Eulogy for a Friend

There was never a doubt that I would give the eulogy at my mother's memorial. By reading this, hopefully you will get an idea of what kind of person my mother was. 

As some of you may know, my mother never wanted a memorial. For those of you who knew my mother, this is incredibly surprising. After all, this is the one event in her life that is all about her and she wanted to bypass it completely! And she was never one to miss out on any event that involved flowers. I told her she had no choice. A memorial service is really for those of us left behind. It’s our time to say goodbye. It’s also an opportunity to talk about her without interruption.

You often hear during eulogies that that the person being eulogized wouldn’t want us to be sad, but to celebrate their lives and move on. Not my mother. I am certain that she wants us to miss her. She wants us to think about her when we play bingo, when we go to her favorite restaurant, or her favorite store. She wants us to feel a little guilty for doing some of her favorite things without her. If we feel sad or guilty, it means that she had an impact on our lives.

Children often have an idealized notion of who their parents are. As we grow up, we discover that our parents are merely humans, humans that don’t live up to our high expectations. I have always looked up to my parents. However, as I got to know them as adults, I was surprised to find that they not only exceeded my expectations as people, but I loved them even more than I did when I was a child.

I came into my mother’s life when she was 38 years old. When she discovered she was pregnant with me, she told the doctor to go to hell! She had just gotten a promotion at work and had settled into her life with my father. The doctor told her, very gently, to go home, get used to the idea, and come back the following week. As I have been told many, many, many times, my mother suffered through months of bed rest in order to ensure that she had a healthy child. This was the first selfless act in a long line of selfless acts that continued until the last moments of her life.

I had an idyllic childhood that never hinted at the struggles she faced growing up or the trials she faced in her 20s. Those first 38 years shaped her as a woman and, more importantly, as a mother. She was bound and determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. She made sure that I excelled at everything I did. She made sure I knew I was loved. As a mother, she did one heck of a job.

That’s not to say that we didn’t have our “moments.” My mother always thought she was right. As a young adult, I knew I was right. “All mouth and full of poop,” dad used to say. This led to quite a few epic battles, often refereed by my father.

My mother would often take credit for my success, and often times, rightfully so. She would often take credit where credit wasn’t due. One day, not too long ago, I was driving her to the mall. She commented on my good driving and took credit for teaching me how to drive. This was a bit of revisionist history. You see, my mom tried to teach me to drive. If it looked like I was in 50 yards of running into something, she would start screaming at me. Not the ideal learning conditions for a 15 year old behind the wheel of a 3,000 pound car. My father took over from then on. My mother and I were both grateful and relieved. It took nearly 20 years before I would get behind the wheel of a car with my mother in the passenger’s seat.

As I was searching for a quote for mom’s obituary, I came across this quote by Oscar Wilde: “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.” Married men in this room know one thing- Never compare your wife to her mother. Countless times, I have been called “Donna.” Sometimes, this happened accidently. More often than not, it was because I displayed a character trait often attributed to my mother.  And, more often than not, it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

Growing up, I felt that I had inherited all of my dad’s exceptional traits and none of my mother’s. I didn’t look like my mother. I wasn’t tall, thin and beautiful. I didn’t have her ability to talk to anyone. Just like her, I was never quite control of my emotions. I was a tad bossy with the neighborhood kids. I even inherited my childhood allergies and asthma from her side of the family. It took me over 30 years to see the positive attributes I inherited from my mother.

When I was a classroom teacher, I found myself without a room mother. My mother volunteered to plan parties for my students and came in once a week to read with students. As I watched her work with my kids, I noticed that tutoring came easy to her. She was a natural born teacher. I may not look like her and I may not talk to her, but she gave me a gift that has shaped my entire adult life.

My mother always referred to me as a “daddy’s girl.” However, I am my mother’s daughter in so many ways. I can say, without reservation, that I am the woman I am because of her. And for that, I am forever grateful. 

Hail to the Redskins

My mother was a huge sports fan. As her world shrunk the last two years of her life, she watched football games, baseball games and NASCAR with increased frequency. She had been a fan of the Redskins since the 50s. She even dated Redskin Gene Brito! (That she ended up with my dad says a lot about him!)

In the 70s, my parents had Redskins season tickets. They would take me to the game closest to Christmas to watch Santa Claus parachute into RFK Stadium. Back in those days, women dressed up in their finest to go to the games. It wouldn't be unusual to see women bedecked in furs and jewels at RFK. When they gave up their season tickets, they would watch the games at home. (I learned how to cuss expertly at sports personalities from my father.) In the 80s, my mom volunteered for Joe Gibbs' charity auction, Youth for Tomorrow. My aunt bid on Pat Gibbs' Super Bowl XXII necklace and won. She gave the necklace to my mother, who wore it whenever the Redskins didn't tick her off. I have worn it every Sunday since my mother died.

