There is a lot going on today: Super Duper Tsunami Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Super Bowl parades. It is a very busy time. However, a candle burns in my kitchen, reminding me of one other important event: Eight years ago today, right about this time, my mother, Ruth Marcus, passed away.
I was not able to be there and I have mixed feelings about that. I feel for my sister and her husband, who were the ones who had to go into her apartment and begin the preparations. I feel for them because after her diagnosis with cancer in January of 2000, it was the two of them who had to take care of her. It was Cindy and Flip who kept her at their house. It was Cindy and Flip who took her to the hospital when she was in bouts of pain. It was Cindy and Flip who had the weight of the world resting on their shoulders.
I lived 700 miles away; it made it extremely difficult to be there; the irony is I already had my airline ticket purchased. I was planning on arriving on February 5 and "going the distance." Being part of everything that would happen. My mother had helped me so many times, that despite how much I wanted to turn and look away, I would not. I could not. I wanted to be there to ease her burden. I wanted to be there to comfort her. I wanted to be there to tell her, in those final moments, "It's OK Mom. You can go."
I never got to do those. As I said, I have mixed feelings.
I know it's a "normal" process, that of growing up, getting older, and passing on. I understand that she led a full and happy life. I am grateful that we were close and I am thankful I got a "good mom" when so many others have a "woman who birthed them" rather than a mommy. I know all these. I am aware.
Still, she was MY mom. And I miss her desperately. Although there's a Yahrzeit candle burning in the kitchen today, there is still darkness. Her death is a hole that does not fill. I miss her. I always will. I try and console myself that, as she said after her diagnosis, when I stood outside the doctor's office crying, "I will never leave you. I will always be here."
"I know. I understand." I replied. "But I prefer you where I can see you."
I wish she was around to see what has happened with me in the last eight years. She never saw our wedding, although she knew we were getting married. When she was diagnosed, and the doctor gave her six months (she survived 18 days), she said, "Don't worry Dolly (her pet name for me), I'll dance at your wedding." My mother was a firm believer in truth, she was never so angry as when someone lied. I forgive her for this one. I know, if she could, she would have moved heaven and earth to have kept her word.
She used to say I'd make a great lawyer because I argued about everything. I think she was probably disappointed that I became a DJ. But, she doesn't know I ended up as a speaker and writer. I'm sure she would be proud. Of course, my mom, if nothing else, was always proud of her children. It used to drive me crazy, that whenever we asked her what was her proudest achievement, she'd beam brightly and just stare at me -- or Cindy -- and say, "You." Back then, I hated it. Now, in retrospect, I realize you really can't get a better mom than that, can you?
She never saw our new house. She would have like this place; it has character -- and lots of room. The mezuzah hanging on the door is the one she gave us for our old place. I know you're supposed to leave them when you move, but I wanted -- needed -- a part of her at this new place.
My sons, Daniel and Brandon, now 24 and 21, have moved to Los Angeles. It's ironic in so many ways that I could not wait to move away. They were impatient to move there. It was always a sad moment when I would pack us all up after vacation and head back north. If she were still alive, they would be spending time near her. Her sadness, in some way, would have been filled, as would their history.
She was not perfect. How can I, someone who preaches, "Strive for Imperfection," even pretend that she was? She had a tendency to worry and fret, and that's a trait I too have. I resent it. I fight it. I don't want to be that way; if nothing else, her departure reemphasized that life is way too short; I do not want to live it hunkered down and hiding.
She didn't go to doctors when she needed too (obviously) and that was frustrating to us. She preferred to use the balm of denial rather than the cure of medicine. I think she might have been afraid. I know she didn't want to worry us. I appreciate the thought. I do wish she wouldn't have been so stubborn.
My grandmother, Zlote, died at age 84. She was extremely overweight and had a very difficult life. My mother had lost 80 pounds at age 69. She walked regularly. She enjoyed life. Cindy (my sister) and I assumed, "Well, if Grandma made it to 84, mom will easily make it to 90." As Grandma said, "Mann plant Gott lach;" translated, "Man plans, God laughs."
But that is water under the bridge. She is gone. She is not coming back. I try and think she's in a better place but when she died, my faith too was shaken. The day before she was diagnosed, I thought I would live forever, the day after she died, I was not sure I would make it through the day.
I don't want to spend a whole entry labored in sorrow, sounding morose. After all, her eternal optimism needs voice too, as that is also part of what she left with me.
She always believed in "the Greatest Good." It was her mantra, her creed, her life's philosophy. A few days after her diagnosis; she and I were sitting at a restaurant, drinking coffee, trying to maintain an aura of normalcy, I asked, "Are you scared?"
"I am. But in a way, I'm excited too. It's kind of like life's last big adventure and there's a part of me that's looking forward to it. I would like it to be later rather than sooner, but it will be an experience."
My mom loved learning. Even to the end.
"Do you still believe in the Greatest Good?"
"I do. I don't see how it's in play here. But, I've believed in that for my whole life. How can I turn my back on it now?"
"So, mom, what's different? Knowing what you now know?'
She thought about it a few seconds. I expected her to be say she was sad, disappointed, or angry knowing that the clock is running out when she had so many plans yet to accomplish. Instead, she reached across the table and patted my hand, as she did so many times when we talked, "I can't believe how much love there is in the world. I don't think I realized it until now"
The answer blindsided me; I'm still not sure I understand. I don't think she was attempting to make me feel better. I truly believe that is what she felt. I hope, when my time comes, that is how I leave.
A note: Upon her death, Cindy & I set up a scholarship for aspiring writers. It is administered by the Humboldt Area Foundation. It's one of the best things we get to do each year, award a scholarship based on a young writer's version of "The Greatest Good."
That is beautiful. Though my Mom died suddenly when my 3 siblings and I were young, I had a beautiful relationship with my Dad and can relate to much of what you shared through your article. It touched my heart deeply. I hope you find some solace through your writing and the knowledge that many people connect on a very personal level with your sentiment. Thank you.
Margaret
Posted by: Margaret | February 09, 2008 at 04:22 PM