A salute to mom, the gentle Marine

My mother has a generous heart, a gentle manner and a long array of chronic disease conditions. Seven is my count, but it might be eight. Until recently, she’s not evidenced many handicaps as a result of these maladies. She’s taken prescribed medications, eaten moderately, exercised in her own unique way and kept a positive attitude. And now that’s all changed.

My mom’s a product of the rural Midwest, a Lutheran minister’s daughter. She graduated with a degree in business education at a time when women didn’t usually attend college. In the 1930s she became a stenographer, a term she continues to use with pride. Later she turned to teaching at small prairie schools in the Dakotas.

At first encounter, her tiny stature and the pronounced rounding of her back don’t create the image of a Marine Corps staff sergeant. But, in addition to her career in business and education, that’s exactly what she was for three years at the end of World War II. My mother, the Marine.

When my sister and I were young, our great adventure was being allowed to unlock the mothball-filled cedar chest and carefully remove mother’s Marine Corps uniforms. And wonder of wonders, play "dress up." We would each put on one of the uniforms (summer seersucker or winter wool) and practice standing at attention, raising hand to brow to acknowledge one another. I always felt taller, stronger in that tightly fitted, multi-buttoned jacket. If we begged a lot, we could hear mom recite "the call to the troops." We marveled at our tiny little mother shouting out words that sounded so fierce and imperative. I recall giggling at first, but then standing even more upright in response.

Recent hospitalizations, and the physical challenges presented by a fracture and then a stroke, mean mother’s not been doing a morning call to the troops lately. She’s just trying to get through each day, make it a little better than the one previous. Long, mostly bed-bound days, where sitting in a chair for any length of time is a major event. I cherish the moment when one of her physical therapists, while assisting her in learning to transfer from bed to wheelchair, saw her determination and saluted her crisply.

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The last three weeks (seems like so much longer) have been incredibly difficult. The patches and pills for pain are enormously powerful and make her confused, disoriented, a little "loopy" at times. When that happens, she wonders, and the family asks, is this just "the medication" or is something else going on here? What is going on here?

Two things I know. My lovely mother, with her U.S. Marine Corps spirit and her unswerving faith in God, will ride through this transition, wherever it leads her. And this I also know: She is just one of countless fragile, elderly, so very wonderful mothers who deserve to be saluted. Not just next Sunday. Every day.

Sharon Johnson is an assistant professor in family and community development at OSU Extension and a member of the Senior Advisory Council. Reach her at s.johnson@oregonstate.edu.