Aujourd'hui maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. (Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.) Opening Line from Albert Camus' The Stranger. Unlike Mersault, I know exactly what day my mother passed away.
On July 23rd , 2004 at roughly 2AM. My mother passed away. A long battle with cancer took her from us. For the most part, she was with us til the very end. Two days before she died, she apologized for an incident which was altogether forgotten in conscious memory, but obviously, not in either of our subconsciousness. Maybe this was the last of the numerous gifts she gave me. She died a frail old women; mere skin and bones. Her ability to function almost gone. A far cry from even a week before. She was only 62.
My mother was a slender woman, who at 5'9, carried herself with the elegance of a movie star and had the character of a saint. She sometimes combined this with the mouth of a truck driver, but this made her all the more real. She worked hard and was a proud person. Cancer can make people lose these qualities, but up until the day she died, she controlled our family and of all her cousin's families. Like her parents before her, she was many people's rock. Constantly on the phone helping this one and that one, even up until the week she died. She was the one administering the love and the help, not the other way around, despite what many might have thought. On this day, it wasn't just our family who was affected. It was everyone who knew her.
When I was very young, my mother came to pick me up at nursery school and when she arrived, she noticed an odd thing. I was on the wrong side of the gates, standing in the street with some of my young cohorts. The school was oblivious. She made mild complaint and then explained to me that the next year would be different. I was about four years old and within the next year, I was reading and writing. My mother spent every day teaching me these things. My father and mother put me in a position, where in 2nd grade, I took an exam to enter the prestigious Saint Ann's school in Brooklyn. A brief while later they were told that not only was I accepted, but they would suggest that I skip third grade, as it was pointless for me to waste a year doing what they had already taught me.
My adolescent years were not much fun. Nor were my teenage years. I was a rebel and I didn't care about school. I received decent grades, but the same tag always followed me. Could Do Better. In all honesty, it still follows me. So if my parents failed in one aspect, maybe it was their motivational talks. The problem was that she taught me to look for more, at all times. So when I would go to the library to write some lame essay on the Electoral Collage in High school. I spent most of the afternoon reading poetry or thumbing through old National Geographics, learning about the Ivory Coast or Pompei. My mother wasn't a college graduate, although she did attend. She, like I later, was more into the event of learning. She was into the culture of things. A grade of A or B didn't matter. She took what she wanted from every one of life's lessons and made it hers. Thankfully, in many ways, my father was a little more rigid, or I'd be wandering the hills of Switzerland trying to find myself. I might still.
When I was younger our class made necklaces for mothers day. We molded clay into shapes, painted them and then fired them in the Kiln. I, unlike both my parents had no artistic ability. Mine looked like someone painted a pile of poop. We all gave our mother's their gifts. I presented hers, almost embarrassed at it's mediocrity. Two days later, when all my friends mothers had put their away in a box and couldn't wait for the next useless item, my mother wore mine everywhere. She even wore it to a fancy dinner party. Telling me the following morning of all the praise I had received. You don't realize at the time how much those moments mean. As an adult, you grab hold of those memories and hold them forever. No matter what I did, my mother was proud of me. I think what she was most proud of was my maturity. Dinner parties were a time for adults to chatter about topics well above that of a child's ability to comprehend. I sat, sometimes deep into the night listening to tales of drunken fights, journeys to foreign lands and sometimes even into sexual exploration. I was like this enormous sponge, soaking up every last drop of info and reveling in it. Waiting eagerly for my chance to experience even half of these wonderful times. Thanks to my parents, we traveled, albeit primarily the east coast, to many locales and I was able to experience different things and appreciate different cultures. Hell, our block in Brooklyn was like a miniature version of the United Nations. My parents made sure I learned a little from everyone.
The rumor has it when my parents married, my mother could not cook. My recollections refuse to allow this memory to hold any merit. Quite simply, the food my mother made was the best I've had inside or outside of any fine restaurant I have ever had. Over the years, I have had friends of many different nationalities, I can't think of any, whose food even comes close in comparison. Even when she was cooking their native countries dishes. I don't even like going to Italian restaurants any more, because the best restaurant can't make what my mother made on a pedestrian Thursday night. Sure, all mom's are put on that pedestal when it comes to cooking, but there was a difference. My friends and their parents always asked my mom how she did it. I remember a family member from Hungary shaking his head in disbelief when my mother explained it was her first time making something. He said, "better than any time I've had it....in Hungary." My mother might have missed her calling. I'm glad, for selfish reasons, she did. I can only hope to channel some of her ability as I attempt meals. If I believed that it was possible, I'd think it was her hand stirring the pot every time I produced something even slightly edible.
