Eyes That Speak: How My Mothers Gaze Became My Lifetime Treasure
Eyes That Speak: How My Mothers Gaze Became My Lifetime Treasure
“It is your sister on the phone. You need to take this call,” Connie yelled to me.
I was in NYC in my office on Park Avenue South. Connie was my executive assistant. I was the president of Sterling Software Professional Services worldwide. It was 9:30 am, and the office day was just getting started. The date was April 22, 1988.
“What’s up, Jan?” I asked.
“Mom just died,” she blurted out in tears. “They told me she had a heart attack while in physical therapy. They did all they could. Mom is dead.”
As I write this, I remember the vacant feeling. I was thinking, “My mother just died. I’ll never see her again. First dad and now mom. I no longer have parents.”
My mom came for a one-week Christmas visit. Traveling was becoming more difficult as she was now seventy-seven and suffering from arthritis. She loved being with Julia and Lisa, our little girls of five and three. Her eyes would light up with the energy they brought into the room.
On this visit, she stubbed her toe. It wasn’t very painful. I don’t remember her saying anything about it. A couple of days later, just before she retired for bed, I noticed her toe was an awful color of black and blue, more black than blue. I checked to see if it was broken, but it wasn’t. She must have just bruised it. I figured, “No problem. It will heal soon enough.”
But it didn’t.
Two weeks after she returned to her home in Miami, my sister called, “I took mom to the doctor. The discoloration in her toe moved to her foot. It wasn’t hurting her, but it looked so bad, I knew we had to have it looked at.”
The doctor’s visit resulted in her being hospitalized. The diagnosis was not good. Her diabetes reduced the circulation to her foot. Without adequate oxygenated blood, her foot would not heal. Infection would set in, which would be painful and life-threatening. The solution was amputation below the knee.
I remember standing at my mother’s bedside right after she signed the forms for surgery. I asked her, “Do you realize what they will do to you tomorrow?”
She said, “Of course I do. They are going to cut off my leg.”
This was my mom, straight to the point. No BS. Always in the moment.
This was a very busy time in my life. I was president of a company based in NYC with offices in major US cities, such as London and Paris. I was in the middle of a turnaround, and the company was up for sale. In addition, Kathy was in the third trimester of pregnancy with our third child and dealing with two kids at home.
That amputation didn’t solve the problem. The end of the stump would not heal. After two weeks, the decision was made. Amputate again, this time above the knee. They dreaded doing this. With no knee, it would be difficult for my mom to learn how to walk on a prosthesis. We all knew it. She knew it, too.
My sister was at the hospital every day. She lived in Miami, so she naturally became a full-time caregiver even though she was a full-time teacher. It complicated her life, but she was sure there for Mom.
I called my mom every night.
This was frustrating for me. I remember calling her once while returning home from work. She could not understand anything I was saying. Mom was getting very hard of hearing, and it got to the point where she couldn’t hear anything on the phone. I was sitting in my car in the driveway of my home, yelling into the phone, “Can you hear me now?”
Although she couldn’t converse with me, she knew I loved her and was concerned about her. She had both her children giving her their love and attention during this difficult time of her life.
Three months into the hospital stay, the doctors decided it was time for her to go home. It was mid-April, and she had been in the hospital since January. She had excellent care and attention. Her concern became, “What am I going to do when I get home? How will I live? I can’t walk.” The anxiousness consumed her. She wouldn’t listen to any encouragement or plan. Looking back, she had no vision for her life as an amputee and widow.
During this time, I made what was my last visit.
Neither knew it was the last time we would see each other. She looked as healthy as I ever saw her. She’d lost a lot of weight and had lots of energy.
When I walked into her hospital room, our eyes met. Her love for me radiated through her eyes. I saw it. I instantly felt it. She loved me through her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything; I knew what she was thinking. And all I did was walk into her room and look at her.
I don’t remember anything said in that last meeting with my mom. I just remember she loved me with her eyes. She loved me that much.
Three days after my mom died, David, my first son, was born. The message from God was not lost on us. Neither Kathy nor I were God-followers at the time. But when faced with death and life so close together, there was no denying the supernatural.
Shortly after we were married, Kathy and I visited my mom and dad at their new condo in Miami. On the way home, Kathy said to me, “I will never love you the way your mother loves you.”
I never forgot her observation.
I thought I understood it at the time, but I didn’t. Now, after being married forty-four years and thinking back on our lives, our marriage, our children, and our grandchildren, I think I do understand. A mother’s love for a son is unique, as is a mother’s love for a daughter. One isn’t better or greater than the other, but different. This is true for the love of a woman for a man and a man for a woman. And also, it is true of the grandparent’s love for the grandchildren. Each relationship experiences a unique love.
My mom expressed her love for me with her eyes. It was her love for me, her son. That expression of love I will live with until the day I die. It was her unique love for me to treasure for the rest of my life.
Final note
You may ask, “Why did he write this story?”
Kathy showed my daughter-in-law Amanda pictures of my son David as a baby. I didn’t notice them doing this and went to bed. The next morning, while having my coffee in the living room, I looked down at the cocktail table and saw this photograph. It was my mom. It is one of those pictures that captures the person and their inner spirit. And it was the photo above that got me thinking about all this. I just had to write it.
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