Seven Years Ago
It was a Saturday morning. We had my mom’s special Italian eggs with peepers and onions with some steak fries on the side for brunch, delicious as usual. We were going to visit a new place my mom had heard about named Peddlers Village in New Hope Pennsylvania. I was ten years old at the time and like on most of our road trips, I was asked to take out the map and navigate our way there. Mind you I do not think I had been to Pennsylvania yet in my life but my mom always treated me as a person, not a little helpless child that needed to be coddled and bundled up in the winter and frozen solid with air conditioning in the summer. This day was perfect- sunny 70 something degrees and the sky was clear; no need to bundle up or crank the air conditioner in the car. We drove her old Chevy Impala with the windows open, which made map reading a challenge but there were enough traffic lights to work it out.
We spent the afternoon walking around and munching on fresh-made kettle Peanut Brittle. The little shops and snack bars were fun, we felt like we were in a different time and place. This was before New Hope became a tourist trap for New Agers and Peddlers Village turned into pseudo-Amish Village. We had a great day. We ate some dinner there before heading back. I think we had some kind of special meat sandwich on fresh marble rye. On the way home, I bailed on my navigators duties and fell asleep for most of Route 206 but woke up by the time she needed an update. We stopped at the locally owned Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream down the street from our home and I got Jamoca my favorite. These are the kinds of days that I think about when I think of my mom. There were many that were nothing like this but these carry most the most strength for me.
It was seven years ago today that her body had had enough. It was a Monday around noontime. I had been back in jersey and trying to support my mom during her final half year. I worked and lived at 300 hundred year old former Inn that was a renovated restaurant that a buddy was the chef and manager. He started chemo and radiation for throat cancer while my mom was eroding away from the cancer that started when I was just a little older than that day at Peddlers Village. She had fought that thing for about thirty years! Enough was enough. I was helping this attractive wealthy woman when the call came: it was my Cousin Jackie. She didn’t have to say a word; her tears and energy told the story that I already knew the ending six months earlier. The doctors said she had several years, “She is a fighter!” her oncologist said. I knew in my belly it was time to stop fighting; the fight was over.
During those last few months, the memory of my mom was hard to bring to focus. She had lost most of her memory and faculties due to the large quantities of morphine being dripped into her system. When I was sitting next to her, she would say, “You know my son Michael is on the phone. He moved all the way to New Jersey just to stay with me. He is such a great kid. They all say he is selfish and doesn’t care about his family but he walks five to ten miles every time he comes to see me. That’s my son Michael, never the easy way but he stands for what he believes.” She would dose off. The next day I would be on the phone with her, “You know my son Michael walked all day in the rain and wind to come see me today? He is such a good-looking guy. I feel so bad he has never gotten married but we always knew, even when he was a kid that he would never marry. He was always so determined to do what he needed to do. Nobody ever could tell him what to do. Not my Michael. I wish he had married a nice girl though, somebody to take care of him. Such a shame. He works so hard with those messed up kids in Wisconsin or wherever he lives. He is so good with them but he still needs a woman to help him out. He gets lonely even though he says he doesn't. I am his mother and I know. Ok, I better get off the phone, I do not want to keep him waiting after walking all that way.”
About a month before she passed, I brought my two nephews and their mother, my brother’s widow, to see her. They had not seen her much since she had regressed so much. She did not know who they were. She raised them and didn’t know who they were. They cried. I did worse. To see these boys witness my mom, their Gramma like that was devastating to me. Still is. They did not see her again after that night.
Tonight I lit a candle for her. I prayed for her and thanked her. Most of what is good about me came from her. It took many years to come to the surface but it clearly has her stamp on it. She was the fighter that showed me how to fight. She was the cook that demonstrated food as love to be shared and cherished. She was the one who let me know I am worth it so I can do that with for others. She was the one who loved me during the Hell years and the aftermath that followed, giving me hope that I would again be lovable some day. I am.
I miss her. More than I let myself know or feel. Too painful. I pretend I am Ok because it is the only thing I know how to do. I miss her. I miss her.
Mom. I miss you. They do too. You are not forgotten. Never will be. Thank you for being my mom. I love you.
Your son Michael
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