Her life wasn't always easy. This might have attributed to her constant desire for my brother and I to have more. She was worn down many evenings, but she'd walk in the door, change her clothes and in an hour we were called to the table. The talks we had almost every night were enlightening. We usually got past "how was your day" within the first two minutes. I learned more at those meals than anything in a book. As the years went by, my mother's disease started to slow her down. She wasn't the fresh and chipper person she used to be. She had become easily agitated. I guess dying can do that to a person. The passing of her mother and father took a great toll on her and when she battled for her own life, she gave it a fight they would have been proud of. I know, I am not that strong. I know I could not survive as long as she did. I would like to think, if I fought that battle I'd make her proud, but in the end, I'd let her down. She was much stronger than I will ever be.
There's so much I have thought about over the last few days, trying to remember the good times, but when this day comes up, I think of that final day. A week or two before, we had basically had a living wake. Family and friends came by and told stories of her past. Laughter could be heard all day. My eyes welled from start to finish, as everyone took a turn telling their tales, each one standing, voice cracking until they got the glare from my mother. You could almost hear her eyes murmur "Don't you dare." The day ended, a few of the old reliables piling dishes and kissing her constantly. The day was what she needed and it took it's toll on her, but everyone was there. Closure? On that day five years ago, her hospice care worker who had been with us for a few weeks, rose to leave around 3pm. Normally, I would drive her down to the train station. On this day, she didn't accept. She held our hands and thanked us and told us she was glad to have met us. She said goodbye for the last time. She knew before we did. That night around midnight, my father called us in and my mother was breathing very quickly. She looked at peace, but the breathing was so rapid, we worried. It slowed slightly and we returned to our beds. A few hours later, my father walked in and told me she was gone. We all spent a few moments with her, in a group and then alone. We're not a religious family, so this was goodbye. I remember sitting beside her and leaning in to give her that last kiss on her forehead. The same way she had to make me feel at ease. There would be no wake, no funeral, it would be a family affair. My father would honor some wishes as to the scattering of her ashes. None of which were all legal. My mother would have been proud of that.
It's been five years and in some ways it seems like yesterday. In some ways it seems like an eternity. The suffering is over. For that I can only be thankful. Her fight and her courage are unrivalled by anything I've ever seen. What amazed me even more, was here was a woman, always dressed very well, slender, (yes mom, you were thin dammit), elegant and who always carried herself with such dignity. Here she was older, grayed, she had tubes and bags hanging from her 85lb body. Yet she still held her chin up, refused help when she could, and told people to mind their mush, just like she had ten years before. In the end, I guess you could say cancer won, yet if it was a street fight, cancer wouldn't have come back.
There have been thousands of silly quotes about living and dying, but the one that sticks out to me is a long one. It was delivered when Jim Valvano, a famous college basketball coach was standing on the stage at an awards show, accepting an award for courage and starting his V foundation and he was dying of cancer. He made everyone laugh and cry, but the words I took away were these: “To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.” I feel I spend a good part pf each day doing all three of these things. I know I laugh quite a bit and I try to bring laughter to everyone. I know I think, sometimes too much. I don't know if I bring myself to tears every day, but most people would be surprised how often I do. Today and tomorrow will be a run of emotions, like they were the previous four years. Today isn't really any different. They don't make fifth year anniversary cards for these types of things. This year just seems especially tough. Maybe it's because my little brother is getting married in two months and she won't be there. I don't know the reasons, but today I listened to Jimmy V and all three were achieved and I feel like I have something special and always will.
Mom, you know I don't believe that if I say anything you'll hear it, so I will refrain from that hypocrisy. I will say this. Today is the fifth anniversary of my best friend dying. Nobody will ever replace her. Nobody ever could. In ten lifetimes, nobody could offer me more than what she gave me. For this I thank her and celebrate her life!
