My Mother’s kitchen table.
My Mother is a nuts and bolts kind of woman. Practical with no frills. Dust rag in one hand, and a plate of cookies in the other. Being busy doing is her best friend. The word sit down does not relate to her. If ever you give my Mother a compliment she will brush it aside, saying, "Oh gee," and make a clicking sound with her tongue. She is that predictable, and never late.
Sacha when he was two years old.
My Mother has given me life twice. Once at my birth, and then again after Sacha’s birth. A few weeks after Sacha’s birth my Mom sensed something was wrong. She said she thought my stomach should be going down, she said she could tell I had lost weight, but that my stomach looked like I was still pregnant.
I told her that I felt great, that after three weeks I didn’t expect to have a flat stomach, that if I weren’t well Sacha wouldn’t be doing well with my breast milk. I wasn’t worried and brushed her concern away.
A view in my Mother’s garden.
Still she persisted. After days of discussing the way I looked, my Mom said she would not return home (California,) until I went to see a Doctor. I told her I didn’t mind if she stayed in France with me forever. She laughed, and then nearly bopped me over the head with the phone. She has a way of getting her point across.
That is how I found out I had ovarian cancer. It is a silent killer. My Mother’s intuition saved me.
A hen in my Mother’s garden.
A Mother’s love, is that she can feel her children from the inside out.
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