My mom died ten years ago Christmas Eve, and once again, as the date approaches, the memories of our last days together march before me, clouding the present and draining all the color and joy of the season. I miss her and think of her warmly every day of the year, but as Christmas nears I find myself once again consumed with images of our last days together, and of her death.
Lillian was actually my third mom but was the one who raised me and much of who I am today is a direct result of her influence and love. We met (and she adopted me) when I was five, and let me know right away that she loved me, was going to be my Real Mom for ever and that nothing could ever change that. Later, when I went out in search of my biological parents, she supported and helped me. And when I finally found my real Father (and new family), she embraced them as if they were also hers, and touched their hearts as she did everyone else's.
This woman introduced me to and supported me in my passions; she took me four times every single year we were together to the theater, bought me my piano, encouraged me to write; everything that I'm driven to do in life, everything that moves me today came originally from her.
This woman gave me Character; as a result of her own generosity, optimism and open heartedness she taught me how to really love, to tell the truth, to be loyal and to always try to see the good in people.
This woman gave me Humor; even though she was only married those five loveless years to my adopted dad (who was screwing around on her the entire time, leaving her to "raise the kid" pretty much by herself...a really lousy way to treat the woman you've vowed your life to, if you ask me) and spent most of her adult life daily caring for her own cold and miserable mother while continuing to work full time in a thankless bookkeeping job up until a year before she passed away, she never lost that twinkle in her eye, nor the ease in which she could laugh (and she laughed a lot). She had an amazing ability to shrug off disappointment, to ignore the pain and to smile through even the hardest of times. She was always smiling.
She always did for others (she volunteered weekly at The Museum of Tolerance right up until two months before she died) and if, looking back, there was one trait I wish she practiced less of, it was this. For she truly thought that thinking of herself was selfish and wrong and that "being a bother" was a fate worse than death. Obviously...
Once she found out she had cancer, I went with her to all her doctor appointments as well as her treatments and since she admitted to me that she was raised on the formula cancer=death, my job was to, after each visit, let her know what good news we got at each one. For six months we went (and I listened) and then, outside the doctors office I would tell her whatever the "good news" was at the time. But by year's end the good news was ever harder to find and by December of 1995, there was none at all. At that last visit, the doctor had pretty much given up on a cure and suggested we look into hospice services for, within six months, she would be unable to care for herself. We walked outside and she asked me the same question she asked after each of the previous visits,
"So? What's the good news?"
I tried not to tear up but that was impossible. "Not much" I answered, "except that you're here, you're alive and I love you very much."
"And I love you son, very, very much." We hugged for a long time and I never wanted to let her go, for I somehow knew that this was going to be the last time we were going to be together. And sadly, I was right. The next night she went to a Hanukkah party (where I hear she spent most of the night playing with the children) came home late, and was found the next day by her neighbor, dead on the floor of her kitchen, still wearing her coat from the night before. I know that she heard it was hopeless, believed what she heard (God damn that doctor) and chose to simply go, rather than be "a burden" to anyone. It was her who taught me it was a blessing to be there for others in need and I will never forgive her for, by doing this, denying me that blessing. But I will always love her, none the less.
We got the call from her neighbor the morning of Christmas Eve and after going over and identifying the body for the coroners who took her away, went back home where I spent the remainder of the day walking from room to room, stunned and lost. After a while of this, my ex-wife Karen brought up the possibility of going to the ballet, for two months earlier, Mom bought three tickets and invited Karen and I to go with her to see a Christmas Eve production of "The Nutcracker Suite" at The Music Center. At first the idea of going without her seemed completely inappropriate (as well as more than a little macabre) but Karen then pointed out something that I couldn't argue away, Mom really wanted us to see this. So we went, putting one of Mom's coats on the empty seat beside us. As the lights lowered I began to cry and, for a while, thought I'd never stop. My God! This was where she and I went to see shows four times a year, every year, since I was a little kid. Knowing I would never be able to share this place (or anyplace for that matter) with her again was more than I could stand. But the music and the sets and the dance and the lights were all so beautiful, so compelling that little by little my crying stopped and soon I was watching this magical ballet though much younger eyes. And somehow it all suddenly made sense; for the magnificence and splendor that we heard in the music of Tschykovsky and saw in the form and grace of this wonderful dance company seemed to all be celebrating the magnificence, form and grace that was my Mom.
Two days later we laid my Mom to rest. Before we closed the casket, I gently placed the unused ticket in her hand, but looking back I think that might have been unnecessary, for I truly believe she was there with us in that audience, by my side, and, needless to say, she was smiling.