Together Again

After decades apart, unexpectedly Mom and I found ourselves together again. Under one roof. By that time, I was part of my own family of four, my husband and me and our two children, ages 4 and 2. It hadn't been Mom's plan to leave Charlotte, NC, where she'd spent her childhood and young adulthood, and where she'd lived the last twenty years, after she'd left my father. But in 1996, our usual weekly phone call set the move in motion. At first, the 30 minute conversation consisted of humorous updates (mostly me regaling Mom with stories about the children's antics.) But laughter soon turned into alarm, as Mom began describing mysterious physical changes she didn't understand. Worried, my husband Tom and I urged her to see a doctor. Mom agreed. She opted to visit an unknown physician at a walk-in clinic, who reassured her that she had nothing to worry about. She was relieved.

We wanted to join her and pop open champagne at the news, but there was something unsettling about accepting the verdict of a physician who mostly handled broken ankles and superficial cuts. Would a "doc-in-a-box" really know what Mom needed? Tom had lived through the early deaths of both his parents and wore the pain of those losses close to the surface. I'd lost Dad six years earlier. Between Tom and me, the focus was on finding out what was wrong with Mom and getting the information she needed. Instead of champagne, we opted for a second opinion, the advice from someone whose work we knew firsthand. Shepherding her through the process would be easier if she stayed with us. 

"If you think that's best...," Mom told Tom.

"Yes, we think it is."

Suitcases in tow, she arrived at our house two weeks later.