Mom

As I sit here at my mother's desk, looking out at the Pacific Ocean while the wind whips the sea grass and a menagerie of small black and brown birds enjoy their morning feeding frenzy outside the window, my mother is in the next room asleep. In a hospital bed. Fighting for every breath. I've never experienced anything like this but it feels like it's all going too fast, and yet I long for her to have peace.

My mom, Carolyn Louise Watson Mericle, was born December 31, 1934 in Atlanta, Georgia. As a young woman she was a Southern belle with all of the trimmings, and exuded the fundamental characteristics of proper southern society. Grace. Presence. Tradition. Caring. A fierce appreciation for right and wrong. Love of family and friends. These traits remain with her today, and are the greatest gift that she has passed along to me, my brother, and her four grandchildren. She will live forever in all of us.

My mother is my best friend. She fixed my skinned knees. Made me feel better when I was sick. She soothed my first broken heart. She mediated the numerous friendship sagas of an adolescent girl. She held the bucket, and my hand, when I was retching from chemotherapy nearly 24 years ago. She came to every volleyball game. She became a friend to my friends. She taught me how to cook. She taught me how to be a good mom. She and my dad have demonstrated the power of love and commitment. She instilled in me the values needed to become a good person, made in her own image. She always believes in me, and puts me, my brother, and my dad first. Thursday night she was mad at us for feeding her before we had eaten ourselves. Even in this, the twilight of her life, she is concerned first for others (and still has that wicked temper!).

While it is easy to reflect on the many difficulties that have befallen our family and attempt to justify them, it is even easier (and far more productive) to recall the many, many moments of joy. The Thanksgivings and Christmases that I long to reproduce, but never quite will. The unbelievable dinner parties with every detail just right. The dozens of gingerbread houses that we've made together (some structurally sound, others not so much, but all filled with laughter, memories, and stomach aches from too much candy). The time she lost a bet in Yosemite and had to "eat her hat" as a result (OK, she ate one thread from the hat). The pleasure and serenity she takes from Yosemite, our "church." The bike rides, hikes, dancing and roughhousing we enjoyed before her body rebelled. The annual shopping trip to San Francisco to buy clothes for the new school year. Lunch at the Mayfair on Maiden Lane. Trips to the theatre. Sunday night tacos. The joy in seeing her children grow up to become students, graduates, spouses and parents.

It is also easy to recall the strength and grace she continues to show in the face of adversity. "This too shall pass," or "Let's get this show on the road," have been mantras of late. While the show is ending differently than we all would have hoped, it is still chock full of dignity, grace, and my mom's inner beauty.

And the show will go on. It will go on unencumbered, in a place of great beauty. Where there is no cancer. Where there is no pain. Where loved ones await. Where she can run through fields of wildflowers. Where she can lead a pony, ridden by giggling "little man" Tommy, through a forest. Where she can watch over all of us, without pain or regret, and organize and play Heavenly hostess to myriad reunions, down to every last detail, as her loved ones join her in eternity.