There's No Place Like Home
By Vicki L. Kitchner
I have many wonderful and vivid images of my parents from my childhood. I can clearly picture them holding hands as they sat in front of the television, Mom crying "uncle" through her laughter as Dad tickled her. I remember the soft murmur of their voices, with laughter sprinkled in, coming from their bedroom. It was their joy and love of one another that set the tone for our home.
I can only recall one bad moment. Literally hours before they were to leave for a vacation in Hawaii, my mother backed out. Now Dad, who had been living for the trip was understandably angry. Even now I shudder to think of the money he must have lost as a result. Needless to say, they had a few strained, unhappy weeks. Eventually, they worked it out. The love they shared would allow nothing else.
About a year later, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. As the chemotherapy and radiation therapies came and went, it became apparent that her cancer was winning the battle. And it was on a crisp, late fall afternoon that she and I sat on the picnic table in our backyard and talked of that trip.
"If I could change anything I've done, I would have gone to Hawaii," she said softly.
"I don't care a bit about seeing Hawaii, Vicki. I don't regret the trip at all. What I do regret is the hurt it caused your father." She sighed and reached down to pick up our little dog.
"Oh, Vicki, I love my home. If someone gave me the choice of being anywhere in the entire world, I'd always choose to be here with my family. I've never minded having to work. It's just that I was away from home so much more than I would have liked. I'm just saying that if I could have done something for your dad, it would have been Hawaii."
Mom had always worked to help Dad provide for my brother, sister and I. She never complained and my parents always adjusted their hours so that one of them was home with us when we needed them. And even if she worked an all-night shift, she never went to bed in the morning until we were dressed, fed and out the door to the bus. Some mornings her exhaustion was a palpable presence. But never did she give in to it until she had seen us off for the day.
As the fight for life wound down, her physicians suggested that we consider putting her in a nursing home. Her health had deteriorated to the degree that she would require a lot of care. When we explained that it wasn't an option, the doctors said they didn't feel we understood what would be involved in her care. But it was the doctors who didn't understand.
This woman had devoted her whole life to her family. And as her words came back to me: "If someone gave me the choice of being anywhere in the world, I'd always choose to be here with my family," I realized that we had, in essence, been presented with just such a choice. Our last gift would be to allow her to die in her home with everything she cherished around her.
The holidays were upon us, and we were all painfully aware that this would be our last Christmas together. Despite the heavy sadness that hung over our home, Dad bought the largest, most beautiful Christmas tree he could find for her. He adorned it with ornaments that they had accumulated over the years - ornaments her children had made in their first years in school: a bird in a nest, a circular clay plaque with a tiny handprint in the middle, a construction paper wreath with the words, "I love Mom and Dad" in red glitter.
With the fireplace blazing and carols playing softly on the stereo, we spent a heart-wrenching final Christmas together. Mom sat for hours before the tree letting each ornament take her somewhere we couldn't see, each memory testifying to a life dedicated to her family.
It was in the snowy, early morning hours of a brand-new year, at the age of forty-seven, that Mom lost her battle with cancer. She was in her own bedroom - with the familiar sounds of her beloved home, with her family and her dog tucked familiarly in their beds - that she left us.
But she gave us one last gift as she departed. She stood silently at the base of my bed, outlined in a bright, white light. I can remember feeling tremendous love and even sadness emanating from her as she watched my sister and me for the last time. But the woman I saw there was not the emaciated, disease-ravaged person I had kissed goodnight hours earlier, but the whole, healthy woman she had been a short year ago.
In making it possible for her to spend her last days in her own home, my mother had given us a gift in return. She gave us proof that our souls live on. I will never doubt the existence of God, because my mother loved us enough to show Him to us on her way to heaven!
