THE LAST WORD

MOM GETS THE LAST WORD

   I thought I was finished with my mom's blog.  There was a sense of completeness in that last entry where I changed her cause of death to four alternative endings that somehow made me feel like I had saved her, that I had finally protected her and done something to let her know how much she was loved and cherished.
   There were many times I wondered if she knew what I had written, how much I had owed to her.  A part of me believed that she did know.  It was the only thing that gave me some peace in the history of our relationship and I thought I had the last word.  But I was wrong.

   Two and a half years after Mom's death and long after that last entry, I had a massive right hemisphere stroke.  According to the brain scans and reports, my right temporal and parietal lobes were affected; the most damage was to the latter, the area of the brain that controls writing and creativity.
   Not much registered in those first few weeks.  It was all a blur to me, mostly a surreal , existence where nothing looked or felt familiar.  My speech was bad, I was hard to understand. Even harder was when I tried to speak, I couldn't find the right words, didn't quite get the thoughts out.  A neuro shrink gave me a pen and a notebook, so instead, I wrote.  And I wrote.
   On paper, I was still me.  It was almost like magic - no stumbling with words or thoughts, no hesitation, no uncertainty.   There were many times I would re-read a paragraph I had written 5 times to understand, to try to figure out why these words were so clear, so articulate, so full of life when I was none of those things.

   I wrote every day.  It was the one solitary thing I still had, the only thing I had that convinced me I was still alive, I was still here.  No one seemed to know just where this was coming from or why.  I was told many times over this just wasn't possible according to my 'infarct' and deficits.  I never gave it much thought.  I was just happy that I hadn't lost absolutely everything.
   Three weeks later, I'm moved to a different rehab facility.  Every morning, I have what they called cognitive linquistive therapy.  Again, it was brought to my attention how strange it was that I could still write, how much better I was with comprehension with the written word verses the spoken ones. 
   That first week there, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a dream I had about my mother.  In it, she tells me I can still write because that was the one thing she wouldn't let them take from me, that this was her way of thanking me for allowing her to die - with my words - with some dignity and grace.
   Even though it was just a dream, it felt so real.  I was so filled with emotion and confusion, I began to cry.  I needed to believe it was her, that I finally had the answer to why I could still write, in spite of the fact that I shouldn't be able to.
   I guess I was louder in my emotions than I thought and shortly, one of the night nurses came to check up on me.  I told her I was sorry, that I just had a strange dream.  She asked if there was anything I needed and when I answered 'no thank you', I noticed her perfume.  I asked her what she was wearing, that it was familiar. " An oldie,  Georgio, " she said as she walked out.  That was mom's signature scent.
   For what its worth, it seemed proof enough for me.  Thank you Mom.  Thanks for saving that one thing that will save me.