A Few Words About Mom...

After putting up an epic fight in the face of one health crisis after another for the past 16 years, my mother's fragile body finally lost the battle of wills with her nearly indomitable spirit yesterday. She made an impression on everyone she ever met, with her (sometimes-sharp) humor, enveloping warmth, and generous dose of Irish feistiness. (Apple: tree...yeah, I've been called my mother's daughter, in both admiration and exasperation...) Right up to the end, she managed to employ two of her best weapons to great effect: the impish twinkle in her blue eyes...and the steely glower that seemed to magically modify whoever's actions happened to be displeasing her at the moment. (Trust me, no one--spouse, offspring...hospital staff--was exempted from, or immune to, that potent expression!)


Her passing leaves a hole in our family which can obviously never be filled. But a personality like hers, overflowing as it was with love and laughter, leaves behind joyful memories that will help sustain us in the difficult days to come. Such as: yearly family vacations to Ocean City in my youth, where I developed my lifelong affair with the beach. (Despite my resistant-to-tanning, freckle-prone Irish complexion, like Mom's...) Or Friday Night Pizza Fests, which began as a way to ensure that their busy teenager (yeah, me) arrived home for 10 minutes and shoveled in some food after field hockey practice, before racing back to the High School to watch the Varsity football game. Of course there are things that were not particularly amusing at the time, but years later benefit from some distance and perspective...like the fact that my mom forced me to help with the backyard garden by weeding and picking veggies when they were ripe...I H-A-T-E-D that job back then, but maybe it helped plant the seeds (ha! pun intended!) for my healthy vegetarian lifestyle now? (Definitely score one for Mom!)


Then there's the over-the-top Holiday Fairy side to my mother that none of us will ever forget. The way she decorated for every occasion, big or small--if it had a name on the calendar, it was good enough for special placemats and a centerpiece on the table. (And a Stupid. Singing. Chicken. Never did figure out what that was all about...or how to surreptitiously get rid of it...) There were the hearts for Valentine's Day and the shamrocks for St. Patrick's Day and the bunnies for Easter and the stars and stripes for Memorial Day/Flag Day/July4th/Labor Day, and the pumpkins for Halloween and the turkeys for Thanksgiving. And don't even get me started on Christmas. I learned from Mom the proper way to fully celebrate the Yuletide season. She would commence listening to carols and begin decking the halls the day after Thanksgiving. The tree--procured after much tromping through the cold, muddy woods complaining about her pickiness until she identified the "perfect" one--would be bedazzled to within an inch of its life with sparkly ornaments and tinsel...lots and LOTS of tinsel. (Which incidentally we also whined about, as she demanded we hang those...charming...strands one at a time...yeah, right. That glittery little ritual inevitably ended with us throwing handfuls at the tree, and each other...good times!) The house would be transformed into a Winter Wonderland overnight. And no matter how old we (or later, the grandchildren) got, she insisted on labeling presents under the tree from "Santa". We might have shaken our heads and rolled our eyes at some of the hoopla from time to time, but we secretly delighted in the fact that she was, hands-down, the biggest, giddiest kid of us all.


But what I think my own kids will remember best, and most fondly, are the extended-family dinners. My mom cooked elaborate feasts for birthdays and holidays, and seemed to view them as a way to feed us with a little (okay a LOT of) extra love and attention. Derek absolutely adored Thanksgiving with all the turkey and trimmings--and he was even more pleased that since it was my Dad's favorite, too, we got a bonus presentation in October for Pop-Pop's birthday. Riley was partial to the pancake-and-sausage bonanza on Christmas morning after all the presents had been opened. No one's flapjacks ever satisfied him quite like Grammy's. At these gatherings, my mother sat--or stirred at the stove--acting as a calm center in the storm of 5 cousins running amok, concentrating on the task at hand, but with that glint in her eye that let us know she was also somehow enjoying the melee. (Even when she was compelled to utilize the Mom Glare to curb someone's...enthusiasm. I modeled my own "knock it the heck off right this minute" look on hers, and man, is it powerful!)


For such a strong and special woman, who'd survived so many other, more serious hits over the years, it's ridiculous that something as commonplace as a broken arm led to her eventual decline. It was heart-wrenching, watching her suffer in the hospital for the last month and a half. And although she left us much too early, she had beyond a doubt earned peace, and comfort, and rest. For me, of course, it's utterly impossible to explain or give adequate credit for how much she shaped the person I am...from "how to save your allowance" to "making the perfect chocolate chip cookies"...and everything in between. But I'm also very grateful that my children had a chance to know their Grammy, and that we made it to the hospital in time for them to say goodbye to her. Before we went, Riley came quietly into my room and said, "I want to take Grammy one of my stuffed animals, so she can always remember me." As I sniffled and hugged him close, he continued, "I'll send Blue Bear, since I've had him the longest, and that'll remind her of me the most."


So even amidst our grief right now, I'm consoled by the picture of my Mom, restored to her healthy and vibrant self, drinking iced tea her preferred way (heaps of sugar), relaxing under an umbrella someplace nice and warm (she'd have a sweater close by, just in case), cackling it up with her own mother and Aunt Renie...with Blue Bear by her side. And I just know that no matter what, she'll continue to gaze down on us with either her big infectious grin of approval...or the dreaded Frown of Doom. We will miss you, Mom, and we'll do our best to behave! (Okay, at least right after the Singing Chicken "mysteriously disappears"...)