“I think we should put her in a nursing home,” I said, terrified of cleaning and bathing my own mother-in-law. My brother-in-law was more compassionate and set her up with a woman who took care of her 24/7. Zoya was from Mongolia and was so skilled with her hands, the doctors remarked at how smooth Marge’s skin looked, despite being bed ridden for a year.
We’d not spoken to Marge for five years. Why? Bruce had to cut apron strings. Marge and I were too much alike. My terror of taking care of her and her fear of being abandoned in her frail old age, slammed between us like an ax. Marge wouldn’t take no for an answer. And we couldn’t say yes.
I’d spent twenty years blessing Marge and blessing myself. At a healing service at St. Anskar’s the minister laid hands on me and prayed for reconciliation. I imagined Marge and I picnicking by the river flowing from the temple with trees bearing leaves for the healing of the nations.
When we met Zoya, a woman so full of light, I breathed relief. She invited us to supper. We brought our gentle dogs. We listened to Marge tell her stories, some so painful I clenched my teeth. She entrusted us with her affairs. It was as much a miracle as being raised from the dead.
When I scared up twenty Monarch butterflies, I saw for myself, what being raised looks like.
I’m Katie Andraski and that’s my perspective.
