Mom had been experiencing fatigue in recent months.  “I began taking the elevator to my workout classes because the steps got me too winded,” she said.  The films showed 90% blockage in three arteries.  Mom is not one to let life slow her down.  Good German stock in her.  “We need to address this,” the cardiologist said pointing out the blockage, “other than this, her heart it good.”

          It is a strange thing to watch your mother’s heart at work.  The pumping, the coursing of the blood, the steady beat that has been providing her life for… ah, well, it would be indelicate to tell you her age.  As I looked at the moving picture of her heart, I began to think about this woman who has been the source of my life and that of my three siblings.  Later I found myself looking at my hands and the blood running through them.  These hands, this blood had their origin in her.  For nine months her blood and mine were the same.  My flesh is the product of hers.  How do you comprehend that closeness?

          I continued to think of her presence in our growing up.  This is the one who took you to kindergarten for the first time and let you go.  She was the one who, with movie camera in hand, insisted on the first day of each new school year that we parade in front of our house with a sign displaying our new grade level.  We flashed the look that said, “Come on mom, my friends are going to see me!”  I love those movies.  She was the one who held her boys when a tragic event entered their lives, acknowledging that tears were appropriate for men.  She was the one who told my sister that a woman’s place was at the table, the board room table, as they say.  She is the one who taught us to dream and to believe.

          This woman knows when to be gentle and firm.  One particular spring college semester when I had sampled a bit too much of the abundance available at the University of Georgia, mom, reading my grades said, “Son, we expect you to get a well rounded education, just not this well rounded.”  There were further words about financial support or lack thereof if this continued.

          Mom is someone you can call when you’ve had a great day.  She really wants to hear about it.  This might seem braggadocios to some, but not mom.  She delights in other people’s joy.  I recall a day when with distress she told me of a friend’s child whose marriage was not doing well.  “They don’t seem able to enjoy each other’s successes.”  For mom, that is paramount for a joyous life; the ability to take pleasure in the happiness, the accomplishments of others.  It brings richness to her life when she sees others finding theirs.

          She is one you can call when things are confounding or frightening.  You always have a listening ear and while her German stock is screaming to tell you just what you need, she is able to marshal it so you get there on your own.  Well, most of the time.

          It is not as if mom hasn’t seen challenge in life.  I know the stories of growing up in the Great Depression and the things they did to get by.  Her older sister, with whom she walked to school each day for almost a decade, died when she was 13.  The man she hoped to marry went off to war and was MIA/POW for four months before returning home.  There have been other chapters of challenge and tragedy in her life.  She also likes to remind us that she raised us four during the 1960’s when all kinds of rules were up for grabs.

          I write this as my mother’s heart is being worked on by a team of physicians and specialists who have dedicated their lives to the continued life of people like mom.  Their joy is the health and success of her heart.

    "We have to address this," the cardiologist said, "other than this, her heart is good."  He didn't have to tell me it was good.  I already knew. I have been her son for 51 years.

Todd Donatelli

p.s. Mom's surgery was the Tuesday after Easter.  She is recovering very well and was told today by her doctor that she could take a planned trip to Paris this summer- no slowing her down.