The Promise

In the last days of my mother's life, when I understood that she was not going to get better, it was agonizing to see her suffer. It seemed that she was holding on for some reason. I tried to allay her fears. I told her not to worry about me. I told her that I loved her and that I knew she loved me and that I would be okay. I didn't believe it myself, but I felt that it was very important that she not feel that she had to hang on and suffer more because of how I was going to deal with her death. The next day her breathing was worse, she would not close her eyes, and I felt that maybe there was something else she needed to know. I told her that I would take care of everyone. I told her that everyone would be okay, and that I would be there for everyone. And then, because the thought seemed an inspiration, I assured her that I would also take care of my next-younger sister with whom I have had a contentious and barely civil relationship. If that was what my mother wanted, then by God I was going to give it to her.

I think my mother would have been proud at how well my sisters and I got along in the days after her death. We were all definitely supportive of each other and we did not let petty differences come between us. We were even loving toward each other. I had hoped that this would usher in a new relationship between us all, but especially with the sister with whom I had had years of trouble.

I can't say that my sister kept up the communication after returning home. But there were occasional text messages and I gave her some space. I would not insist on phone conversations or emails and burden this new friendship. I would take what I could get. Then the texts became few and far between. One night, while I was in the depths of despair, I exposed my hopes to my sister in an email. This is what I wrote:

"I thought things would be different between us. I tried to respect your occasional texts and accept them as the best I could get. But I am very hurt and just want you to know that I had hoped for more. I wouldn't even be writing this except I am having a terrible time tonight, wishing for the impossible - I want to talk to Mommie. I want to understand. I want to not feel the pressure of anxiety. I'm passing along this picture. It is a killer, but also very beautiful. Love, Jan

It has been a month since I sent that. I have not received a response in any form. I was honest and I asked for more of my sister. She has given me nothing in return, not even a respectful acknowledgment of my feelings, even if they are not shared.

So have I broken my promise to my mother? Do my feelings count? No matter what happened in the past, all is different now. Our mother is dead. We should be there for each other. We should be considerate of each other's feelings. But we can't do that if we are not in touch, and honest, and giving. I feel foolish for opening myself up to her, I feel rejected and humiliated. But in my heart, I know that my mother is proud that I tried. At least I hope she is.

The Eulogy

As the eldest daughter it became my job to write my mother's eulogy. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do - and not just because of the pain of losing her.

My mother and I had been so very close, but we had had our fights, our differences, and our problems. We made peace with mistakes we had made and once I was an adult, and had children of my own, I was able to see that she had done the best she could for me. We were both much different people than we had been thirty years earlier.

My goal, when writing the eulogy, was to show everyone the loving and essential person my mother had been to me. I wanted them to see her goodness, her wisdom, and a glimpse of how very much she had meant to me and my children. My frustration was that I had to limit what I said. Because I could not speak for longer than three minutes, I could not share all that was good about my mother. Then, thinking more, the thought occurred to me that what I wrote was one-sided. That it was biased because it only showed positive things about her. I only struggled with that for a short time.

My mother died a horrible death. She was good, she was a wonderful mother. Why shouldn't that be the focus of her funeral mass? Why shouldn't we celebrate her successes?

So here is what I came up with. This is my mother, if only in a snapshot.

Our mother was a real firecracker. She was funny and she was irreverent and she was truly outrageous. My children, growing up, called her our “secret weapon,” because she would take on anyone in defense of her family. We will remember and cherish her for these things. But we would like for you to remember her for some of the other things she stood for. The hardest part was to try to condense, in a few words, the woman she really was.

Our mother was a woman of great faith. She believed in God, the kindness of Jesus, the compassion of the Blessed Mother and the intercession of the Saints. But she had questions and difficulties. We often talked with each other about our faith, our questions, and the solace that prayer provided. For this I am so grateful because in the days that follow, when I start to feel that I don’t understand or I can’t live without her, I will lean on that faith, I will remember that although she suffered, although she had much adversity, she longed for the comfort of the Holy Eucharist and she needed the blessing of the holy sacrament of Reconciliation. This is but one gift that she has given us, and I believe that not losing faith over her suffering and death will connect us to her in a real and meaningful way.