On July 23rd , 2004 at roughly 2AM. My mother passed away. A long battle with cancer took her from us. For the most part, she was with us til the very end. Two days before she died, she apologized for an incident which was altogether forgotten in conscious memory, but obviously, not in either of our subconsciousness. Maybe this was the last of the numerous gifts she gave me. She died a frail old women; mere skin and bones. Her ability to function almost gone. A far cry from even a week before. She was only 62.
My mother was a slender woman, who at 5'9, carried herself with the elegance of a movie star and had the character of a saint. She sometimes combined this with the mouth of a truck driver, but this made her all the more real. She worked hard and was a proud person. Cancer can make people lose these qualities, but up until the day she died, she controlled our family and of all her cousin's families. Like her parents before her, she was many people's rock. Constantly on the phone helping this one and that one, even up until the week she died. She was the one administering the love and the help, not the other way around, despite what many might have thought. On this day, it wasn't just our family who was affected. It was everyone who knew her.
When I was very young, my mother came to pick me up at nursery school and when she arrived, she noticed an odd thing. I was on the wrong side of the gates, standing in the street with some of my young cohorts. The school was oblivious. She made mild complaint and then explained to me that the next year would be different. I was about four years old and within the next year, I was reading and writing. My mother spent every day teaching me these things. My father and mother put me in a position, where in 2nd grade, I took an exam to enter the prestigious Saint Ann's school in Brooklyn. A brief while later they were told that not only was I accepted, but they would suggest that I skip third grade, as it was pointless for me to waste a year doing what they had already taught me.
My adolescent years were not much fun. Nor were my teenage years. I was a rebel and I didn't care about school. I received decent grades, but the same tag always followed me. Could Do Better. In all honesty, it still follows me. So if my parents failed in one aspect, maybe it was their motivational talks. The problem was that she taught me to look for more, at all times. So when I would go to the library to write some lame essay on the Electoral Collage in High school. I spent most of the afternoon reading poetry or thumbing through old National Geographics, learning about the Ivory Coast or Pompei. My mother wasn't a college graduate, although she did attend. She, like I later, was more into the event of learning. She was into the culture of things. A grade of A or B didn't matter. She took what she wanted from every one of life's lessons and made it hers. Thankfully, in many ways, my father was a little more rigid, or I'd be wandering the hills of Switzerland trying to find myself. I might still.
When I was younger our class made necklaces for mothers day. We molded clay into shapes, painted them and then fired them in the Kiln. I, unlike both my parents had no artistic ability. Mine looked like someone painted a pile of poop. We all gave our mother's their gifts. I presented hers, almost embarrassed at it's mediocrity. Two days later, when all my friends mothers had put their away in a box and couldn't wait for the next useless item, my mother wore mine everywhere. She even wore it to a fancy dinner party. Telling me the following morning of all the praise I had received. You don't realize at the time how much those moments mean. As an adult, you grab hold of those memories and hold them forever. No matter what I did, my mother was proud of me. I think what she was most proud of was my maturity. Dinner parties were a time for adults to chatter about topics well above that of a child's ability to comprehend. I sat, sometimes deep into the night listening to tales of drunken fights, journeys to foreign lands and sometimes even into sexual exploration. I was like this enormous sponge, soaking up every last drop of info and reveling in it. Waiting eagerly for my chance to experience even half of these wonderful times. Thanks to my parents, we traveled, albeit primarily the east coast, to many locales and I was able to experience different things and appreciate different cultures. Hell, our block in Brooklyn was like a miniature version of the United Nations. My parents made sure I learned a little from everyone.
The rumor has it when my parents married, my mother could not cook. My recollections refuse to allow this memory to hold any merit. Quite simply, the food my mother made was the best I've had inside or outside of any fine restaurant I have ever had. Over the years, I have had friends of many different nationalities, I can't think of any, whose food even comes close in comparison. Even when she was cooking their native countries dishes. I don't even like going to Italian restaurants any more, because the best restaurant can't make what my mother made on a pedestrian Thursday night. Sure, all mom's are put on that pedestal when it comes to cooking, but there was a difference. My friends and their parents always asked my mom how she did it. I remember a family member from Hungary shaking his head in disbelief when my mother explained it was her first time making something. He said, "better than any time I've had it....in Hungary." My mother might have missed her calling. I'm glad, for selfish reasons, she did. I can only hope to channel some of her ability as I attempt meals. If I believed that it was possible, I'd think it was her hand stirring the pot every time I produced something even slightly edible.
