My mother recovered from Covid two years ago, yet I can’t let go of the cup I saved her life with.
2022
After Mom came home from the ER after collapsing in the shower from Covid, she slept and slept and slept. She was breathing okay, but too exhausted to roll over, sit up or do anything on her own. I knew she’d been infused with fluids at the ER. I also knew she’d need water within the next 24 hours. But dang, that lady wouldn’t wake up to drink it.
Finally, the following afternoon, Mom woke up enough to cough. I found the Dutch Bros. coffee cup in the cupboard and put a straw in it, rolled her on her side, and got her to take some water. I was so relieved I almost cried.
Over the next couple days, I sat and slept on the couch outside her bedroom. Whenever I heard her wake up enough to cough, I’d go in there with the water. She’d stay awake long enough to drink some, then go right back to sleep. I knew she’d be okay without her meds and food for a day or two, but she had to have that water. So I was very diligent about getting that down her.
Once she managed to joke, “Here comes the water lady.” When I heard her crack that joke, I was pretty sure I was getting enough water in her, and that she would recover. And she did, slowly. Not long after, my boyfriend got her a silly dinosaur sippy cup for the coffee she craved, but the Dutch Bros. cup stayed in steady rotation, full of water.
It took about a month to get Mom back on her feet again. (There’s more to that story, but this one’s about the cup.)
2024
After Mom’s third move in two years, I’m still cleaning out boxes of downsized belongings. Oh, that’s where that Dutch Bros. cup went. I don’t need it—I’ve got a lot of travel cups already—so I put it in the donation box.
Wait. That just doesn’t feel right.
I take the cup back out.
This mundane plastic cup had somehow reached mythical proportions in my mind. If you Google about the Holy Grail, you’ll find all kinds of images from humble clay bowls to jewel-encrusted goblets. Well, I know what the real Holy Grail looks like—it’s a freaking white Dutch Bros. travel cup sporting a windmill, tulips and a blue lid. Maybe Jesus didn’t drink from it (we can’t be sure), but my Momma did, and that’s good enough.
There are times when the whole experience of her collapse and recovery seems unreal. The Dutch Bros. cup remains proof that it actually happened. And in the realm of magical thinking, it’s insurance: if Mom gets sick again, that cup can go back into play; it helped her get better before, so it can help her get better again.
That Dutch Bros. travel cup certainly traveled a lot around my house—from box to garage to shelf to cupboard to shelf again—while I tried to decide what to do with it. I felt silly for my attachment to this reminder of a frightening, uncertain time, yet it also reminds me that I got both of us through it. It’s become a sort of psychological “canary in a coal mine”—when I’m able to let it go, I’ll know I’ve processed what I need to about that experience.
A cup is a pretty small souvenir, all things considered. For now, it can stay on the shelf in the living room. I just…can’t let it go. Not quite yet. But someday I will.
One in a series of posts about caregiving.
michelle rau 
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