A Eulogy To Mom
This eulogy was written 10 years ago. Emphysema is a brutal disease; the dying lasts for years.
How ironic that, for the past 18 months, I’ve watched the two most important women in my life struggle with what would otherwise be an irrepressible reflex - breathing. One woman, my mother, was in the late stages of emphysema, and the other, my daughter, has severe asthma.
I was 43 years old when my last child was born. When I struggled to carry my daughter to term, then later, to keep her alive, mom was right there beside me. She was with my husband and me every time my daughter was rushed to the emergency room or the pediatric ICU at Lutheran General. When my father was too tired to travel, mom simply drove herself up to Park Ridge, huffing and puffing her way slowly down the halls of the pediatric wing to her granddaughter’s room. It seemed nothing could keep her away. Mom took Brighid to her doctor’s appointments. She cared for her at her home three days a week and then would e-mail me updates (she called them “Brighid reports”) later in the evening. When Brighid was so sick that daycare refused to take her, mom was always there with open arms. She nursed my daughter through three months of pneumonia , all on her own, even before she was properly diagnosed. The baby was miserable but mom never complained. “She’s such a good girl,” she would say.
Since my daughter’s arrival, I’ve watched my mom’s health steadily decline. I’ll never forget the moment she sat in my car and said the words I’d dreaded to hear. It was Saturday, April 14, 2013, on a beautiful spring day, and we were shopping for a bathing suit for Brighid. Mom quietly said she had emphysema. She told me the disease was in the advanced stages, and she may have as little as six months to live. I froze. I wanted her to believe that I was going to be okay, that I was strong enough to handle the news, that she could talk to me if she needed someone to listen. But, inside, my heart shattered. All the plans I’d put off over the years were gone in the blink of an eye. She and I had always talked about taking my sons back to Hawaii to show them where they were born. We recently talked about taking a family vacation to Walt Disney World. All gone. I’ll never forget her next words. “You know what? I am 67 years old. I’ve had a good life. I’ve watched my kids grow up and have kids of their own. I’ve even had the chance to get to know my granddaughter. I have no reason to complain.”
It was a far cry from the call I’d received at work a month earlier after she’d returned home from a rare doctor’s visit. I’m not sure what her doctor said to her that day, but mom was absolutely beside herself, sobbing over the phone, “I’m scared I won’t be able to watch Brighid anymore.” In less than a month, she’d moved through the grieving process to resignation. And acceptance. Sitting beside me in the car, mom told me that her one remaining wish was for my son Joseph to realize his dream of becoming a medical doctor. She told me she hoped my son Kory knew how lucky he was to have found such a good wife and mother for his son. She said I had a wonderful family. She said I had a husband who adored me. I silently listened while she worked through her hopes and fears and, incredibly, tried to prepare me for the inevitability that waited. I cried the entire way home. Who would fill mom’s shoes in my daughter’s life? Brighid was already “Grandma’s girl.”
In the summer of 2012, mom fell in her garage, shattering her forearm and wrist, and breaking one of her legs. Throughout her recovery, she begged me not to put Brighid in daycare full-time. “Please don’t take her away from me,” she’d say. I understood completely. She only wanted to be remembered by her littlest granddaughter. It saddens me to think Brighid probably won’t have any clear memories of her grandmother. But what she will be left with is an abstract sense of the woman who cared for her when she was at her most-vulnerable: Feelings of warmth and security, memories of her kisses or a loving embrace, maybe even the faint echo of Grandma fussing with her hair.
