Love: And the Moments We Share

My mother and father were high school sweethearts. They married in 1963 and from that day on, never parted for a significant period. They were the love of each other’s life. As their eldest child, I certainly knew they loved each other, but didn’t understand the magnitude of it until they were older.  You know the little elderly couple you see walking around holding hands? That was them. Though they certainly had their own personalities and valued their alone time, if Dad was gone a little too long running errands, Mom would check up on him.  And vice-versa.  

Today, my father for the first time, is looking at his life without Mom beside him. When he runs an errand, there will be no text asking him when he’ll be home. There will be no forehead to kiss before going to bed, and there will be no more shared coffee and teas.

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One of the most enduring images I have of my mom and her love for Dad, came when Mom was hospitalized.  Diagnosed with cancer, she had yet to find out the battle she had ahead. It was post-Covid and the hospital was only allowing 1 visitor a day.  With no swapping out.  Whoever visited Mom in the morning, could be the only person who visited her throughout the day.  Because I had traveled from New Hampshire to Arizona, and because – my dad joked – Mom would rather spend the time with me, he unselfishly let me spend the whole day with her.  So, I did.  Me and Mom chatted the whole day until visiting hours were over. When it was time to go, I gave her a tearful kiss and went to leave.  My dad had texted and was waiting in the car, parked at the hospital entrance. 

Mom started getting out of bed.  She was thin and a little unsteady, but at that time, still fairly sure on her feet. I was a little alarmed – “Mom, where are you going?” She grabbed her little drip, drip, drip mechanism and dragged it with her over to the window.  Her room overlooked the front of the hospital and I realized she wanted to catch a glimpse of Dad.  Pressing one palm on the window and trying hard to steady herself on her tippy-toes, she could see the car below and pressed her forehead against the glass.  Looking at the car. 

I gave her another kiss and told her to wait right there.  Keep her eyes on the car until I got there. 

And so I ran.  Literally. Ran down the hall, to the elevator, took the elevator down and scurried out the front door. I ran around the front of the car and opened the driver’s door. My dad was confused, but eventually deciphered my babbling. I wanted him to get out and look up. I pointed to the window Mom was at.  

We could see her outlined by the light in her room.  

We smiled, jumped, and waved like mad. Blowing kisses repeatedly and laughing because we could see her.  And she saw us and waved.  I imagine she probably blew a few kisses back, but that was harder to discern. Eventually we sighed and threw one more big kiss her way. Content and happy, we got in the car and drove home.

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It is that moment and those images that I carry with me now.  The sight of my mom needing to see the man she had seen every day of her adult life.  She could not let one day go by without laying her eyes on him.  And my dad, joyously waving, and smiling back. That was the love they shared.

When I think of love, this is what I know is true. I know that Mom and Dad shared a love story that was uniquely theirs and it has been a blessing to have been a product of it and a witness to it. Those who knew them, family or friend, are the lucky ones to have experienced it, whether first-hand or as witnesses. 

Near the end, Mom said she will always watch over her children and grandchildren.  My father looked at her and said: “What about me?”

“I’ll be with you. I’m not leaving you.”

That, is love.

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– Darlene

In Loving Memory: Mary Frances Doyle, June 29, 1942 – June 26, 2021