A Mother’s Day Poem
By Annie Rogers, Asheville program director
Here’s to the ones who wake up when it’s dark and drive two hours in the morning fog to make an 8:00 am appointment.
Who pack a bag of all their essential belongings for each appointment, knowing that any appointment could lead to a hospital stay.
Who can load and unload a wheelchair, one-handed, while balancing an armful of bags and with one careful eye on the toddler—in seconds flat.
Who would travel to the ends of the earth to find the best care for their children—and do.
Here’s to the ones who carry hand sanitizer in every pocket and purse, and a stack of masks in the glove box.
Who wake up in the night to make pancakes for the child who hasn’t eaten in days.
Who don’t eat on procedure mornings because their kids aren’t allowed to.
Who always find more room on the crowded fridge to display this week’s art creation.
Who remember when and how much medicine to give: each dose, each time committed to muscle memory.
Who are the last ones to sleep at night, the first to wake up.
Here’s to those who sleep on fold-out couches and recliners in half-lit rooms where people come and go at all hours of the day and night.
Who stay up to watch their kids sleep.
Who graciously accept visitors and sneak home to take a shower and grab more clothes.
Who rally support, even when they themselves need to be supported.
Who live off of hypervigilance and hospital coffee.
Who sometimes have to admit they need help.
Here’s to those who stay up into the night, occupying nervous fingers with a knitting project.
Who calm their wailing children by singing softly along with a music teacher’s guitar.
Who string beads at the art table as they wait for test results.
Here’s to those who sit with their knees pushed up to the edge of the art table, carrying out instructions from the artist who can’t hold a marker or pair of scissors.
Who sit perched at the edge of the bed, realizing the artistic vision of an artist too weak to sit up.
Here’s to the ones who would gladly take each poke, each therapy session, each medication, each surgery, each scan or MRI or x-ray in the place of their child.
Who advocate, research, conference, comfort.
Who take nothing for granted.
They are hope, strength, love personified.
Thank you, moms, for all you do.
Pictured: Brooklyn and her mom, Brittany, painting a coral reef