you about mom's hands. Her fingers were bent and her knuckles were enlarged from the arthritis that plagued them. From the time I was young, I remember her beseeching anyone nearby to open a jar or use the can opener to open the dreaded can of peas or peaches for dinner. (It wasn't until I was an adult that I learned that fruits and vegetables weren't supposed to be mooshy!) But Mom simply didn't have the strength in her arthritic hands to perform these basic tasks.

I remember when I was in high school we had a hand-held mixer that was starting to go on the fritz. So I saw mom start mixing whatever she was making by hand. I could tell it pained her, so I asked if I could help. 

Then, as Mother's Day approached that year, I got the idea to buy her a new mixer. Dad thought it was too extravagant a gift, but I was feeling flush from all my babysitting gigs and I bought it for her anyway. (Little did I know yet that women do NOT want appliances for Mother's Day!) 

But that mixer was well-used and it was still in their kitchen cabinet when my friend Sue and I cleaned it out after Dad had passed and we were preparing to put their house on the market. 

Throughout her life, Mom would say she had ugly hands because of the arthritis and she rarely polished her fingernails with anything but clear polish. Once in a great while, she'd allow us to paint her nails a pale, pale pink - but that was about as bright as she'd go. 

Once Alzheimer's took hold of her and she moved to the memory care unit, polishing her nails became an activity we enjoyed together. 

Mom would look at my bright nail polishes - hot pinks and reds and purples - and she started asking for those vivid colors for herself. I, of course, indulged her and we'd spend a good hour making her nails look pretty. (Of course, Mom would forget what we were doing and she'd run her fingers over her clothes thus smearing her nails and we'd have to start over again!) 

This year - when COVID-19 caused the world to shut down and we could only visit mom outside from six feet away - I rarely saw her hands as they were hidden underneath a blanket. Mom was always cold, even if it was 85 degrees outside! 

But the last image I have of mom's hands was the weekend she died. I was finally able to see her in her room; something I hadn't been able to do for over seven months. Mom was on oxygen and I knew her time was near. I picked up her hand - now bereft of any polish whatsoever - and I held it. I talked to her and told her how much we all loved her. I said that she had been able to see all four of her children only the week before.  I told her it was okay for her to leave - that we'd be okay. And I prayed out loud while holding the hand that had comforted me my whole life. 

Those tiny arthritic hands were the most powerful hands I will ever know. But I know my brothers and sister and I benefited from them. And I will be forever grateful for their remembered touch. 

Jane Domian Cordova

Jane's Domain

10-23-2020