Our mother was our best friend just as her mother had been her best friend. She survived our grandmother’s death and she became a rock for her own daughters. She often spoke of a man who attended my grandmother’s funeral. He came out of respect for our mother and she felt the kindness deeply. He said to her, as we left the church, “Take care of your three girls.” She must have taken this to heart because in the years that followed, she stood by us, advised us, and never faltered in her support of us during our own difficulties. And she did this without her own mother who was her best friend and support. “Call your grandmother” was her mantra during good times and bad and I don’t think any of us thought she could survive my grandmother’s death. But she did and she became our greatest supporter, our greatest ally and I think that she taught us by example how to survive without her.

Our mother was kind. She volunteered at St. Nicholas Home and she did more than just answer the phone, or let visitors in. She befriended the residents. When she wasn’t well enough to continue her work, she would visit her friends, often supporting them through their difficulties. I remember one man in particular, dying of AIDS, saying that her sense of humor was a welcome respite from his worries and pain. She would meet him for coffee and talk politics, and offer support, and be a friend. And when her friends eventually died, she mourned them and prayed for them. A mere acquaintance of hers, someone she knew from the neighborhood, had had a stroke and became a prisoner of her own body. Our mother would go visit her, even though it made her sad. If someone she knew needed to go to the hospital, or have a test done, she would go with them for support.

Our mother had a strong sense of fair play. If we wanted to go out and play and we grabbed a cookie or a lollipop, she told us to bring one for each child. When a boy in my class didn’t have crayons, she bought them for him. One day several of us had gone to a Met game and were talking about it. Another boy, who hadn’t gone, spoke up to tell us that he had gone to Boston that same night and saw the Red Sox play. When I told her that I didn’t believe him and that I was mad that he had lied, she told me to show the kids that I did believe him, because he only said it because his family was too frugal to let him go to the game and he was sad to have been left out.

Our mother was fun. She would take us to Bliss Park and go sleigh riding with us. She didn’t stand on the sidelines, but went down on the sled with us. She swam in the ocean with us, she played games with us, and she could make us laugh till we hurt. She loved her grandchildren, and was so proud to be a grandmother of six children. She marveled at each child’s uniqueness and individuality and loved them for it.

Our mother was a wife. She loved our father dearly. She was in awe of his brilliance, his Jesuit education, his style. She was proud to be his wife. She told me, right up until the end, how “wonderful and giving” my father had been to her in the difficult days between hospital stays. She loved him and told me more than once that she did not want him to predecease her. My father has an uncanny way of falling asleep at his desk and she would creep up to him to make sure that he was still breathing. We would laugh until we cried imagining the night he would wake up to find her face in his face, checking to see if he were okay, and how we would literally have to peel him off the ceiling for fright.

My mother raised three girls and we all became teachers. It isn’t any wonder. She was a teacher. She taught us that the “greatest gift we could give someone was a smile.” One day she told me to smile at Mr. Sullivan, an elderly man who lived in our building. His face lit up and she turned to me and nodded. And despite my “permanent frown,” I try to remember what she taught me that day. She taught us that God only gave disabled children to those people with the biggest hearts and greatest love. She taught us that there is always hope. She taught us that life is sacred and worth fighting for. She taught us that we could do anything we set our minds to. She taught us that it was okay to get mad at God, that it, more than anything, showed a strong a belief in Him. She taught us to be a family. She taught us to love our children with all of ourselves. She taught us what strength looked like and in the days before her death she taught us that even in the ugliest and saddest that life could be, there could be grace and dignity. She was a truly good person and I hope that I have honored that.

An End to the Mourning

On Saturday, we went to the cemetery. It was the first time since my mother died in January. Because we had a car for the day to take my son to attend "Admitted Students Day" at the school he will attend next fall, I wanted us to go to the cemetery. Stupidly, in my mind, it would mark the end to the mourning. By going to the cemetery, seeing my mother's grave and facing the truth that she was not coming back, I could let go of the sadness and move on.

There is no moving on. At least, not for now. Standing there did not make it seem more "real." And since her plot did not yet have grass growing, it was just so obvious that the wounds are fresh. I feel so stupid. I thought that I could leave my sadness there. But it is still with me and, today, it is as strong as ever.

I miss my mom. I miss her so much. It does not feel real that I should be expected to just keep going on without her. I need her. I need her to make me laugh. I need her advice which was always spot-on. I need her to bolster me. I feel so lonely without her.

I stopped off at my father's the other day. He needed a lightbulb changed, and I could barely finish the job. I kept looking into the bedroom, at my mother's lounge chair. I wanted to ask, "Where is Mommie, anyway?" She should be there. We all need her. She died at 71. She should have had so much more time. We should have had so much more time together.

Will this ever, ever get easier?

