Two weeks before my mom died she decided to stop treatment. She’d fought cancer for over twenty years and was ready to stop. The day she decided to begin hospice I called out from work so we could be together. She held me in her arms and we said the things that needed to be said.
I wonder now, how many times I’ve shared the words, “I love you” with my mom. Thousands maybe? We said “I love you” that day with new desperation, feeling once again, the limits of language to communicate the depth of our feelings and the profound sadness that our time together would soon be ending. My mom cried and told me she had lived a good life and she just didn’t want to fight any more. Then we dried our tears and went out for Middle Eastern food with Marcy, because we could. “You don’t go to a funeral before you go to a funeral.” was our philosophy.
The week before my mom died was so hard. Every day brought new changes that made it more difficult for her. Despite the ever-present heartache this time was also full of joy. We ate Chinese food together and watch the Daily Show. We even shared my mom’s first Krispy Kreme donut, plain glazed served hot like it should be. She wasn’t eating much at this point, but let me tell you that donut didn’t last long. And, of course, she spent many hours basking in the sunshine of her grandchildren’s love. I will never forget the last time she held Penelope on her chest or the last kiss she planted on Molly’s cheek.
By now, most people have heard how she died. My mom’s last day was spent in her home which felt like a revolving door of love. Seriously, we didn’t close the door to our home all day because people just kept coming. Eventually evening came and the house was quiet. Rabbi David arrived late, almost 10:30. He asked if we would like to say the Shema. Tina curled up on my mom’s lap while dad and I each held mom’s hand. At the end of the prayer she opened her eyes wide, and looked around. She opened her mouth as though to speak and took her last breaths. That was it. I felt her leave. The emotional intensity of that moment can only be compared to giving birth. It was that painful and that transformative.
The last days, and even moments of my mom’s life were so hard, but in the midst of that immense pain there was also pure love and the undeniable presence of g-d.
Today I feel so lost without my mother. Only now am I slowly beginning to understand what life will feel like without her. I am also beginning to understand that my mom left me a gift. That gift is all of you, the people that love her and grieve for her. A Jewish blessing for the deceased asks g-d to “bind their souls among the living, that they may rest in peace.” I have been completely astounded by the outpouring of love and kindness from everyone. Thank you for sharing your life with her. In your small and large acts of love and kindness I feel my mom.