Turbo Cancer: Day 90 - September 9, 2022
Turbo Cancer: Day 90 - September 9, 2022
A Poet
On this day, last year, my mom was still in the hospital.
She was staying in the oncology wing, and the care was very good. The nursing staff was attentive, kind and compassionate. We couldn’t ask for anything more.
At Ingalls Hospital, at that time, there were still stringent, lingering, covid restrictions. My mom was only allowed two visitors per day.
For each day of her hospital stay, she would have to choose the people who would be allowed to see her.
On this day, the choice was easy. Granddaughter Margaret came from Iowa. As far as my mom was concerned, everybody else could move to the back of the line.
Margaret’s visits were always energizing and renewing. In Margaret, my mom could see a newer, better version of herself. Margaret has gifts that have been passed down through generations.
My mother’s mother was an artist and a poet. While my grandfather was fighting at Guadalcanal, she wrote love poems and drew pictures that she sent to him, through the mail.
After the war, my grandma was a stay-at-home mom, on the north side of Chicago. With young babies at her feet, she cleaned the house, washed the clothes, went to the market and cooked the meals.
In addition, she painted, knitted, crocheted, sewed, sculpted, read and wrote poetry.
My mom was raised in an artistic, literary household. She, in turn, developed a love of the literary arts. She had an affinity for words and language. After high school, she went to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, to become a Spanish translator. She hoped one day to help in the communication of what was, at that time, the initial merging of two cultures.
As often happens with youthful dreams, this one was set aside in pursuit of what was to become the future. Instead of becoming a translator, my mom became a wife, a mother and a nurse.
However, she never lost her love of words, language, and communication. She was always reading books, magazines and newspapers. Scattered throughout her house, were tiny papers on which she wrote notes, reminders, lists, quotes, ideas and thoughts.
Every Sunday, my family went to my mom’s house for dinner. She always had a half-finished, difficult crossword puzzle sitting out on the kitchen counter. We would walk in, say hello, and sit down around the puzzle to fill in the missing words.
After dinner we had highly competitive, animated, in-your-face, Scrabble games. My mom kept a record of our scores inside the lid of the box, going back many years.
My brother and I grew up in a literary household. Our environment was rich with language.
Our children grew up in literary households, too.
And Margaret is a poet. (With a publishing deal. My mom would be so proud).
Our children and our grandchildren are a continuation of ourselves. They are the us of the future. They are the most important people in the world.
