This entry started its life as a Facebook post, but in the midst of formulating it in my head I decided that it would probably work better as a blog entry. Besides, this poor space really does need more love.
My mother passed away this past Monday. It was not unexpected; her health had been in steady decline for a while, and in precipitous decline in the past month or so. I made plans to make a quick trip from Indiana to her home in Issaquah, WA, so I could have one last visit and, yes, to say goodbye. I cannot put into words how glad I am that I did this. For one thing, and this was difficult, it gave me a window into how much she was suffering. It was clear to me that she was letting go and based on what I witnessed I completely understood. It also gave us the rare and precious opportunity to say goodbye and to potentially mend any fences that needed mending and clear the air about unresolved things. Only in our case none of that turned out to be necessary. For Mom, it was all in the past, and none of it mattered anymore. That was a hugely immense gift she gave to me, as I had not always been a great son to her, particularly in my adulthood. We could both be bullheaded, and our heads butted on many an occasion. But to her, it was all over, no apology necessary. I have to admit, in a way, it reminded me of God’s grace. And she gave me an even bigger gift besides that one. She told me she was proud of me. For someone like me, who is now on the downslope of middle age, and who made so many mistakes earlier in life, many of which my mother had to bail me out of, to have the hard work I’ve done to turn my life around acknowledged so fully and emphatically…once again, I have no words. So, while of course there is grief, and I’ll have waves for a while to come, my heart is feeling so much peace because of that 2-day visit.
Sadly, I have precious few memories of Mom and I doing things together. That’s not surprising; growing up I was much closer to Dad. But I know she loved me tremendously. I pretty much spent the first 5 or so years of my life in the hospital, and she was with me every step of the way. This leads to one of the things that many of you may consider kind of oddball. I think of Mom every time I hear the first bars of the opening theme of the Lucy Show. Not I Love Luc, but the show she did in the 60s, with Mr. Mooney and that’s all I remember of it. Channel 5 in San Francisco ran reruns of The Lucy Show at 9 AM weekday mornings, which coincided with the beginning of hospital visiting hours. Inevitably someone in a room close to me would have their TV on at loud enough levels that I heard those first few bars of the theme, and I knew it wouldn’t be long at all before Mom came. And, in my mind, at least, she was always there almost immediately.
There was something else we shared that, to the best of my knowledge, hardly anyone else shared with us, certainly nobody in the family, immediate or extended. We both loved pickled beets. So, when I got groceries on Tuesday, I made sure to include a jar of pickled beets in the order. I’m not sure if there’s any significance to the fact that, as of this writing, I have been unable to break the vacuum seal to open the jar. But at least I have it, and I will get it open. One of these days.
One more thing. Mom was a good cook but I always had the sense that, unlike me, she never really enjoyed her time in the kitchen. But, when I was around 12 years old, she got a spaghetti recipe from a friend that became one of my ultimate comfort foods. No spaghetti I’ve ever had tastes like it, actually not even close. I cannot piece enough of the taste together in my head to take a guess at the ingredients, except that it has mushrooms and, maybe, cloves. She made it for me on my birthday on a few ocasions, and the last time she did was when she was out in Indiana for a visit in 2012. There is part of me that desperately wants that spaghetti one last time. But I fear the recipe died with Mom, and I know the friend she got it from has been deceased for a while. But my wife made pasta for me tonight, and it was very comforting. And in the end that’s how it should be. So I can’t think of a better way to wrap this up then to say, as Douglas Adams might have, so long, Mom, and thanks for all the spaghetti.
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