I want to post more about Coleman's progress but can't yet pull it together. I will soon. Instead today I'll share a post for my mom - it is the Eulogy I wrote and gave at her funeral. She was an amazing woman - many of you had the great pleasure of knowing her. We will miss her every single day.
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For my Mom
One of the many
difficult parts about death is that no matter how much time you have to prepare
for its arrival, you are never really prepared.
Some would say our family was lucky in that respect - we had our chances
to say goodbye, to hold her closely and tell her how much we loved and
appreciated her, to let her know, despite our heartache, that is was ok to let
go, ok to give up. But we hardly feel
lucky. We feel crushed.
Everyone here knew
my mother well. She was so many
wonderful things to so many wonderful people.
To her friends, she was a faithful promise, a constant and honest friend
in both good times and in bad. A
shoulder to lean on, an ear to vent to, a heart to cry to. A friend that was always at the ready. But she was also a friend in need.
She needed that
shoulder to lean on, that ear to vent to, and many hearts to cry to (though
truthfully I suspect she rarely did).
Mostly though, I think, she needed friends to escape to from her
delightful but occasionally incorrigible children. She sought conversations and discussions
that surrounded in things other than “Who drank all the milk?” “Who ate the
last of the Cap’n Crunch?” “Where are all the Chips Ahoy hidden?” I remember she would try to sneak to Gerard’s
café, or her friend Peachie’s house to chat for a short time. But she would be gone no more than a ½ hour
and we would be on the phone, calling.
“When are you coming home?” “How much longer?” “Do I have to watch Star Trek?”
My mother’s
friends tried to help fend us off, official gatekeepers of her time. I would call, and try to disguise my voice when
Peachie answered the phone. “Your Mom is
busy right now. What do you need?” she
would say. Such a shrewd one that Peachie,
thwarting all our efforts. My mother
deserved the break from us of course, deserved some time away – we just never
saw it back then. Just like we never saw
any the stress or pain or heartache that she went through. We only ever saw the positive, reassuring,
‘everything is fine’ woman. The ‘we can
handle this’ woman. The ‘nothing is
insurmountable’ woman. She was that
woman until the end.
In reality, though, of course,
there was stress and pain and heartache; everything was not always fine. And that’s where her friends really shone.
I first noticed
the bond of my mother’s friendships with the arrival of Kiki. It took exceptional friends to understand a
special girl like Kiki, and all of my mom’s friends did – they all became
important parts of her life. We held
several healing masses at our house for Kiki , several prayer services – and
all of my mother’s friends were there, every time. In addition, they came several times each
week to ‘patten’ Kiki – a process that was intended to prevent atrophy from
settling in Kiki’s body from non-movement.
In a small room in the basement, with Kiki layed out on a table, they
took turns moving her legs, bending her arms, helping to make flexible those
limbs that did not move on their own.
And in between turns, they played guitars, sang songs, told stories, and
ate pizza. A lot of pizza. I vividly recall sitting atop those basement
stairs, happily listening to the growing din below, knowing that all of these
people were here to help Kiki, to help my mother. I didn’t know what to call the feeling then,
that mix of happiness and pride – the combination that nearly takes your breath
away. I know now it’s called
gratitude. Today, our family remains
full of that feeling, that gratitude, for the friend that each of those people
were to my mother.
My mother’s
friendships certainly weren’t contained to helping with Kiki. My mom lived a full life, despite her meager
means, and we have lots of fond memories of times spent with her and her
friends. She loved her Sunday movies and
dinners, and her weekend trips to Chatham.
I recall many afternoons on Bowman street, annual trips to the campgrounds
at Myles Standish, long beach days at Nantasket, and our rare but fun week-long
Cape Cod rentals. We loved my mom’s
friends – they were, still are, and always will be – like extended family. From the Fitzgeralds to the O’briens, the
Flahertys to the McIntyres, the Clarks to the Shepards, and so many, many
others in between. She was a lucky woman
to have so many friends that cared about her.
Aside from my
mother’s friendships, the majority of her time was spent with us, her
kids. She was our world. And, I think, we were hers as well. She loved the beach and we spent a
considerable amount of time there with her.
Where else really can you take seven kids for the day with a jug of
kool-aid and a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? We were never alone, sitting in the same spot
every day, where neighbors and friends all gathered at various times of the
day. We arrived early and stayed
late. It was a ritual we all
loved. Unless you were mistakenly left
at the beach. Like me. “Go over to the showers and wash the sand
off” my mother told me. In retrospect,
it was ridiculous of her to ask. Clean
the sand off before getting in the car??
Really? That old station wagon
had enough sand in it to start its own beach.
