My mother recently celebrated her 80th birthday. One hell of a Georgia peach, her six children decided that we needed to do something special to memorialize the occasion for this Florida-Georgia woman. For about a year we had been trying to figure out just what to do. We ran through some really impractical possibilities for a woman only recently completing a second knee replacement surgery but ultimately settled on a very practical event -- a celebratory "gala" at the Orange Park Woman's Club, where she would be surrounded by those who love her.
Between coming up with the idea of memorializing her 80th and settling upon how we would do it, Mama was diagnosed with Cancer. More specifically, endometrial cancer. This sent shockwaves through the family, of course. When I received the call about the diagnosis, I literally couldn't speak. I could cry, however. And did. Leading to the following Mother-Son exchange: my mother trying to console me, trying to calm me down at a moment like that.
Nope, not my proudest moment but nevertheless a very precious memory that I'll tell for years to come in trying to explain to others -- in part -- why I love her, and we love her, so much.
Here is how we styled the event:
Doris Elizabeth:
From Andersonville to Orange Park
–
80 I Love You's for 80 Birthdays
And this is the woman:
Although we ran into some major (and disappointing) technical issues that were entirely our fault, the celebration was real and Mama was genuinely touched. And that was all that mattered to me.
Playing off of a poem I found on the internet, I wrote a poem for the occasion. My siblings thought it was a good effort, but a bit too morbid for inclusion into what we absolutely wanted to be a celebratory gala. I didn't agree (I thought Mama could certainly deal with its bluntness and morbidity) but accepted a re-write modified by our oldest sister (I'm the fourth child, the second son). The debate (what little there was) turned out to be irrelevant. Both versions were too long for inclusion into the program we printed. So I edited it down further still. Here are both:
The Original Version
"On Doris Elizabeth"
We can shed tears,
now that we know she's battling cancer,
and we certainly have.
But she has assured us
she has her battle armor on
and is leaning on her rock,
and our rock,
the Lord and Savior of mankind.
So we can smile
because of the life she has lived,
and is living.
We can close our eyes
and pray that she'll be okay
but she assures us
that she is, in fact, okay
and leaning on her rock.
So we smile,
eyes wide open,
and see all that she has.
We can be spread far and wide
as a family.
At times our hearts can seem empty
because we can't see her daily.
But then we remember
that we're full of the love she shared.
Full.
Of the love.
So, we won't turn our backs
toward tomorrow and live
in the yesterdays of our past.
Instead, we'll remember them fondly
and be happy for tomorrow
because of those yesterdays.
We love you, Doris Elizabeth,
and we don't want those in our world
to salute you
only at your homegoing service.
No, we want to remember you
in the here and now,
and show you love in the present.
Yes, we will cry when you're gone,
Doris Elizabeth,
and we will certainly cherish your memory
and let it live on.
But that's for another time,
another day.
Tonight, we celebrate the living,
and remember the family.
So we smile at the sight of you,
Doris Elizabeth..
With eyes wide open,
we dance to the reality of you,
our mother of six.
Doris Elizabeth,
daughter of Oscar and Artie Zell,
it is with hearts full of pure gratitude
that we come tonight to speak your name,
sing your praise,
confess our love,
and join you
in putting on our armor
for the battles to come.
The Final Version
She is a woman of faith above all else.
She has her battle armor on
and is leaning on her rock,
and our rock,
the Lord and Savior of mankind.
So we can smile
because of the life she has lived,
and is living.
We can close our eyes
and pray that she'll be okay for all the days of her life;
undoubtedly she assures us
that she is, in fact, okay
and leaning on her rock.
So we smile,
eyes wide open,
to observe all of her creation.
We can be spread far and wide
but we remember
that we're full of the love she shared.
Full. Of the love.
We love you, Doris Elizabeth,
AND we take time out
to honor you
in the here and now,
and show you our love in the present.
So we smile at the sight of you,
Doris Elizabeth.
With eyes wide open,
we dance to the reality of you,
our mother of six.
Doris Elizabeth,
daughter of Oscar and Artie Zell,
it is with hearts full of pure gratitude
that we come to speak your name,
sing your praise,
confess our love,
and join you
in putting on our armor
for all of life's battles.
She's an incredible woman, y'all, she really is. I run into people occasionally who have contentious relationships with their mother and I'm genuinely saddened. What a gift my mother gave me; an unconditional love buttressed by sound wisdom, simple taste, and pure decency all wrapped up in a woman unafraid to show her lack of perfection.
Human.
In and of the world, but dutiful and God-fearing.
Having lost our father, a man we all revered, in 1981, and remembering that it took me ten solid years to truly get over his death, Mama's mortality has personally been a rude reality check. Although we've been assured the pronosis is good, that only goes so far.
Today, she has her surgery. Last night she had to be taken to St. Vincent's Medical Center in Jacksonville, apparently too dehydrated from the preparations for surgery.
So it begins.
We love you and we honor you, Mama.
And we thank God Almighty for you.
Absolutely, positively.
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