Aw, Mom

Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my mom's death. She had driven to the Providence airport to pick up a friend who was going to search among my dad's paintings for illustrations for his book. She got out of her car and sat down by the parking lot fence, having suffered a severe stroke as she took those few steps. She was unable to speak.

An ambulance was with her within 4 minutes of her parking ticket having gotten stamped. The hospital folks tracked down mom's doctor, who tracked down Ellen, who spread the word among our sibs through brief, heart-gripping phone calls. We all arrived at the hospital within a few hours of the stroke, and had both tender and funny conversation with her at her bedside. She was communicating with nods and gurgles, and it was unclear whether she understood that her words were incomprehensible to us. We laughed at the new box of crayons in her purse, and she laughed sheepishly with us. At that point, we were all sure she would survive. Her own mother had lived to 105, and we had the hubris to expect that mom would be around for another 20 years or so.

Laura and I stayed in a nearby hotel that night, and I got a call from the hospital in the morning, letting us know that they had "had trouble rousing her." I guess that is hospital speak for "can't wake her up." Also for "she is dying; come quickly." We were there in ten minutes, and my siblings were on their way from from their homes, each about an hour and a half away. She died too quickly for them to see her again. Her lungs pumped noisily and automatically, while Laura and I held her hands, and I moaned, "Aw, Ma" in disbelief. I wanted to be the one saying, "We love you. You are amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being who you are. We are all fine. Of COURSE you can go. Say hi to Pop. Who the heck wants to recover from another stroke at 86? Go freely." But all I could muster was, "Aw, Mom."

My mother was the kindest, least judgmental person I have ever come across. I have memories of two conceivably critical things she said in my lifetime. One was in reference to someone whose behavior had been gratuitously rude. I was about to say, "Wow, what a jerk!" or something like that, when mom said with amazement, "That person is used to getting her own way!" Another time, when someone had been pointedly mean-spirited, she said, "Kindness is not a priority for her."

I do believe my job is to evolve beyond my parents in some way, just as my kids are meant to evolve beyond me: that we are wired to learn and to grow, and that this happens on both individual levels and collective ones. We're supposed to learn from the kotex on the scalp (I really hope you recall this reference...) and do it better the next time. We're supposed to become kinder and kinder, more and more courageous in heart and mind.

Sometimes I am not sure I am doing my part for evolution. My mom set the bar very, very high. I may be more organized than she was, but who wants that as their evolutionary legacy? Here lies paula; she could really work her way through a list. I can't match her in moral courage, generosity of spirit, or true serenity prayer-type wisdom.

Of late, as I'm blobbing around feeling chemo-sick, my main activity these days, I have discovered an interesting "ability" that I wonder if everyone else has, too. I'm not sure I can describe it accurately. We all sit within our own faces, looking out from behind them. Lately, I find I can sit behind the faces of my mother, my father, both my brothers, and my sister. I take turns trying on each of their faces and looking out from behind them. It is quite something. I can't do it with anyone else's face -- not even my children's. I think it must be something that works toward one's parents and siblings, but not descendants. It has been for me a wonderful, comforting exercise in the mystery of deep connection, and maybe even evolution.

Aw, Mom, I miss you. But it is wonderful to look out from within your face now and then.