18 | Out in the Mountains | May 2000

To My Mothers, With Love

BY CINDY MARCELLE

I cry a little on Mother’s
Day.

And on my birthday. And
some more on Christmas.

But I cry the most on
Mother’s Day.

This isn’t because my moth-
er has disappeared off the face
of the earth and I don’t know
when I’m going to see her
again; she’s just a phone call
away. It’s because my mother
has disappeared off the face of
the earth and I don’t know if
I’m ever going to see her again.

When I was born, my moth-
er couldn’t keep me; she was
just way too young, and the
stars just weren’t shining down
on her. But she did the best
thing she could for me: she

Goodbye,

BY MUBARAK S. DAHIR

I am rubbing Margie’s tiny
fingers, literally, for dear life.
An unwelcome bluish tone has
started creeping into her finger-
tips, which are cold to the
touch. I rub harder, desperate to
knead some color and life back
into my mother ’s frail hands.

But even as I do it; a terrible
pang deep inside me tells me
that my efforts are futile.
Margie’s chest is heaving deep
breaths, but only with the
mechanical aid of a ventilator.
A large, white plastic tube is
taped into her mouth, along
with several smaller blue ones.
Clear IVs run into both arms.

Margie’s hazel eyes have
lost their usual color and focus.
They stare blankly at the ceil-
ing now. And she cannot talk to
me in her rich Southern drawl,
filled as it normally is with
hope and optimism.

I do not know if Margie can
hear my cracking voice. The
nurses tell me when someone is
in a coma, you just can’t be
sure.

I talk to her as if she hears
every word.

But as I sit by her side in the
Intensive Care Unit, I know
that what I must tell her is
goodbye.

For nearly four years,
Margie’s precarious health has
been slowly eroding, week by
week. I’ve known, of course,
that the end could be any time.
But even when you know it,
even when death is staring you
right in the face, it comes as a
shock, a surprise, as something
unexpected and surreal.

Minutes before her stroke,
Margie and I are busy with the

gave me into the arms of a
mother who has always been
there, loving me and support-
ing me, all of my life.

I’ve got two other adopted
brothers, both of them with
special needs. My mom dedi-
cated her life to taking care of
kids that needed the extra love
and attention their birth parents
just couldn’t give them. I have
never in my life seen anyone
who bore a family resemblance
to myself, but those two boys
are more family than I think I
could ever have. They are my
brothers. I I

One of them can’t walk or
talk; he has a hard time keeping
his head up by himself. But he
loves Barney, and when there
are girls in the room, he knows
how to get their attention. The

Margie

daily routine of her physical
therapy. Normally, she dreads
the exertion required from her
exercises. But this evening she
seems energetic, even eager to
get on with things. She is filled
with optimism as she performs
her leg-bends and arm stretch-
es, and she speaks hopefully
about the day she will once
again walk.

' But before long her wizened I

body grows tired, and she
pleads to lie back down in the
hospital bed. As she lies there,
we talk about her return home,
perhaps as soon as a few weeks
away. Still time enough to
enjoy the marigolds and impa-
tiens blooming orange, red and
white in the front yard, andjust
in time to witness the sunflow-
ers sprout their golden heads.

Then, without warning, her
body betrays her optimism, and
she is robbed of these plans.
Her eyes roll back to the posi-
tion they will never leave
again, and her tongue, bloated
and purple, bulges out of her
mouth.

I don’t see her again until
the ICU, with her cold, blue
hands. I realize now that
Margie will leave the hospital
sooner than either of us had
expected when we spoke about
it earlier in the evening. And I
know she will not be walking
out.

Perhaps selfishly, I am
thankful she has cheated death
of a few hours, so that I may
say my final goodbye.

As I sit there holding her
cold, limp hand, I speak out
loud about the unconditional
love she has lavished on her
gay son.

I remember the early days of

other one needs a walker and
can’t feel his legs. But he loves
trains, and can now read better
then I thought he ever could.

This is my mother’s full-
time job. Her life is dedicated
to giving us what we wouldn’t
have been able to have other-
wise. She is a beautiful woman,
and this day is hers more then
ever. Her womb sits vacant and
always has, but her heart is so
full sometimes I think it will
burst.

And to the woman who car-
ried me and gave me all I have:
I’ve never seen your face, I
don’t know if I ever will, but on
this day know that I cry a little
thinking about you. I love you
and I’ve never met you. I love
you and I don’t know your
name. V

the epidemic, when, as a volun-
teer for a local AIDS organiza-
tion, she manned a table in one
of the gay bars, passing out
leaflets on safe sex and hand-
ing out free condoms.

I recall how she demonstrat-
ed in protests outside the
administrative offices at the
university I attended, blasting
the college for its refusal to
include sexual orientation in its
nondiscrimination policy.

I talk about the time she
marched with me in the gay
pride parade. She found herself
to be an unexpected celebrity
as she trudged along, plump
and gray-haired, with her rain-
bow-colored sign declaring
PROUD MOM. Then, as
always, Margie was baffled at
the attention she attracted. She
couldn’t understand why gay
people, friends and strangers
alike, seemed so enamored.
She was only doing what any
mother who loved her child
should do, she would say. In a
perfect world, of course, she

 

the World's Greatest Moms.

One of the Moms We Love

photo: Maxwell Stroud

Lillian Venner, the backbone of the Champlain Valley PFLAG chapter is
one of our favorite mothers. She is always ready to help out when any
of us call. Her generosity of spirit knows no bounds. Just when we
thought we couldn't love her more, she testified before the joint judi-
ciary committees. One legislator noted that it was Li|’s words that
moved him to vote for the civil union bill. Lil is definitely on our list of

would be the rule, not the
exception. But in a world so far
from that, in a world where
many gay men and lesbians
never feel the kind of absolute
parental love Margie dished
out daily without hesitation, it
was no surprise tome that

‘Margie won so many gay and

lesbian hearts beyond mine as
her son. 7

And besides these public
displays of allegiance were the
ones that matter most, the innu-
merable personal ones. The
unquestioning acceptance of
my lovers, who were granted
automatic status as family

members. The daily reinforce-
ment of love and value she
gave me, not just as her son,
but as her gay son. She once
confided that she truly believed
gay people had a special mes-
sage for America. And I won-
der if she ever knew she was
the one that was so special.

In the last moments we will
ever have together, I try to tell
her that, through my tears,
through the fog of her coma. As
I do, I realize I am not saying
goodbye. I am saying thank
you.

Thank you, Margie, so very
much. V

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