That Was my Mom

This is the 10^th Mother’s Day spent without my mother; the 10^th Mother’s Day I’ll have looked back at the mother I lost…another day to remember the other 364 days each year that I remember her on.

When loving daughter Anna Jarvis campaigned to get an official Mother’s Day holiday established in 1907-10, she hoped to provide a special day of reflection and togetherness for sons and daughters everywhere to honor their beloved mothers. She herself had spent many years devoted to taking care of her ill mother, and from my understanding, regretted--despite time spent--not having spent more time with her mother throughout her life. I can relate. I was 37 when I lost my mother, after 2 years of taking care of her throughout her cancer. 37 years old, and far too young to lose a mother. No matter how much time I’d spent with her throughout my life, no matter the time spent with her as caretaker, I still wished I’d spent more time with her. Its human nature I suppose; no matter how much, it’s still never enough.

I had spent so much of my life with her—even when far apart we were still close. More than once when I was a teenager, she had explained to me that she was my best friend. So busy running around with my friends at the time, I hadn’t admitted, or accepted, that she was my best friend. I mean, she was my mother sure, and would do anything for me, and would always be there as a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen, a heart to love and a mind to advise, but she wasn’t my own age like my friends, and there were some things I just couldn’t share with her like with them. Hey, I was a teenager, what can I say? But she WAS my best friend. It took me until she died before I outwardly stated it; it was at her funeral when I told everyone present that she had been the greatest friend I’d ever had, the greatest friend I ever could have had. If only I had told her that before she died. Or maybe I had done so, I just hadn’t realized it.

           

She was such an enormously special lady. She was a loving and dedicated mother; she had been a wonderful wife when my father was alive; she was a friend, teacher, and mentor in so many ways to so many people--she was a Cub Scout den mother, she was a nursery school teacher and taught her students arts and crafts, basic reading, sharing, dancing, stories, and using their imagination; and she was a friend to so many of my friends growing up and in my adult years. I had always been proud of that, that my friends trusted her enough to tell her just about anything, that they confided in her; that even those who had trouble talking with their own parents were always able to go to her. She had big ears, even bigger shoulders, yet still not as big as her heart.

That was my mom.

When I was 14 and in a coma, and my father was across the hall in Intensive Care, she had to be strong for both of us. When people asked her how she held it together without falling to pieces, she told them “What alternative did I have?”

That was my mom.

When I had to learn how to walk again, no matter how tired or pained I was, how ready I may have been to give up, she wouldn’t let me.

That was my mom.

She suffered with arthritis and back pains through all her years and never let it stop her, and she pushed me just as hard to believe in myself and keep going.

That was my mom.

When I went back to school after my head injury with acquired learning disabilities, and teachers and officials grew tired and wanted to give up on me, she wouldn’t let them and fought tooth and nail for as long as it took.

That was my mom.

She loved me and led me to believe that I was worthy to be loved and to love myself; she loved others, and led them to love themselves too.

That was my mom.

She was a fantastic cook—some of my friends still bring up her magnificent stuffed shells. For a Jewish momma, she was one heck of an Italian cook! What did she love even more than eating good food? Cooking and sharing her special dishes with others!

That was my mom.

No matter what I did, no matter what I went through, no matter what mistakes I made or regrets I had, she always forgave me, she always helped me face the days both good and bad.

That was my mom.

When I was 19 and in a stupid move of recklessness wrecked my car, who did I call? Who was there for me right away, didn’t make me feel any worse, and later got me to overcome my nervousness of getting behind the wheel again?

That was my mom.

Who gave me my artistic talent, inspired me to enjoy art and writing, and showed me how proud she was when I graduated from high school and college?

That was my mom.

Who did I call when I had great things to report, sad things to fear, mistakes to confess, good plans to be made, or needed important advice? Not Ghostbusters!

That was my mom.

I told her on the last Mother’s Day, five months before she passed, that she was an inspiration and an embodiment of strength and courage.

That was my mom to the letter.

At the end, when her doctors told me she had 3-4 days left to live, she lived for 19.

That was my mom.

On her last night in hospice, with her already comatose, I told her of how I had been reflecting on my life up to that point, of how looking back, she had been a part of every good thing I could remember; and that of every bad thing she had been there too, helping me endure and get through it. I reminded her of her role with the Cub Scouts, with her nursery school and all the kids who loved and looked up to her, of the friends—both mine and hers--who she had helped, and all the people she had touched since.  Those were the memories she left behind, the legacy, the testament of her life. That was how proud I was to have had her for my mother and how blessed I was to have had her in my life.

Yes, that was my mom, and that was what I told her on that evening in October of 2004. Could she hear me, understand me? I believe she did. It was the greatest thing I had ever told her, five minutes before she died. I suspect she was waiting to hear that from me, before she let go and moved onward.

Christopher Reeve, known so well for his role as Superman, after years struggling to recover from his paralysis, died about a week prior to my mom. At her funeral I told the gathered mourners when I gave her eulogy: “We’ve lost two superheroes this week.”

And indeed we had. She was SuperMa…and she WAS strength and courage.

That was my Mom.