My mother was not a very religious woman. She married Jewish. Twice. She loved lighting candles. And she prayed. The most memorable of her prayers went: “Pray for a parking spot.” She lived in South Philly, in a row house she cherished, where parking was a regular trial.
She was also superstitious. “If I don’t watch the game, they’ll probably win,” she said about the Phillies one night.
This was a woman who knew her power.
Her power when I was little was what I like to call “cuddly power.” I’d sit on her lap and cram myself into her personal space so closely I broke her nose once, or at least that’s how the story went. I found in her affection my refuge as we nestled together on the corduroy couch in our red-painted family room. She’d kiss each one of my toes and smile so big at me, with such love in her eyes that even her fillings sparkled. Enveloped in a haze of Tareyton cigarette smoke, long, thick brown hair and freckled arms, I adored her.
Once puberty set in though, all bets were off.
I know. It’s very rare. Teenage rebellion, especially from a daughter toward her mother. How I didn’t drive her to drink I’ll never know. Maybe because she was sure I’d grow out of it. She called it a phase with a wave of her hand. Called our decade in Chicago, where we moved in 1981 to live with her new boyfriend—an adventure.
She was good at reframing situations, mostly to her benefit. Now it makes me laugh. Then? Well…
By the time I was in college my mom officially drove me crazy. No matter what she did or said, she could not win and I was a total, certified bitch. I would regularly lose my mind because she refused to be tied to my judgments. Now I see—she refused to be tied down.
She whirled when I begged for stillness, catapulted when I nagged for capitulation. She ate chaos for breakfast while I starved for order. And worse yet, we were both sure we were right.
Years turned into decades. As our family grew and branched out, some softness returned. But not enough. Never enough.
Writing this now, I can’t stop thinking, why was I so obsessed with changing her? She was always a rebel, just like me. It’s a bittersweet revelation. “Rebelation.” A rebel nation of two.
We could have had so much fun together. We’d have gotten into so much trouble.
She never did anything the conventional way, down to the littlest things. She’d say, when I accomplished something worthwhile, “I’m proud on you.” I loved that. Not of. ON. I picture her sitting on top of me, beaming down.
“Totes adorbs” turned into “toast adorbs” under my mom’s creative control. Was it because she was left-handed? Because she refused to wear her hearing aid? Or did she just crack herself up?
I was still rebelling against her rebellion until the end, answering her requests for a phone call with a curt text. By this point we may as well have been a funhouse mirror, reflecting our similarities to each other on and on into infinity.
But life is finite, even if the spirit lives on.
She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and, not to be outdone by a few malignant tumors, had a massive stroke. I rode with her and two paramedics to the hospital, hitting every pothole, siren blaring.
As soon as she was in the hospital she begged to leave—first to go home, up to the third floor of her beloved row house where her favorite chair was. I imagined her loft-like space, with the hardwood floor, exposed brick and shelves lined with books floating in the clouds, God in His Birkenstocks waiting for her. Once it was clear she needed round-the-clock care, she begged to go just about anywhere that wasn’t the hospital. She wanted to get to a comfortable place to die. Needed it like a fix. Nagged like a child.
I pictured her flying out the sixth floor hospital window riding on the back of a supernaturally gifted nurse, gown ties and plastic cords trailing in her wake. She was on a mission. For the first time in years, I wished I could make her happy.
In the hospital, when I arrived for a visit she looked at me and said, “My baby.” I felt blessed by an angel, as if she were already halfway to heaven but there was some bureaucratic mix-up and she had to wait in line for the next available teller.
Her sudden shimmering vulnerability shifted something in me that I did not predict. A tenderness took over where just a week before I’d been kvetching about her.
Every day I visited I told her, I love you, and like always, she replied, “I love you more.” Every time. I love you more. Until it was no longer audible, lips barely moving.
I love you more.
I’m not gonna lie. Death is fascinating, enlightenment unfurling, and I am so thankful I was there to witness it. I watched her let go of everything that didn’t matter: her house, her looks, her books, a nice meal… One of the last lucid things she said was, “Family is all that matters.”
Family, and “a fucking Tylenol.” The woman cursed streaks blue as her hair, and the nurses on the stroke ward loved her. They knew she was a special lady.
I can see that now.
You were right, Mom, when you warned, “I won’t be around forever, you know.” Subtext: get it while you can, girl.
Let me repeat that:
YOU WERE RIGHT, MOM.
All this time she was toast adorbs. And I missed so much of it. I’m proud on you too, ma. Proud all over you that you lived your life the way you wanted to, no matter what I said, no matter what anyone thought. You were a rebel, a gypsy, a butterfly. You were rock and roll. You were bluegrass. You were jazz.
I am so very proud on you.
I love you Mommy.
💔
Not that I'm any kind of expert, but you're a damn fine writer. If you wrote a book I would buy it, knowing it would make me laugh and cry and be proud to be a woman.
"You were right, mom." Yeah, the layers of meaning in that are not lost on me. What a beautiful tribute in your unique and powerful way with words.