Thanks, Mom...

By Denver Brown - Executive Editor

May 09, 2008 01:30 pm

— It's a cryin' shame that we can only set aside 24 hours a year to officially honor Mom. After generations of wiping runny noses, bandaging bloody knees, helping mend broken hearts, sitting through the cacophony of too many off-tune band ensembles and always being available to check over home work or warm-up that Little League pitching arm - we as a nation can only manage a lone day to celebrate these remarkable human beings?
Sorry, but my mom deserves more. Much more. And I'm sure yours does, too.
When I sit at the computer and watch as the pounding on the key pad starts to form sometime pleasant, usually grammatically incorrect stories and features about youth-league games or district-tournament championships, I'm not too surprised at the career path I've chosen.
As a too-short first-baseman and too-nice football player, my dad did a great job of teaching me the basics of whatever sport was in season. And he molded me into a decent enough athlete (even made the All Star team once or twice) to fill several scrap books and collect quite a few trophies and certificates. And more importantly, my dad taught me how to be competitive, a good sport and just to enjoy my days on the ball diamond or on the football field. Being part of a team was a lot of fun in the ol' days.
Once my desire to be a great athlete outgrew my own limited skills, it was time to hang up the cleats and put the glove away. But during my years at the University of Kentucky when a few goofy journalism professors encouraged me to write, I was able to combine both passions; writing about base-hits and recreating touchdown-scrambles in the sports pages allowed me to stay in the arena of organized sports.
My avenue into professional journalism didn't take me to the big leagues, though. I found my niche in Little League dugouts, Pee-Wee pigskin practices and inside few-hundred seat gymnasiums that generally doubled as cafeterias or multi-purpose rooms. And once settled into covering Johnny's first-ever home run or Sally's 1-of-12 shooting effort, my mom's blood starting dominating my no-longer-an-All-Star veins.
Ever notice how I might interview a kid who only got a few minutes into a game? Or remember seeing a jumbo-size picture dominating one of the sports pages showing eight or nine kids sitting on the bench. What about when I list a kid's name in the headline who will probably, and honestly, never make it past recreation league celebrity. Even in the competitive world of sports and the too-often-sleazy profession of writing, my inherited sensitivity came from her major-league sized heart.
My mom helped me understand that every kid deserves a chance. Every kid should get several hugs and kisses each day and that all future big-leaguers should be tucked in every night. She taught both my sister and me that we were the most wonderful, beautiful children ever to walk the earth. But she also made sure we realized we were no better than anyone else - and no worse. She made sure we said our prayers, made our beds and didn't talk back. Most of all, she made us feel loved.
As a young man trying to grow up and then while trying to figure out what style of writer I'd become, I used to shy away from being too emotional or injecting too much creativity or 'sap' into my stuff. The older I get (and hopefully the better I become at my craft) I realize how important that angle is at the community-news level.
My mother's child, that's me. We chew our finger nails, we both used to be blond and Dolly Parton cd's blare from our stereos while biographies and John Grisham novels clutter our night stands.
Now, the down side. As proud as I am of the 'World's Greatest Mother,' even I don't honor her near enough. We all get too busy or too caught up in our own drama. But none of it should come ahead of calling her, stopping by for a cup of coffee or just making sure I thank God for her each and every day.
When I was a senior in high school, just getting my final football season underway (I was the student body president and starting center on the team), my mom's doctors found a tumor in her brain. I was scared and immediately remembered Shirley McLaine's zany outburst in the hospital in 1983's tear-jerker Terms of Endearment. But my mom's illness wasn't cancer, the tumor wasn't malignant. She still had to undergo a seven-hour surgery, she still had to spend weeks on the couch during her long recovery. And she still had to survive the surgery.
The day we left for the surgery, remember I was a tough, cool 17-year-old football player who didn't have time for emotions (yeah, right!), mom sat me down for a little talk. I knew what she wanted to say and I wanted no part of it. But she took my hand and sat me down on her bed. She wanted me to know how much she'd enjoyed my years in high school, especially just the past few months. She'd hosted final-exam study sessions for me and my friends and she threw poster-painting parties when I was running in my final student council election. She told me how proud she was of me and she told me she loved me. And she told me to be a good person, keep studying hard and enjoy being on student council (somehow I won) - if for whatever reason she didn't come back. Ouch! Those words burned into my ears, hurt my skin and made me get up quickly. I didn't want to think about the worst.
Things went fine and she had as much fun in my senior year as I did. And six years later, the doctors had to go back and remove another brain tumor. All went well, that time, too.
Following the first surgery, the surgeon would hold up objects for mom to look at and recognize. Part of retraining the brain and getting her brain-eye coordination 'back on track.' For the first day or so she had a little trouble being able to verbalize the items she was looking at. I pretty much freaked out when he held up a pair of scissors and she wrinkled up her nose, pursed her lips and couldn't answer. Two days after surgery that condition was gone and she was on the road to recovery.
As the staff wheeled her in for surgery No. 2, now I was a college graduate living in Lexington, I leaned down and kissed her cheek and kidded her about no matter what they held up for her visual exercises, yell out proudly 'scissors!'
Five hours later with her head wrapped, her face and body yellow and puffy, my dad and my sister and I all went into the post-op recovery room. The surgery was a success and she was fine they told us, but I kept on the Ray-Bans to hide my tears 'cause she looked pretty rough to me. I made sure to lock my knees so they wouldn't buckle and send this emotional mess of a man onto the cold hospital floor. But her doctor touched my shoulder and asked me to lean into her, she was wanting to tell me something.
I grabbed the edge of the bed with one hand and put the other softly on her shoulder and tilted my head to the soft sounds coming from her mouth. Her eyes were closed and a collecting bag attached to the drainage tube coming from under her head wrap was balanced on her chest. I tried to hold my breath, not cry and be tough - all at the same time.
'Scissors' she told me.
Unable to open her eyes and just hours after a major brain operation, my mom, the most wonderful mother in the world, was trying to ease my fear and be funny at the same time.
You all know her as the affable, smiling lady who often would sell tickets or substitute teach at Rowan County High School games. But she's my mom… and I love her. I just wanted her to know and the rest of you, too.
Have a great Mother's Day.
See you at the game! (and when you see my mom, tell her 'hi')