A few days ago I was feeling about as sick as I remember ever being and I murmured: “I want my mommy!” Isn’t it the truth? When we were children our mothers would be there, (if we were so blessed) holding back our hair as we barfed up a lung or putting a cold towel on our foreheads. My mother had been a nurses’ aide, and maybe that gave her an extra level of know-how and compassion. I don’t know, but she had a way of treating a sick child that to me was the epitomy of good health care.
              She’d put fresh sheets on her own bed, top it with the light-weight white bedspread and tell me to climb in. There’d be ginger ale and saltines on the nightstand, and of course she’d come in often to check on me. My dad (twice blessed was I) had sawed off the legs of a small table, so this was set up for me to draw on if I was up to it. Otherwise, I’d doze and rest and inevitably feel a whole lot better.
              As I sit here (still in my robe days later) recovering from that bug from hell, I think again of my mom. I smile as I recall a phone call with her when I was married and lived many miles away. I don’t remember what unhappy circumstance had gotten her down that day, but she sort of laughed and whined to me: “I want my daughter!”  I’m sure we had a good long talk after that.
              I’m glad these memories push aside those from the last dark years when she was the one in need of comforting and I had so little to offer. Sick or not, I will always want my mommy. With all she left me, I know I’ll always have her. Thanks again, Mom.