2001, Illinois

By Carmella Riley

When my mother was dying of advanced breast cancer, two of my brothers and I moved back into our childhood home to help care for her around the clock. She had lost the use of her arms and legs because the cancer had metastasized to her bones.

In a few short months, her limbs had become so severely fractured and broken that she couldn’t lift a spoon to her mouth or use the bathroom unassisted. She was working full-time and living independently only months earlier, and now she was wheelchair-bound and dying.

At some point during the nine months we spent with my mother, Margaret Gunderson came calling. She came from the local parish to which my family belonged for at least 30 years.

I am a jaded, lapsed Catholic, and I scoffed at the idea of having someone come from the church, especially when we had very recently received a letter from them detailing my mothers “offerings” over the previous year. The letter informed her that she only gave once–the last time she was able to go to church alone.

I was infuriated that while my mom was being eaten alive by cancer, the Catholic Church had the nerve to send her a letter suggesting that she “look into her heart,” which is where I guess they thought she kept her money.

In order to appreciate how unlikely it was for Margaret to gain entrance into my mother’s world, you have to understand my mother’s resistance to outsiders. My mom was old-school. She scoffed at support groups, and she scoffed at therapy.

When my dad died, and we suggested that she go to a support group for bereaved widows, she snapped, “I cry all the time. Why would I go cry with a group of strangers?”

When I saw a posting at her oncologist for a support group for breast cancer survivors, she said, “I don’t need that.”

When we were training for a three-day walk to benefit breast cancer research, I suggested that she join a walking group. “I don’t need people to walk with. I walk fine alone.”

God forbid I suggest that she might make some friends: “I don’t need new friends.” She was a go-it-alone kind of gal, and no manner of encouragement or proof that there might be benefits to being in or grieving in a more social setting was going to change that.

In spite of all of that, my mother was still a die-hard Catholic. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by mom’s change of heart when Margaret called the first time and offered to stop by to give my mom communion.

I covered the phone with my hand and put Margaret’s question to my mother perfunctorily, expecting to get permission to come back with a polite, “No, thank you,” and with my back turned, a harshly whispered, “You’re not going to get any of her money, either, you filthy hypocrites!”

To my considerable surprise, however, after only a very brief pause, my mother responded with, “Oh. That’d be nice.”

And so it began.

I think Margaret was an angel sent to care for my mom with a face like a fairy godmother and a voice like Admiral Ackbar from The Empire Strikes Back. My brother did a great impression of her when she called to see if she could come for a visit: “This is Margaret Gunderson…” doing a flawless Admiral Ackbar.

Her initial visits were brief and to-the-point. She came, and I busied myself in other parts of the house. I was happy for the break, but also deathly afraid that Margaret would ask me to join hands with her and recite the Lord’s Prayer as she did with my mom. When she and my mother sat together and prayed, sometimes she’d ask my mom to read the prayer she’d brought, and sometimes my mom accepted the offer.

Margaret never overstayed her welcome, and she never tried to be my mom’s friend. She never preached or asked my mom to open up or to share anything. She just sat with her and prayed, and left.

The magic happened when my mom started talking to Margaret. I don’t mean that my mom opened up like she was talking to Barbara Walters, but she did begin asking about Margaret and what was going on with her, and Margaret stayed a little longer each time.

After a while, I do believe that my mom even looked forward to her visits. She never called Margaret and asked her to come or made a big deal if we were out and missed her, but she liked to put on a little lipstick if Margaret was coming, and she’d ask if we had any cookies or anything to offer her. Those moments were like gold in our house. The fact that she showed interest in anyone at all was a small wonder.

I was once taught a fable called The Wind and the Sun. The wind and the sun see a traveler walking down a road. The wind bets the sun that he can get the traveler to take off his cloak first. So the wind works up a huge gust, and blows and blows, and the traveler just clings to his cloak to protect him from the cold, but the sun simply shines a little warmth down on him, and the traveler gives a smile up to the sun and takes off the cloak.

Sometimes, my brothers and I were the wind; blowing my mom around and forcing her enjoy herself or insisting that she “perk up,” as if anyone in the world had ever done so on command.

Margaret, on the other hand, was like a big glorious sun shining on my mom - not forceful, never insistent, just present. I don’t mean to imply that my mom stripped off the cloak and went skinny-dipping, but she certainly loosened up the collar a bit, and for that I am forever grateful to Margaret.

She offered rides to chemo treatments and offered to drive the whole lot of us and our luggage to the airport when we went to Seattle for Thanksgiving.

Those small gestures kept me going some days. My mom was dying. That reality informed every minute of every day. The landscape of our lives was unspeakably bleak, but sometimes, when I felt paralyzed by all of that, I remembered that if I needed to, I could call Margaret for a hand.

I never called her, but I could have. She offered. Sometimes that simple gesture is all a person needs.

She brought gifts sometimes. Some were just things she happened to bring along, like a box of candy or some cookies, but once she brought a pound of butter. I loved that. Butter! Who thinks of bringing butter? She was so great!

It seemed crazy at first, but then it just seemed so practical. She wasn’t going to bring us a refrigerator magnet telling us to “hold fast to hope” or some of the other well-intentioned but useless gifts people bring to people who are terminally ill. She was going to bring us stuff we could use, like something in one of the four major food groups.

Sometimes she brought gifts from the parish, like pictures from little kids who were told to make get-well cards for people, and sometimes they would send stuff for “homebound people”: odds and ends, like soap and towels.

We were doing OK in the dry-goods and toiletries department, but it did make me realize that there were people out there in my own community who were in the same boat as my mom, but without the family or resources that my mom had.

I thought of how grateful those people must be for the help and the soap or food, but more importantly, how good it was that there are people like Margaret to visit them.

Here was this amazing person who was volunteering to visit people, not wonderful, happy people who are tons of fun to be around, but miserable, sick people who haven’t cracked a smile in months; people who were bedridden and were being ravaged by disease and possibly dying.

During those several months we were home with my mom, people would often comment on the “sacrifice” my brothers and I were making by moving in to take care of her. Most people can’t imagine such a situation until they are in it, and I am certain that most people would do whatever they could for a sick loved one.

My point is that this was my mom. I loved her beyond description. I had a vested interest in preventing her suffering and keeping her head above water.

What was Margaret’s reason? She had no stake in my mother at all. Before Margaret, I had never witnessed motivation that was pure goodness. Total kindness. Complete selflessness.

In King Lear, Shakespeare says, “Nothing almost sees miracles but misery.” During some of our darkest days, I almost saw miracles in Margaret.

Camella Riley lives in Los Angeles with her two best guys - husband and son.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, August 22nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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