I arrived with gift in hand ready to celebrate another year of my younger brother’s successful existence only to discover the dining room in shambles, and not a soul in or around the scene of the crime. I expelled a hesitant hello and cautiously followed the soft one I received in return. Every puzzle piece that created the sections of my mind knew the kind-hearted clumsiness that was my mother had caused the disaster upon which I had just stumbled. Her heart was bigger than a breadbox and overflowed with good intention, but unfortunately, her tiny body could rarely keep up with the plans her imagination envisioned.
It was in the bathroom that I discovered my mother hunched over her right knee nursing an obviously new gash in her leg; the red curls of her hair cascading down the side of her perfectly porcelain face. Sitting absolutely still in anticipation of the pain to come, she reminded me of the delicate china dolls I had played with as a child. As I ventured further into the room, she turned to face me, her brown eyes shimmering due to the subtle layer of tears that coated the surface. Hastily she dried her eyes and began to inform me of the events that had transpired mere moments before my arrival.
Just as I had suspected, her heart had proved once again to be stronger than her judgment. In her persistent determination to have the customary decorations perfectly in place, she had climbed atop her massive oak pedestal table. Having somewhat successfully perched her petite frame precariously along the edge, she strategically taped the last streamer into place. In virtually the same instant, my mother was thrown off balance and tumbled to the floor like an acorn fleeing the grasp of an old oak tree; the table landed firmly upon her leg shortly after.
As I listened intently to this amusing account of her accident, I watched as she meticulously maneuvered her way back to the kitchen. Struggling to keep both weight and pressure off her incredible injury, she was unsteady and unsure of how to progress down the hall; her wobbly gate resembling a newborn fawn with such intensity it inevitably made me smile. Once again she proved physical discomfort was no match for selfless willpower for she was determined not to be deterred from completing her son’s traditional birthday dinner.
The celebration continued as planned and all the while, the mass below her knee grew. Dinner was consumed, birthday wishes were given, candles were extinguished, and through it all – she smiled. My mother did not allow one word of discomfort to escape her lips until she was content all her maternal duties were completed. Then as though she was just recently aware of the baseball size monstrosity devouring her lower leg, she asked for a ride to the hospital.
Hours elapsed in the Emergency Room and multiple tests were done as we waited for a detailed account of the damage. Common sense had told my brother and me that we should have arrived eons ago, but our plea of concern had been dismissed. In our mother’s opinion, chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes were clearly more important that an appendage. When she finally emerged from behind the elusive double doors, she was on crutches, and I chuckled at the humor of the whole situation. She was so hell-bent on making sure each special occasion that occurred in the lives of her children was appropriately celebrated, she had temporarily forfeited her ability to walk.
Three months passed before my mother was able to move without the brace that had been encompassing her knobby right knee since that evening. She has never commented on her decision to wait for medical attention, and we know her well enough not to ask. With her sweet intentions, inventive ideas, and clumsy mannerisms, an incident of some sort is always waiting just around the corner. She is forever the mother lion protecting the happiness and well-being of her cubs, and her obstinate nature leaves no room for compromise. My brother and I have grown accustomed to the calamities and the quirky personality traits that make her who she is, and learned long ago that when it comes to our mother…if her hematoma can wait, then you should just sit back and enjoy the party.
