As I sat in a Miami Beach coffee shop this morning on a silly and basically meaningless trip to Florida for baseball’s annual spring training, I picked up a copy of the Miami Herald and read over bacon and eggs how a mother had spent 38 years at her comatose daughter’s side caring for her with love, faith and selflessness.
Mortality overtook the mother just this past week in her home, still with her daughter, of cardiac failure at 80. Kaye Obara leaves behind her daughter, Edwarda, for whom relatives have vowed to step in and care for.
Mrs. Obara undertook the vigil, constantly cleaning, feeding and moving her daughter so she wouldn’t develop bed sores, from the time nearly four decades when a gravely ill Edwarda was rushed to the hospital.
Frightened, Edwarda asked her, "Promise you won’t leave me, will you, Mommy?" Those were the last words she ever uttered before slipping into her coma.
I almost cried reading the story, and it flashed over me how shallow and selfish my own existence is.
The irony of my reading the story upon my arrival in Florida on what I’ve always termed "a pilgrimage" was not lost on my aching soul.