Daughter is the Mother of the Woman

Catalog # SKU1142

Publisher TGS Publishing

Weight 1.00 lbs

Author Name Rosetta Jackson

$14.95

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Description

The Daughter is the
Mother of the Woman

by Rosetta Jackson

This "letter" to my mother came from journal entries I began shortly after she died. I was so devastated by grief I knew no other way to deal with the loss of the one person I had loved absolutely. Each night, as I wrote about my grief, I felt a stirring deep inside that seemed to say, "There is more here to be written than a few short paragraphs in your journal."

Over time, each entry was accompanied by a strong presence that seemed to be gently insisting I do more. Write about your memories of your mother's death. I refused to listen to the voice in the beginning because it seemed to be asking me to do something that was too big for me to comprehend. Then, as I worked through my feelings of loss, it became more and more obvious that I was to write a book about her life as well. I couldn't write a book. Other people wrote books. Besides, my story was probably not much different from those of others who had lost a parent. So I continued to ignore the voice and comforted myself with the journal entries.

For three years I worked at different assignments to assure my everyday survival, but each time I took a new position something got in the way and I would either leave the job or it would leave me. Many assignments later I began to think that maybe, the voice had to be answered and after several months of being awakened in the middle of the night with whispers of, "You must write the book," I finally gave myself over to the task.

One day I took out the original journal, laid it down on my desk and just looked at it. I decided I'd think about writing more and walked away from it, yet again. From that day on, upon awakening, there were incidents running inside my head like old movies, so many in fact, I had to stop and write them down or they blurred everything else and I couldn't concentrate. But they were all solidly interconnected as memories of my past that I was told I was to put in the letter to your mother. And so, I sat down to write. A year and a half later the old movie memories stopped, the voice said, "Cut" and all was quiet. Thank you God.

From the start, I felt my beautiful mother sitting beside me as I wrote. Sometimes I sat down in the early evening to write and would suddenly realize that the sun was rising on another new day. I would be cold and cramped and exquisitely tired. Somehow, I had written all night, and had the intense feeling that there had been others helping me along, whispering in my ear, making sure each sentence was phrased correctly from our collective memories.

Excerpt:

I finally realized you were facing a huge challenge trying to get well, that you were weak and vulnerable, physically and emotionally. And I was torn. What should I do? Should I stay at home in Dallas, tend to my job so I could afford to visit you often, or go back there and take care of you? I stayed in Dallas and waited.

The chemotherapy was a quiet and insidious enemy, deadly in its assault on your immune system. Because it kills everything in its path, the good with the bad, it does terrible damage in silence and without fanfare. The toxic enemy had enormous power; it had no sympathy for you or those who loved you. It just marched on toward its goal of destruction.

Yet again, one of the staff found you gasping for breath early on Saturday morning, November 22nd, and called for an ambulance. With hardly any time to regain your strength from the bout with bronchitis, this would be a difficult battle for you and everyone knew it.

When I made my call to you on that Saturday morning, November 22nd, I got no answer. Having talked with you the day before on my birthday, you seemed fine. Guessing you were in therapy, I waited to call a little while later. Again, when there was no answer, I knew that something awful was happening.

An hour later, I got a call from my cousin, Faye, who had promised to call me if you went back into the hospital again. And that was exactly what had happened early that morning. The diagnosis - double pneumonia!

I called the hospital right away and was surprised, yet gratified, that you answered the phone when the operator rang the room. As soon as you heard my voice you started to cry and said, "I knew you'd find me." I think you knew then that you were dangerously ill. I too, started to cry. I would cry for a very long time.

Because you were so weak, I asked to speak to Gene and he gave me the answers to questions I could think to ask. Not once did he speak of any urgency concerning your condition. I would call several more times that day to check on your progress. Talking to you on Sunday, I knew with certainty that I had get to you right away and called the airlines, to find a flight out of Dallas but couldn't get the connection I needed.

Monday morning found me at my desk at work, trying desperately to book an emergency flight to get to you. Mentally beating myself up for not trying harder to leave the day before, I was fighting off the feeling of urgency by telling myself there was time and that you would fight and once again, you would recover.

I was on the phone with the airlines when a call from Faye came in on another line. When I answered, she said, "Honey, the hospital said to call and tell you to come right away."

I stopped breathing and momentarily lost the use of my hands. I tried not to cry, when in fact, I wanted to scream! "Tell Mom I'm on the way, just as soon as I can get to the airport." I was still denying the possibility that my mother might die! Just because the doctors had said to come right away didn't necessarily mean anything. Doctors had been known to be wrong before. I kept telling myself there was time; my mother had time. You were only seventy-three years old and a fighter. Fight Mommy! Please fight hard!

Some wonderful people at the airlines found a flight out of Dallas for me right away. They booked me into Columbus, Ohio, the closest airport to the hospital where you were. My daughter Tina, who lives in Columbus, picked me up and we drove the hundred and fifty miles to the hospital as quickly as possible, not knowing what we'd find.