The last game we watched together was the Thanksgiving Day game against Dallas. We were joined together in our hatred for the Cowboys and revelled in the fact that the Redskins had won the game. Less than a week later my mother was gone. 

Little did we know, the Redskins were in the middle of a seven game winning streak that would lead them to the playoffs and an NFC East Division Championship. The season had started with uneven performances and injuries. Robert Griffin III appeared to be "the real thing" but it didn't appear that the rest of the team would get their act together soon enough to salvage the season.

I have watched most of the games since Thanksgiving with my dad, cussing unapologetically at the TV. It's been a great way to bond with my father but it has been bittersweet. My mother would have loved this. She would be wearing the necklace I am wearing around my neck now, praising RGIII and Alfred Morris as if they were her grandkids. She would be thrilled to see Bryce Harper (a Cowboys fan) wearing RGIII socks and rooting for the skins. She would have enjoyed watching Jerry Jones' disappointment as Tony Romo made his third interception of the game. Most of all, she would have loved seeing her Skins winning again.

Thank you, Redskins, for reminding me that even when everything looks bleak, there is always hope. It may take a while and there might be a few changes in the lineup, but things will get better.

#HTTR

Ron White Has An Interesting Idea

A couple of days ago, I was watching one of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour specials and came across a bit about Ron and his wife. Ron's father-in-law had died and he had an interesting idea to help his wife cope with the loss.

If you see me around retirement homes, trolling for little old ladies in wheelchairs, you'll know why...

Fa la la la la, la la la NO

My mother was prepared for Christmas. Facing a holiday season filled with radiation and chemotherapy, she had completed her holiday cards, wrapped her presents, and had even purchased an outfit for the Christmas Eve church service. (I found it hanging on the back of her closet door after she died.) She was supposed to be here for Christmas. Dying wasn't part of her plan.

I wasn't prepared for Christmas. Sure, I completed all of my shopping, wrapped the gifts, purchased food. I went through all of the motions. As we drove to Christmas Eve service, we passed a SUV being driven by a man in a Santa Claus suit. I smiled and waved at him. He waved back. I began to cry.

I didn't make it through the service that evening. Before it even started, I left the church, sobbing outside the entrance. Parishioners walked by. Not one stopped to console me. Not one. (So much for support from God. I was going to have to mourn without Him.) I went back into the church to grab the car keys from my husband and went out of the church to cry in the car.

For the next 24 hours, there was no telling when I would cry. I told my husband I couldn't go to my in-laws for Christmas dinner. I don't think he was too happy with me. I didn't want to be in the middle of a family celebration when my own family was broken. I certainly didn't want to make anyone else feel uncomfortable. Most of all, I didn't think my father should be alone on Christmas Day. (He had already declined the invitation from my in-laws. He's obviously smarter than I am.)

I made the mistake of checking Facebook. Too many happy families. Too many smiling faces. Too many mothers and daughters. I hated all of them. I still do.

I realized during this time that the one person I relied on more than anyone else during difficult times was gone. (She told me I would miss her when she was gone. Boy, do I hate when she is right.) I realized that my support system had thinned out considerably. In our society, you are given one week off to mourn. After that, you move on. No one wants to hear your stories. No one wants to hear you talk about your dead mother. It's pitiful. People avoid you, as if death is contagious. Your friends abandon you. They promised support, but when mourning is messy, they are nowhere to be found. No one wants you around at Christmas time.

Mourning is lonely. Mourning during Christmas time is unbearable.

My Story

Most grief counselors encourage their patients to tell their "stories": the moment they found out about their loved one's death. This is my story. 

Every time I close my eyes, I can see her laying on the hospital bed. She has no makeup on and, without her wig, she is bald. This makes it easier to kiss her on the forehead. This will be the last time I will touch her warm body. I see my father, eyes red from crying, holding her hand. I kiss her on the forehead. I have read since that you are supposed to be calm around the dying. Dying is hard work and extremely stressful. I blow Dying 101. I sob.

I thank her. I tell her that I love her and that I am going to miss her. She gasps for air. A death rattle. A tear runs down her cheek. Someone hands me a phone. My husband. This is the first of many people I will share this horrible news with. Mom gasps again. Dr. Patel enters the room and I ask how long she has left. Little did I know, she had died. Death can be anticlimactic. 

I need this blog. If it helps you to deal with your grief or to better understand mine, then I am grateful. But I am writing this for me. The one person who would always listen to me prattle on about everything is gone and I need her more than ever. In her absence, this is the next best thing.