But still, off I ran to wash the sand off. I dawdled, I’m sure. And when I returned, there was no car. And no family. My mother told the story that she was home,
unpacking the car, thinking “It seems very quiet around here…” realizing
suddenly I was missing. So she came back
and got me and no one’s been forgotten since.
As the years
passed and my mom’s arthritis grew worse, her days at the beach began to wind
down, the soft sand too difficult to maneuver in. It killed her to give up the beach, and in
the last years, she would drive to Nantasket, and wait for the tide to come in,
and then walk down the ramp so she could get to the water easily. But
even that was difficult and soon she was unable to make it onto the beach at
all. To compensate for the beach, we
started to spend more time at our pools. Between all of her children, she had
several to choose from, though admittedly she found my pool the easiest to
enter and exit. You could frequently
find her there, floating around the pool, noodle behind her back, basking in all
her glory. We kept the fridge stocked with
hotdogs and relish. Food for our queen.
Soon, though, even
the pools became difficult to get in and out of. But she didn’t complain, only wanting to
spend time with us wherever she could.
She was a big fan of sitting in the yard with everyone, passing hours on
end chatting about anything and everything.
She would call me in the morning.
“What are you doing today?” she’d ask with anticipation. “Not much.
Might go over Ronnie’s so Coleman can jump on the trampoline for a
while.” “Good. Ok, my friends are going to the Cape for the
day, but I’d rather hang with you guys.”
“Go!” we would urge her, but she was stubborn, as you know, and there
was no changing her mind. And so we
spent many, many lazy days in yard gabbing away, and as the weather grew cold,
we simply moved indoors but continued with our weekend get togethers. They were quite frequent, and I am so
grateful now for all of those times we shared.
Things took a
dramatic turn for the worse about 2 ½ years ago with the first of several
perforations in her colon and, despite her best efforts, the downward spiral
never really ceased. She never
complained though, and remained desperate to get home, hopeful always that she
could get there. For a short time she
did make it home, and despite her inability to walk, she was able to slide from
the bed to the wheelchair unassisted, and then manage her way around her house
independently. She had such
determination – it was really something.
At one point, she would call one of us that lived close by – Debbie or
Patti - and have them come to her house,
help her down the ramp and into the driver’s seat of her car. They would pack the wheelchair into the
trunk, and off she would drive to her destination, usually my house. She would pull into my driveway and beep, and
out I would come, take the wheelchair out of the trunk, help her into it, and
through a true MacGyver contraption which included couch pillows and a set of 2x4s,
get her up the singular small step into my house. She held on to the sides of that chair as I
heaved her up – I’m certain God himself was there helping, for although we made
it, it was a very close call. We waited
for Billy to come home before trying to get her back out again. In any case, my mother remained determined, and
that determination carried her through the last two years. During these difficult times, she remained
clear of mind except for a few bouts of confusion associated with
infections. Those times provided us all
with a bit of comic relief as she recounted events or things that had never
happened. Chuckling she would nod her
head to the windows, and whisper “Do you see them? There are little leprechauns up on the
corners of the windows.” Or when
visiting her I would ask “How was your night?” and she would tell me how she had gone to Hi-Fi for pizza that night, which was not possible since she was unable to eat or walk then. Or, in a particularly out of
character moment, she flipped the bird to one of the nurses she was sure had just
insulted her. For the most part,
however, she was sharp and she remembered everything. Her
head was strong, but her body was weak. It
was only very recently, I think, that she began to understand that God’s plan
was quite different than hers.
We all had very
different relationships with my mother, none more important than any other,
none less. She cherished them all, and
never a day passed that she wasn’t available.
She was a teacher, a confidant, a guidance counselor, a cheer leader, a
sympathizer, a unifier, and a friend.
She was a parent in the fullest sense of the world, a Matriarch who
lived her life in God’s example. She did
not deserve the life she was dealt. She
deserved so much better. She had EARNED
so much better. We will always struggle
to understand God’s plan.
Her passing has
left us broken hearted, a colossal void that will never be filled. But we will forge forward and try to find joy
in our memories of her. We will do our
best to follow the example she so plainly set for us - 3 simple truths to live
by: live faithfully, forgive quickly,
and love deeply. We will remember that
she gave us her all, an effort that likely gave us more time with her than perhaps
God had originally planned. We will find
comfort that her suffering has ended, that she is reunited with Kiki and her
own parents, and that one day we will meet again. Until that day, we will plead with her for
heavenly favors; we will beg her to help us; we will implore her to guide us. We will be relentless in our demands. We will give her no peace. For her, it will be just like she never
left.
💓💓💓💔💔💔💔💓💖💖
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