Of course, there were gifts mom left for me as well. I’m not talking about antique dishes, or jewelry, or furniture, or any of the trappings of this world, but irreplaceable things, like: A father. One of the greatest gifts two parents can give the children they love is a deeply abiding love for one another. It is what centers us. It is the roots that plant a child firmly to this earth. My parents celebrated a marriage that lasted more than 47 years. A love of family. Like her mother before her, first and foremost, my mom loved her family. Her father died in a car accident when she was just 9 years old. Mom’s family was poor, but they had each other. Most of her aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents lived within miles of each other so she grew up around them. A rich ancestry. When I was in high school, mom began working to build a historical archive of the family that she loved. Today, that family history is documented back to the 16th century. What was once her passion will now become her legacy.A fierce loyalty. She gave it freely but also demanded it in kind. An independent spirit. Her desire for my sister and I and, later, for my daughter, was that we would each be able and willing to take care of ourselves.An innate modesty. She deeply despised immodesty in young ladies. She had very strict “rules” which, to my chagrin, didn’t seem to apply to my brother.A sense of tradition. My mother gave me family recipes dating back to the Second World War. She taught me how to cook by letting me shadow her in the kitchen from a very young age, barely able to see over the countertop, later allocating menial tasks, I was her soux chef and, for the most part, she led by example. A mother’s perspective and, sometimes, painfully honest feedback.A need for stillness and for privacy. My mother was both a quiet and a deeply private person. In today’s culture where folks flout pictures of their meals and party escapades, she was very uncomfortable with that level of sharing. I can respect that as I too feel there is far too much sharing in the public sector these days.A generosity of spirit. The reason my mother loved Christmas so much was it was the one time a year she could indulge her children and then, later, her grandchildren. No one celebrated Christmas like my mom. For the past 15 years I’ve clung to my parents, even after becoming a grandma myself, knowing instinctively my time with them was drawing to a close. The things I’ve lost with mom’s passing are simply too numerous to mention, but my real angst lies in what my daughter has lost. The myriad of little things grandma was good at, where I simply fall short. Who will teach her these things? No one. They’re lost in time along with all the other women in my life who’ve long-since passed away. Now, it’s my turn. I was blessed to have a grandmother until I was 40 years old. I had my mother until I was 45. God-willing, I will be with my daughter until she’s in her 40’s and, more importantly, that I can meet the challenges set forth by all those women who’ve molded and shaped me.
How ironic that, for the past 18 months, I’ve watched the two most important women in my life struggle with what would otherwise be an irrepressible reflex - breathing. One woman, my mother, was in the late stages of emphysema, and the other, my daughter, has severe asthma.
I was 43 years old when my last child was born. When I struggled to carry my daughter to term, then later, to keep her alive, mom was right there beside me. She was with my husband and me every time my daughter was rushed to the emergency room or the pediatric ICU at Lutheran General. When my father was too tired to travel, mom simply drove herself up to Park Ridge, huffing and puffing her way slowly down the halls of the pediatric wing to her granddaughter’s room. It seemed nothing could keep her away. Mom took Brighid to her doctor’s appointments. She cared for her at her home three days a week and then would e-mail me updates (she called them “Brighid reports”) later in the evening. When Brighid was so sick that daycare refused to take her, mom was always there with open arms. She nursed my daughter through three months of pneumonia , all on her own, even before she was properly diagnosed. The baby was miserable but mom never complained. “She’s such a good girl,” she would say.
Since my daughter’s arrival, I’ve watched my mom’s health steadily decline. I’ll never forget the moment she sat in my car and said the words I’d dreaded to hear. It was Saturday, April 14, 2013, on a beautiful spring day, and we were shopping for a bathing suit for Brighid. Mom quietly said she had emphysema. She told me the disease was in the advanced stages, and she may have as little as six months to live. I froze. I wanted her to believe that I was going to be okay, that I was strong enough to handle the news, that she could talk to me if she needed someone to listen. But, inside, my heart shattered. All the plans I’d put off over the years were gone in the blink of an eye. She and I had always talked about taking my sons back to Hawaii to show them where they were born. We recently talked about taking a family vacation to Walt Disney World. All gone. I’ll never forget her next words. “You know what? I am 67 years old. I’ve had a good life. I’ve watched my kids grow up and have kids of their own. I’ve even had the chance to get to know my granddaughter. I have no reason to complain.”
