For anyone who ever met my mother, it is difficult for me to tell you something about her you don't already know. My mother was a storyteller, a gift she got from her father before her. When he was alive we would go out to eat at Souplantation every Friday night. It seemed like every time we would run into some casual acquaintance. After five minutes mom and grandpa were telling them their life stories. Their lives were open books. There was an openness there, a bond made through story telling. My mom may not be who you would want to keep a secret, but she was who you wanted with you whenever you met someone knew.
If you knew her, you knew her. For those of you hearing about my mother for the first time today, I'll keep true to her and tell you story.
When I was little, my mom worked for big radiology group. She wanted to work part time so she could stay home with my brother and me. They refused, she quit. She drove down the street and started an imaging center specializing in women's health. I vividly remember playing with these prosthetics designed to show what breast cancer lumps felt like. I guess that's foreshadowing.
Things didn't quite go as planned in her business. The work hours ended being way more than part-time, and it took many years to get the center going financially. My elementary school years she was basically living paycheck to paycheck, working like a dog. There was a less than zero percent chance of her giving up and walking away from the center though. That is not who she was.
Whatever late hour she finished work she had to cram in all her other chores: the bank, post office, market. She always asked me to go with her. She didn't want to go alone at night. I'm sure you can imagine how thrilled 7-year-old me was to go to the bank. So she bribed me. Go with her on her chores and when we were done: Valhalla for kids, Toys-R-US. Off we would go. She would park the car at the bank and tell me the same thing every time, "If anyone comes toward her, honk the horn or run them over. The car is running."
Finally, errands were done. We make a mad dash to the toy store before it closes. Many times we were too late. Usually, we'd make it with a couple minutes to spare. No worries, this won't take long. Grab a GI Joe and head to checkout. Closing time means one cashier left with a line full of impatient patrons. We wait our turn and the anxiety builds because I know what's coming. This isn't our first rodeo. We go to pay and the first credit card gets declined. Try this one. No. This? No. I know there is money there, we just went to the bank. But that's not how this works. She pulls out her purse, really a converted fanny pack bursting at the seams, and starts to dig. She finds quarters if we are lucky, some dimes, nickels. Some days we get down to the pennies. 39, 40, 41, counting them out on the counter. The natives in line behind us are growing restless but we've come too far and there is giving up now. That's not who she is. We always had enough. Every time. But for the longest time all I could remember from those trips was the anxiety, embarrassment, and fear. A thousand eyes staring at us. Staring at me.
Way too many years later I eventually realized what was actually happening. I wasn't the hero in this story. Mom was the hero here. She worked all day and all she wanted was to spend the rest of her day with me. To my mom, family was everything. It drove her every action. She showed she cared by giving. She would give her literal last cent to buy her family a car, a house, a GI Joe. While this may not be the best business model, we don't get to pick our love languages. Gifting was hers. Growing up, our house was filled with boxes, boxes filled with gifts for each and every aunt, uncle, nephew, and niece. From beanie babies to miniature perfume bottles, she was Santa Kathi year-round. Every birthday, graduation, and Christmas.
July is birthday month in my little family. 3/5ths of us are July babies. Now that she is gone, we've started to sort through the house. We found the boxes are there. Of course they are there. Birthday presents she will never get to see us open. It was honestly bittersweet to find them. Now that I'm older, and I know what they really mean. A dying grandma showing her grandkids how much she loves them. I also know that some day soon we will have found them all...had them all arrive from China or wherever they were shipped from. And like our trips together, here comes the anxiety, the fear. Am I, are we, ready for a Christmas without those Amazon boxes? I'm pretty sure I'm not. I know a lot of us aren't. But somehow, we get through it. I don't know how, but we will. Maybe this year for Christmas I'll take my kids to the bank. Tell them to honk the horn or, if they see someone try to attack me, to run them over. The car is running. Remind myself that some gifts she gave me I can keep.
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Jamey is Kathi's second son.
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