Her life wasn't always easy. This might have attributed to her constant desire for my brother and I to have more. She was worn down many evenings, but she'd walk in the door, change her clothes and in an hour we were called to the table. The talks we had almost every night were enlightening. We usually got past "how was your day" within the first two minutes. I learned more at those meals than anything in a book. As the years went by, my mother's disease started to slow her down. She wasn't the fresh and chipper person she used to be. She had become easily agitated. I guess dying can do that to a person. The passing of her mother and father took a great toll on her and when she battled for her own life, she gave it a fight they would have been proud of. I know, I am not that strong. I know I could not survive as long as she did. I would like to think, if I fought that battle I'd make her proud, but in the end, I'd let her down. She was much stronger than I will ever be.
There's so much I have thought about over the last few days, trying to remember the good times, but when this day comes up, I think of that final day. A week or two before, we had basically had a living wake. Family and friends came by and told stories of her past. Laughter could be heard all day. My eyes welled from start to finish, as everyone took a turn telling their tales, each one standing, voice cracking until they got the glare from my mother. You could almost hear her eyes murmur "Don't you dare." The day ended, a few of the old reliables piling dishes and kissing her constantly. The day was what she needed and it took it's toll on her, but everyone was there. Closure? On that day five years ago, her hospice care worker who had been with us for a few weeks, rose to leave around 3pm. Normally, I would drive her down to the train station. On this day, she didn't accept. She held our hands and thanked us and told us she was glad to have met us. She said goodbye for the last time. She knew before we did. That night around midnight, my father called us in and my mother was breathing very quickly. She looked at peace, but the breathing was so rapid, we worried. It slowed slightly and we returned to our beds. A few hours later, my father walked in and told me she was gone. We all spent a few moments with her, in a group and then alone. We're not a religious family, so this was goodbye. I remember sitting beside her and leaning in to give her that last kiss on her forehead. The same way she had to make me feel at ease. There would be no wake, no funeral, it would be a family affair. My father would honor some wishes as to the scattering of her ashes. None of which were all legal. My mother would have been proud of that.
It's been five years and in some ways it seems like yesterday. In some ways it seems like an eternity. The suffering is over. For that I can only be thankful. Her fight and her courage are unrivalled by anything I've ever seen. What amazed me even more, was here was a woman, always dressed very well, slender, (yes mom, you were thin dammit), elegant and who always carried herself with such dignity. Here she was older, grayed, she had tubes and bags hanging from her 85lb body. Yet she still held her chin up, refused help when she could, and told people to mind their mush, just like she had ten years before. In the end, I guess you could say cancer won, yet if it was a street fight, cancer wouldn't have come back.
There have been thousands of silly quotes about living and dying, but the one that sticks out to me is a long one. It was delivered when Jim Valvano, a famous college basketball coach was standing on the stage at an awards show, accepting an award for courage and starting his V foundation and he was dying of cancer. He made everyone laugh and cry, but the words I took away were these: “To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.” I feel I spend a good part pf each day doing all three of these things. I know I laugh quite a bit and I try to bring laughter to everyone. I know I think, sometimes too much. I don't know if I bring myself to tears every day, but most people would be surprised how often I do. Today and tomorrow will be a run of emotions, like they were the previous four years. Today isn't really any different. They don't make fifth year anniversary cards for these types of things. This year just seems especially tough. Maybe it's because my little brother is getting married in two months and she won't be there. I don't know the reasons, but today I listened to Jimmy V and all three were achieved and I feel like I have something special and always will.
Mom, you know I don't believe that if I say anything you'll hear it, so I will refrain from that hypocrisy. I will say this. Today is the fifth anniversary of my best friend dying. Nobody will ever replace her. Nobody ever could. In ten lifetimes, nobody could offer me more than what she gave me. For this I thank her and celebrate her life!
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