It was a far cry from the call I’d received at work a month earlier after she’d returned home from a rare doctor’s visit. I’m not sure what her doctor said to her that day, but mom was absolutely beside herself, sobbing over the phone, “I’m scared I won’t be able to watch Brighid anymore.” In less than a month, she’d moved through the grieving process to resignation. And acceptance. Sitting beside me in the car, mom told me that her one remaining wish was for my son Joseph to realize his dream of becoming a medical doctor. She told me she hoped my son Kory knew how lucky he was to have found such a good wife and mother for his son. She said I had a wonderful family. She said I had a husband who adored me. I silently listened while she worked through her hopes and fears and, incredibly, tried to prepare me for the inevitability that waited. I cried the entire way home. Who would fill mom’s shoes in my daughter’s life? Brighid was already “Grandma’s girl.”
In the summer of 2012, mom fell in her garage, shattering her forearm and wrist, and breaking one of her legs. Throughout her recovery, she begged me not to put Brighid in daycare full-time. “Please don’t take her away from me,” she’d say. I understood completely. She only wanted to be remembered by her littlest granddaughter. It saddens me to think Brighid probably won’t have any clear memories of her grandmother. But what she will be left with is an abstract sense of the woman who cared for her when she was at her most-vulnerable: Feelings of warmth and security, memories of her kisses or a loving embrace, maybe even the faint echo of Grandma fussing with her hair.
Of course, there were gifts mom left for me as well. I’m not talking about antique dishes, or jewelry, or furniture, or any of the trappings of this world, but irreplaceable things, like: A father. One of the greatest gifts two parents can give the children they love is a deeply abiding love for one another. It is what centers us. It is the roots that plant a child firmly to this earth. My parents celebrated a marriage that lasted more than 47 years. A love of family. Like her mother before her, first and foremost, my mom loved her family. Her father died in a car accident when she was just 9 years old. Mom’s family was poor, but they had each other. Most of her aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents lived within miles of each other so she grew up around them. A rich ancestry. When I was in high school, mom began working to build a historical archive of the family that she loved. Today, that family history is documented back to the 16th century. What was once her passion will now become her legacy.A fierce loyalty. She gave it freely but also demanded it in kind. An independent spirit. Her desire for my sister and I and, later, for my daughter, was that we would each be able and willing to take care of ourselves.An innate modesty. She deeply despised immodesty in young ladies. She had very strict “rules” which, to my chagrin, didn’t seem to apply to my brother.A sense of tradition. My mother gave me family recipes dating back to the Second World War. She taught me how to cook by letting me shadow her in the kitchen from a very young age, barely able to see over the countertop, later allocating menial tasks, I was her soux chef and, for the most part, she led by example. A mother’s perspective and, sometimes, painfully honest feedback.A need for stillness and for privacy. My mother was both a quiet and a deeply private person. In today’s culture where folks flout pictures of their meals and party escapades, she was very uncomfortable with that level of sharing. I can respect that as I too feel there is far too much sharing in the public sector these days.A generosity of spirit. The reason my mother loved Christmas so much was it was the one time a year she could indulge her children and then, later, her grandchildren. No one celebrated Christmas like my mom. For the past 15 years I’ve clung to my parents, even after becoming a grandma myself, knowing instinctively my time with them was drawing to a close. The things I’ve lost with mom’s passing are simply too numerous to mention, but my real angst lies in what my daughter has lost. The myriad of little things grandma was good at, where I simply fall short. Who will teach her these things? No one. They’re lost in time along with all the other women in my life who’ve long-since passed away. Now, it’s my turn. I was blessed to have a grandmother until I was 40 years old. I had my mother until I was 45. God-willing, I will be with my daughter until she’s in her 40’s and, more importantly, that I can meet the challenges set forth by all those women who’ve molded and shaped me.
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