Hugging & Breathing: A Graphic Story About Mothers and Mom

For Sarah Burton Nelson, 1924-2019, on the anniversary week of her birth & death

Hello friends! Welcome, new subscribers!

Now for something different: reflections on physical affection in the form of a tribute to Mom, and to mothers everywhere.

Note:
I’m teaching a one-session class for writers: Introduction to Substack:
How to Share Your Writing, Find an Audience, and Get Paid
When: Thursday, July 10, 6:30-8:30 p.m.
Where: Zoom
Learn More and Register Here: The class is a “go”; spaces still available.

Longtime readers and friends know that my mother was an unorthodox character full of joie de vivre. She was a physician before women were physicians; a feminist before feminism reached its second-wave heyday; an openly competitive athlete before women admitted such ambitions; and a statuesque, larger-than-life figure who proudly informed new acquaintances that she was five-ten-and-a-half, never leaving off that half inch, as if her height were another accomplishment.

My mother died five days before her 95th birthday. I usually say she lived to be 95 because rounding up was true to her spirit: goal-oriented and always lusting for life.

During her final few years, Mom physically declined from a variety of medical conditions, each of which she found deeply disappointing, an affront to her Superwoman self-image. A good sport, she rallied, but it was hard on her to become weak, tired, sore, and unable to walk or even stand.

The family traveled to Scottsdale, Arizona to celebrate her 95th at her nursing home that last year — our early arrival a happenstance related to Memorial Day and vacation time. To our shock, when we arrived, she immediately informed us that she was dying (“probably cancer,” she self-diagnosed) — and was okay with that, but that she “just hated to miss everything else.” Five days later, she was dead.

As “everything else” proceeds without her, my heart still aches sometimes. But mostly, I think of her when I’m happy. She would have been thrilled to hear about each of my adventures and delights, including writing and illustrating this column; working to preserve all-female-sports; and pursuing my strange, new athletic quest: cornhole. She would have read each story eagerly — and noted all the typos.

She had not been raised to be physically affectionate. We did not hug much until my brother and I each went off to college; met women who were huggers; fell in love with the women and with hugging itself; and brought our new hugging skills back home to our parents in Phoenix. They caught on.

Once she got the hang of it, Mom loved random physical affection.

But when I was young and sick, my mother would rub my back: a rare treat. When I stayed awake coughing incessantly, a condition eventually diagnosed as a form of asthma, she would escort me down the hall to the hot shower and care for me with a patience and presence that I knew, even then, constituted a special gift.

Much later, when she was very old and sick, I tried to repay the favor.

Below is a very short graphic story about the private, late-night caregiving that happened between the two of us at the beginning of my life — and at the end of hers. Just as my earlier “Mom stories” offered universal themes (such as playful competition and mother-daughter affection), I hope this story speaks to you about the value of touch and connection — and mothers — in your own life.

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Thoughts? I’m always curious.

A related Stronger Women essay you might enjoy from last year’s anniversary of Mom’s death and birth: Drawing My Way Through Loss: Grief Hurts. Art Can Help.