Coffee with Virginia

When my sisters and I were growing up, Mom would dance with us in the living room. She played games with us, laughed with us, and made time for us.

There were four of us girls, and Mom was a stay-at-home mother for many years. That meant she was almost always there. If we needed her at school—or anywhere else—we knew we could count on her.

Mom spent a lot of time with us girls. She tried to teach us the things she believed we would need when we grew up. I wasn’t very interested in learning how to cook full meals, although two of my sisters were. Looking back now, I realize how much Mom was trying to pass along to each of us in her own way.

Whether or not I was paying attention, she was teaching me.

Mom also made sure dinner was on the table every night. When Dad came home from work, we would sit together around the table, eat, and talk.

It wasn’t always a fancy meal because we didn’t have a lot of money. Dad worked hard and did whatever he could to provide for us, while Mom made the most of what we had. No matter what our parents were going through, they made sure their girls were fed and cared for.

At the time, sitting around that table probably felt like an ordinary part of life. Today, I understand how special it was.

Life wasn’t easy for Mom.

My older sister, Annetta, was born with spina bifida and needed a great deal of medical care and help with her personal needs. Mom carried her, lifted her, cared for her, and stood beside her through everything.

The physical and emotional strain took a toll on Mom and affected her health later in life. But I don’t believe she would have changed a thing.

When Annetta was born, the doctors told Mom that they could place her in a back room and allow her to pass away.

Mom refused.

“No way,” she told them. “That’s my daughter, and I will raise her.”

That was my mother.

Annetta wasn’t expected to live past the age of five. She lived until she was 39 years old.

I truly believe that the love both of our parents gave her—their devotion, strength, and constant care—helped Annetta live far beyond what anyone expected.

I will share more about my sister Annetta another time. You will want to read her story because she was someone very special.

But this part of her story belongs to Mom, too.

Mom was the woman who refused to give up on her daughter. She accepted a life filled with responsibilities that many people could never understand. She cared for Annetta while also raising three other daughters and trying to make sure each one of us felt loved.

I’m sure there were times when Mom was physically exhausted. I’m sure there were moments when she felt emotionally overwhelmed. As children, we didn’t always recognize what our parents were carrying. We only knew that Mom was there.

She was there for the difficult days.

She was there for the ordinary days.

She was there for school, meals, games, laughter, dancing, and everything in between.

Mom was also a wonderful, caring, and friendly woman. When I was young, I didn’t realize that simply by watching her, I was learning how to become the woman I am today.

I took after her.

Once I grew older and finally found my voice, I became quite the chatterbox. With certain people, I still am!

I learned to enjoy conversations, listen to people’s stories, laugh with them, and make them feel welcome. I believe much of that came from Mom.

She taught me without announcing that she was teaching me. She showed me through the way she cared for her family, welcomed people, danced with her daughters, and remained there whenever we needed her.

Today, Mom has dementia, and that is very difficult—especially when it is your own parent.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in watching someone who helped create so many of your memories begin to lose pieces of her own.

But dementia cannot erase what Mom gave me.

It cannot erase those nights around the dinner table.

It cannot erase the dancing in the living room.

It cannot erase the games she played with us or the times she showed up when we needed her.

It cannot erase the strength she showed when the doctors told her that Annetta might not live.

And it cannot erase the woman she helped me become.

Mom may not always remember every lesson she taught me, but I will carry those lessons for both of us.

I will never forget what she gave our family—even when neither of us realized that she was teaching me how to become who I am today.

Mom was always there.

And because of everything she placed inside me, a part of her will always be here.