Thinking about my mom..

..and the angels on her birthday ..

An undated photo and two with her much-loved grandkids

Today, January 31, is my mom’s birthday. She was born in 1922. She died on February 7, 1997, just 7 days past her birthday at 75.

I wasn’t sure about writing this, but I woke up about 3 a.m. last night, and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I eventually pulled out the computer.

There were a couple of things that happened around the time of her death, which have given me comfort over the years. So I’m sharing.

My mom, Ida, had lung cancer and was home with hospice care and managing. She was well enough to celebrate her birthday with relatives at the family house in Catskill where she had retired with her older brother, known to us all very affectionately as Uncle. Some local friends came by during the day, and after dinner, the family had cake and singing, and she was still enjoying food, so it was as festive a night as possible.

The next morning, a Saturday, started with her typical breakfast, just coffee and a couple of Stella D’oro breakfast treats; she loved those. Then she went into her bedroom to get dressed, and I followed to help her.

I was standing behind her, getting something clasped, and she turned around, looked at me and then collapsed in my arms. I started to cry, got her into bed and nearly collapsed myself, with a heart so heavy, I felt I was being crushed.

She seemed to fall into a sleep that she never actually came out of.

I called her sister, Rosemary, who was never “Aunt,” probably because she was the youngest sibling, who came downstairs. We shared tears, and tried to make sense of the situation. Hospice was already involved, so we called them, and a nurse arrived later that day.

So the end began. No one could predict how long my mom would be in this condition. We kept her comfortable, and her lips and mouth moist; nurses frequently visited and helped, both physically and emotionally. They are experts in this field, and I am thankful to them; their compassion and help was so important in my accepting the inevitable loss.

Every day was numbing. I felt completely crushed, broken, beyond saddened. I kept talking to her, hoping she could hear me. Rosemary was beginning to think I was losing it. I could tell by the way she was looking at me.

Even with relatives in the house, I felt very much alone. As an only child, this was a solitary journey.

My mom opened her eyes a few times during the week, including when the priest came for last rites, but without recognition. We were not a religious family, but the three of us had all agreed on the priest.

And this went on through Thursday into Friday, February 7. At that point it was just the three of us in the house, Uncle, Rosemary and me.

About 3:30 a.m., both Rosemary and I woke up simultaneously and met in the kitchen. We must have known in some way that it was time. When I looked in on my mom, with Rosemary at the door, she had passed. I felt her and she was still warm, so it couldn’t have been long.

We hugged, cried, went into the kitchen, and Uncle was there now too. He appeared stoic, but none of us was doing too well.

And then Rosemary asked, “Debbie, where are your friends?”

I replied, “What friends?”

“The ones who just came in. I heard the door open and a commotion of people coming in. I thought they had to be your friends. That’s what woke me up.”

“No one. No friends came in. No one’s here, you can see that.”

I shrugged, but we checked the door, which was locked, and we all looked at each other through slow tears.

I called the undertaker, who arrived, and then my mom was gone. Uncle had pulled out a bottle of Scotch, so the three of us sat the kitchen table and he poured a round.

“Debbie, you have to get some sleep,” he said. “There’s a lot to do tomorrow.”

The next morning Julian, who was in Brewster with the kids, called, and I told him Mom was gone.

“I figured that,” he said.

“Amy woke up this morning and before she went to school, she told me that she had a dream that Nini died. She said, ‘The angels came and lifted Nini up.’ ”

Nini is what she called her grandmother, my mom.

Not everyone would consider that a spiritual experience, but I do, even though I was not the one to hear the angels or dream of them.

After all these years, my sadness about my mom is that I think she had a difficult life. Even though she had a decent job, as a single mother, she must have sacrificed a lot.

Carl Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their children than the unlived life of the parent.” I wasn’t a psych major, but I know this is one of those quotes with a lot of interpretations. The superficial meaning is mine.

She just missed a lot. Her marriage was short. Married in 1951, split by 1956. She married a man who was an alcoholic and already divorced. So she took her risks.

But one time, in a candid moment, I asked her a question about the past. I can’t even recall exactly what it was, but she answered, “I would do it all over again.”

Happy Birthday, Mom, I love you.

Thank you all for reading.

My mom’s first car, an enormous Packard that she was very proud of. I remember her driving a pack of kids and me to swim lessons in this car. The dog was before my time!