I Ruined the Gravy

It was always my mother's job to make the gravy. Her gravy was wonderful - turkey gravy, leg of lamb gravy, or pork gravy - it was always delicious. She never used Wondra, always flour. She would stand at the stove, adding the potato water to the pan drippings, adding flour little-by-little so as not to get lumps. Her utensil was a metal spatula which she used both to scrape drippings from the pan and to flatten any lumps that managed to form.

This Easter, as a tribute, I decided to make leg of lamb. I felt that it would comfort my father and be pleasing to my children. I made sure to keep to the spirit of how my mother would prepare the meal, so in addition to green beans and mashed potatoes and gravy, I added different side dishes to make everyone happy: homemade ratatouille for my son's girlfriend who is dieting, and cucumber salad for my sons.

My sister called as I was getting the lamb out of the oven. Rather than let the call go to voicemail, I answered. I wanted to speak to her if only to bridge the miles between us and share a bit of the holiday together. As I talked, phone wedged between my chin and my shoulder, I started the gravy. I reached for the glass pickle jar in my cabinet which I thought contained flour. I failed to check and so I added an ungodly amount of confectioner's sugar to the highly anticipated gravy. I ruined it. I tried all sorts of remedies as my sister shouted them into the phone: I added bouillon, salt, more potato water, and even some flour. To no avail. I ended the phone call to break the news to my family.

At any other holiday, I might have laughed myself silly. But not this holiday, my first without my mother. My ruining the gravy began to take on much bigger significance. It was self-sabotage, it was my mother trying to tell me that I should never have even tried to make her gravy, or it was her message from beyond the grave that she was still a part of the family, and we shouldn't try to replace her.

My son, during our gravy-less dinner, opined that it was wonderful that we were all together, eating Easter dinner. He was glad we hadn't decided that it was too sad to make the effort. He said, "Life goes on, but not in a way that leaves Chon-Chon behind, but in a way that brings her with us, just differently." That helped me put it all into perspective. It was really good that we made the effort. My mother would expect us to, want us to. She didn't resent my making the gravy and I hadn't sabotaged myself. I just ruined the gravy. That's all. And to our credit, we didn't let it spoil the rest of the very delicious meal I had prepared. Despite our grief, despite everything, life went on. We ate Easter dinner as a family. And my mother was with us, just differently.

Easter Sunday

I get my faith from my mother and my grandmother. My grandmother took my sister and me to Church on Sundays and to Confession at regular intervals. The rules and protocol of the Church were very important to her, but you could sense her strong faith in the way she prayed with her eyes closed and her lips just barely moving as she bowed her head reverently. Later on, after my grandmother died, my mother influenced my beliefs.

My mother did not care very much for the rules and protocol of the Church. She believed in what she had been taught from the Baltimore catechism. She believed in the Communion of Saints, in the Trinity, and the blessedness of the Virgin Mary. She prayed often and for just about everyone. I would ask her to pray for people, and months later, she would ask about this or that person and tell me that she was still praying for him/her. Her faith was strong and she worried about the grey area between presumption and despair. I owe a lot of my adult faith to her.

When my mother lay dying in the hospital, all of the beliefs which had informed the person I was seemed trite and transparent. I had believed that suffering brought you closer to the grace of God, but watching my mother suffer, I questioned whether that was too dear a price to be paid. We are meant to believe that God loves us as His children, but in order to give us His grace, we have to suffer. I had the thought, "Who needs it?" As I watched my mother leave me behind, I really thought that she would be taking my faith with her. That hasn't been the case.

My faith has remained steadfast. I don't understand the connection between God's love and suffering and may never. But I believe that God, seeing my mother suffer the way she did, and seeing that, even through her suffering, she wanted to receive the Holy Eucharist and the forgiveness of Penance, was moved and His compassion gave her peace and solace and a place with Him in heaven. I believe that in the core of my being.

I have suffered greatly these past three months. I miss my mother so desperately that it hurts in every part of my body. But I feel genuine comfort from the fact that my mother was a good person and a brilliant person and despite some pretty heavy burdens through her life, she continued to believe in God. I am comforted knowing that her reward is to look upon the face of God in the presence of the angels, saints and her beloved family.

It is Easter. We are taught that it is the most glorious of our religious holidays. It is the fulfillment of God's promise. We celebrate life on this day which falls in the Spring. We are meant to look forward to our Eternal life with God. Instead of crying, or feeling sorry for myself, or focusing on what I have lost, I am going to focus on what my mother has gained. She is restored. She has life.