Our Mothers

On autopilot for all those months, I think that if I had stopped to think of what I was juggling, and what I was witnessing, I would have crawled into bed and not gotten out...

Emotion and life were not part of the gray house on Andrew Avenue. Yes, there were four people living there, ostensibly a family. In reality, just four people sharing two bathrooms . . .

I thought about what my daughter said and realized that, no, I was not my mother, but I was so happy to become like her. By emulating her, I was keeping her close to me . . .

I would become the mother I never had. I would heal by giving and by being generous. I would heal by being positive, optimistic and uncritical. I would heal by being elevated. I would heal by being respectful, sensitive and empathetic to my children. I would heal by continuing to treat my mother with sensitivity and respect despite it all . . .

I sat and waited. I hoped that you wouldn’t ignore my absence. I hoped that you wouldn’t be afraid of me—your daughter, your own flesh and blood, your baby who only sixteen years ago emerged from your womb.

My mom was acting like she had solved all my problems, but I was fuming inside. As long as I can remember, I’ve felt like a child around my mother...

Health crises, doctor’s visits, additional hospitalizations and a few prayers later, I was faced with another life-changing decision. Reflection and critical, painfully honest self-examination led me to choose, once again, the most logical path to take next . . .

When Mom was diagnosed with Cancer, it never occurred to any of us that she wouldn’t get better. There was no one more vibrant, more alive, than she; surely she would just power through her treatment and move on with the same aplomb she’d shown juggling the demands of four children or throwing together a banquet on a moment’s notice…

I thought of her manuscript often and with so much pain of loss I could not bear to open the manila envelope and see her writing on the pages. It lay in a drawer gathering importance, and waiting for me...

There are moments when she is very happy. She is happy in her spacious rooms, happy for the companionship. She calls me Mother now...

In 1950, my father passed away, but I didn't know about it until the morning of the funeral. I woke up all excited because not only was it my elementary school graduation, but I was supposed to sing a lullaby that I had composed and written myself...

There was no way I was going to be able to deal with the totality of the situation all at once. I couldn't come to grips with the loss while she was still here. That was too much to ask of myself. I had to stay in the moment, to appreciate every second I still had with her. There would be time later, when it was reality, to face the loss...

The memories of my mother when she was young, strong and fearless are fading. I'm struggling to remember the spark - a fierceness and Herculean strength emanating from her all knowing eyes...

Looking back on my 58 years as a second generation Holocaust survivor, I am struck by the powerful truth once written by the author William Faulkner "The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past." He was and is still so very right...

The years have passed, and life has changed quite a bit. But the tangible piece of her sits in my purse, and the emotional one sits in my heart. She is still here. I see her in the day-to-day events that go by...

Yitzchak, so grateful for the wife he was bestowed, nominated her for this distinction. "When you have little to give, but don't stop giving, that's special. And that's my wife."

I am a mother. I'm just a different kind of mother. I did not give birth to my child. She was not young in age, but was nevertheless someone who needed to be mothered...

didn't really understand just then, as my brain was still foggy from my nap, but the one thing I did understand was that something had happened to Mommy, and she wasn't there...

She had kept her age from me all this time and unexpectedly revealed a part of herself which was no longer a taboo subject. It's as if she wanted me to know that she was old and vulnerable now...

As recently as ten years ago, when I was still working as a geriatric social worker, I never imagined myself as a full time caregiver...

There is little more painful than having to step up and watch the helplessness and anxiety of a surviving elderly parent...

Sitting next to my mother, I realized that no matter how long your life is, it's never long enough to learn all that you need to know...

The elderly woman
sat by herself
waiting...
for the phone to ring

This was my mother? My mother, the college professor? The valedictorian of her class? . . . I told the nurses what had transpired, and with understanding looks they explained that this type of mental deterioration was not uncommon for people with end-stage cancer.