The Big Purr

A cat suffering mortal pain, it is said, will purr loudly. There are scientists studying this, though I'd prefer they didn't; which neural mechanism is firing doesn't matter.

It's that purr - that little piece of what? - I care about.

The context is my mother's post on These Hands of Ours. That's a photo of her pruning a bush. I asked her why she hadn't sent me a picture of her hands with a beautiful bloom, something artistic that speaks to the beautiful gardens she designs. Pruning is the most mundane activity and it seemed too humble for her creative work. What she told me is that humble and mundane is 90% of gardening, and she hopes her photo says that.

What she doesn't say is how she came to her profession. And that's the Big Purr.

When her mother started showing the painful, embarrassing signs of Alzheimer's, my mother, a homemaker who had never pursued a career, decided she would be my grandmother's primary caregiver. With my father's blessing and support, she moved my grandmother to their home in South Florida and dignified the daily care of a woman who was quickly and dramatically losing her ability to function socially.

Day or night, she changed my grandmother's sheets, and then her diapers. She learned to negotiate the quicksand of meals, shopping, car rides. And she survived the heartbreaking moments when my grandmother would look at her, and ask "What am I doing here?"

My grandmother could not be left alone for any significant amount of time. There was a nurse she tolerated well enough for my parents to enjoy Friday "Date Night." And three afternoons each week she very happily sat and ate popcorn with other Alzheimers patients in a local adult day care.

My mother refused to wall herself from her mother's pain. Her relief in a quiet moment was to put on gloves and step into the garden. She and my grandmother, herself an avid gardener, would toodle around the local nurseries. In time, my mother became an expert on tropical plants, and then, following South Florida's climate shift, on the Mediterranean plants that can withstand drought. She became known for her yard.

One day, about five years after moving to my parent's home, my grandmother called my mother from the kitchen where she was fixing lunch, and leaning into her arms, she died.

For a long time, our family talked about my mother's enormous sacrifice. Until then she had led a pretty carefree life. But in taking care of her family and nurturing a lovely home, she had never found her own creative center.

Somewhere in the essential care she gave my grandmother, my mother found the Big Purr. In my view, it was my grandmother's gift back to her.

This is meaningful to me right now. For the first time in my life, I'm panicking about my ability to make a living in a failing financial market. I'm thinking about the Buddhist concept of "Right Livelihood." And it's honestly funny to me, but last Thursday when I started reaching out to women I know and love, I wondered if something hadn't started purring.