Missing Mom Blog #2 … Six Years Later

I published my first “Missing Mom” blog six years ago. Mom is now 97.

As you might imagine, I am missing mom more and more. It’s the main reason my blogs are spaced so far apart nowadays.

It startled me when I realized the last blog I wrote was published almost eight months ago. I simply have not known how to come to grips with what I am holding inside.

Nevertheless, here’s my attempt to share where mom and I are on our journey together as of now.

A year and four months ago, we moved mom from Cheswick (her home), to Sunrise of Richmond, which is less than two miles from where my wife, Melissa, and I live.

As a result of her ever increasing caregiving needs, mom is being cared for by a new band of angels who are by her side 24/7.

Mom’s mind holds no past, no real present or no sense of future. 

Thankfully, it holds no pain.

Her eyes are closed, her world is darkness. Except for meals, bathing and changing bed clothes, she is in a constant state of rest.

When I’m with mom, thanks to her, my brain overflows with never ending memories of her life and our lives together. This includes the lives of my dad and younger sister who have both passed away.

Even in mom’s darkness, she is my beacon of light.

Except on the rarest of occasions, mom doesn’t communicate with words anymore, but I believe with all my heart we connect with an unspoken language that comes from our souls.

We connect when I feel the warmth of her hand in mine, when I hear the sound of her breath and when I sense she feels the same emotions I feel when I stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, or whisper, “I love you, mom.”

Her head still bobs to the rhythm of songs I sing to her, like Jesus Loves Me, This Little Light of Mine, and Simple Gifts.

This is as a real as real can be.

It continues to give me the calming feeling our lifelong bond of togetherness has always given me … but now it is accompanied by the unbearable feeling of aloneness that has taken up permanent residence down deep in my heart.

It is the feeling of missing my mom terribly.

 

 

 

About Tom Laughon

Tom Laughon (Pronounced Lawn) is President of Catch Your Limit, an organization whose sole purpose is to guide and grow leaders. His journey from lead singer in a rock-n-roll band, to a successful career in marketing & advertising to consultant, strategist, keynote speaker, facilitator, professor and writer is a fascinating one. Headquartered in Richmond, Virginia, Tom and his team guide organizations, from start-ups to Fortune 500 companies to national associations, to "catch their limit" in areas such as leadership development, creativity, innovation, teaming and transformational change. His commitment to "practice what he preaches" has made Catch Your Limit a petri dish for round-the-clock discovery and learning. The firm's brand reflects Tom's personal brand: Fun, Inspirational, Strategic & Hot!

5 responses »

  1. Tom, I also miss you Mom, Nel and your Dad. Something reminds me of them each day. I think of them each time I do any event. Even Amy said when we were working on an event “Mom, I sure am glad Nel and Helen taught you how to do so much and to do it so well.”
    I know you miss your mother. She will always be with you. I can hear her saying “Tom is such a good boy.” Guess what? She was right. Love you. Chris

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  2. I have gone through this with a loved one and I know how you feel. You are doing all you can and I know your mom senses the love you share.

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  3. So many of us have gone through what you are experiencing. I did and I treasure the time I did have with my loved one and the fact I did my very best. As you are doing, too.

    Billie Aye

    Tonganoxie, Kansas

    ________________________________

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  4. Deveron Timberlake

    Tom, What’s amazing is that even in her darkness she is indelibly connected and knows that she is the heartbeat of your love. You give her strength and comfort and you give it to the rest of us too. Keep singing, keep writing, keep being as vulnerable and tender and emotional as you need to be. Your compassion is a tribute to all that she has taught you and is teaching you still. With love, d

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  5. I am right with you, Tom. My mother, Neville Wood Feil, entwered the same state as Helen near the end of her life. She still seemed to love the music I played on CDs for her, mostly hymns that her father used to sing. She has been in heaven for 10 years now and I still feel the ache of loss.

    Nancy Lowry

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