Summer of 1987, Tacoma, Washington

By Sarah Cummins

My mom is crazy.

Most children, whether young or grown, will claim this of their mother at some point during their lives. But my mom is crazy in a good way. Her brand of crazy is the kind that draws people to her. Her crazy consists of a devil-may-care approach to life with a pinch of flair thrown in for fun.

When my sister and I were little, she would play with us instead of sending us away to play. She would make up personalized songs for us at bedtime, and she would act out amazing stories that would hold us spellbound. And when we faced the typical childhood dramas and fears, she would handle them all in a very untypical motherly fashion.

My strongest memory of her unconventional approaches to problems took place when I was 7. My younger sister had borrowed one of my favorite shirts without asking, and she had ruined it. I was so mad! I stormed up the stairs to my room, slammed my door, and threw myself onto my bed. I wasn’t alone for long. My mom came upstairs to my room and, without a word, took off her shoes to lie down on her back next to me. It was a few minutes of aggravating silence before she spoke.

“Sarahgirl, do you see all those polka dots on your walls?”

Of course I saw all the polka dots on my walls. I had picked out the wallpaper. Determined not to let her break me, I did not speak. I just nodded yes.

“All those beautiful colors – red, orange, yellow, green, purple … even pink, your favorite color.”

Her appreciation of my colorful wallpaper was both annoying and intriguing.

Then she gasped and cried, “Oh, no! What’s that?”

My eyes followed her finger to the place where she was pointing. There, on my beautiful wallpaper, was a small black dot that was barely noticeable. In the midst of the bright colors, this dark spot was obviously not supposed to be there. Maybe it was an ink blot from one of my pens, or maybe it was just an imperfection in the wallpaper. But either way, I hadn’t noticed it until she so dramatically pointed it out.

“That black spot is just like your shirt,” she said.

Now I was simply confused. How did one sister-ruined shirt become a tiny ink blot on my wall?

“Sarahgirl,” she continued, “you have all these beautiful, colorful polka dots around you. You have your family. You have your friends. You even have your own room now! You have all of these good things around you and you are only focusing on that small black dot. You’re letting one ruined shirt become your focus instead of seeing how many good things are all around you.”

We laid on our backs in silence, her looking at the colorful wall and me glaring at the ink spot that would now serve as a permanent reminder of this talk. Then, without a word she got up, put her shoes back on, and walked out of my room, leaving me to work out my reaction to this situation on my own.

I am now 26 years old and my mom is still crazy. She still lives life with flair, though life has not been kind to her. For the past decade, she has waged war against a vicious disease – Multiple Sclerosis. Yet she still holds to her “look at all the beautiful, colorful polka dots” philosophy.

The symptoms started with a pain in her left leg that caused her to limp. When she completely lost the use of her leg she began to use a cane. The cane became a walker and the walker has now become a wheelchair. Throughout the years I have watched her healthy runner’s body shrivel under the influence of this horrific disease. Her legs and hands lost mobility and dexterity. Her core lost the strength to sit up straight. Her entire body is raging against her. Yet her eyes still gleam with the same mix of wisdom and mischief I grew up to respect and admire.

Her body is breaking down. But her spirit remains unbroken.

In the midst of being physically incapable of doing anything for herself, she refuses to look at the ink blot in the midst of life’s gloriously colorful polka dots. She stubbornly focuses on the reds, yellow, pinks, friends, and family instead of focusing on the one anomaly amidst the sea of beauty.

I still have trouble not staring down the ink blots in my life. I have to force myself to see grace in the midst of anguishing trials. I have to make my heart be thankful for my multitude of true friends when one person shatters my heart. I have to fight for peace when all the forces – internal and external – assault my senses with stress and anxiety.

Tonight, as I sit across the dinner table from my mom, watching her wrap a weakened hand around her fork, I have to choke back a sob. How can someone so battered by life still see only the colorful dots and not the ink blots? I am trying to get there, I really am. I want to be at that point where I am no longer swayed by ink blots. I want to only see the beauty around me. But I have to be honest. I’m nowhere near there yet.

But someday I hope to be crazy. Just like my mom.

Sarah Cummins is a native resident of Tacoma, Washington, and hopes to one day write the next great American novel. She is also her mom’s biggest fan.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Sunday, May 13th, 2007 | Email This Post

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