You know how you can hear phrases so many times, for so many years, from the

same person, that you stop hearing it? “Hi pussycat” and “Hi sweetheart” were the

words my mother would greet me with- either in person or over the phone. That is,

unless she was angry with me, and then the words icily changed to “Oh hi Ellen,” a

phrase that could be flat and soul crushing at the same time. “Hi pussycat” and “Hi

sweetheart” were words I ended up both taking for granted and deeply relying on for a

sense of security for all the years of my life. To think a day would come when I would no

longer hear them was unfathomable.

After her diagnosis of metastasized breast cancer, I had been soberly and

silently bracing myself for the day when both the words and the woman who said them

to let me know I was in her presence would be taken away forever. I have always joked

about how I could never be an actor because I can’t memorize lines, but the one thing I

can do is cry on cue. All I had to do was think about the unspeakable happening to my

mother and it would bring on a flood of tears. A week and a half ago, the unspeakable

did in fact happen, unsurprisingly accompanied by… a flood of tears.

I cared for my mother for close to five years after my father died. His death,

unlike my mother’s, was sudden and unexpected. I had been divinely blessed with one

final conversation with my father that wasn’t tense and disturbing and that was focused

on something other than some financial issues he and my mother were weathering and

that I was trying to navigate. We had been able to banter about a couple of pleasant

topics during that magical chat that we were both interested in, and I was able to end

our conversation with “I love you.”

We always think we have more time. We mindlessly go through our days and

busy ourselves with the things that life conditions us to think are important, until we are

faced with something that bonks us on the head with the reality that time is a gift, not a

guarantee. And so, when I flew down to Florida to attend my father’s funeral, I hugged

my mother hard and silently vowed to be there for her in ways I felt I wasn’t with my

father- at least not in the final weeks of his life. She hugged me back, but her shock and

grief were stronger at that moment than her need for consolation, and she suddenly let

go of me with her eyes wide and searching for answers that she knew weren’t there.

A poignant reminder of the connection I had with my mother was her response to

a question asked by the rabbi who had taken care of my father’s funeral. He had

gathered the immediate family in a small sitting room adjacent to where my father’s

funeral had been held. He probed her about her plans to go forward.

“I think I’d like to live near my daughter,” she said, turning to face me.

Hearing her say that gave me a mix of emotions, mostly gratitude and love, but

also relief. I had vowed to try to be there for her in a way I wasn’t for my father, and

having her close enough so as not to have to jump on a plane was going to help me

keep my vow. That said, knowing my mother, and knowing me, I knew this transition

and new normal for everyone would be rough going. I caught a glimpse of my

impending mom-laden life many months before she moved up north. Despite much time

having passed since my father himself passed, my mother insisted, loudly and with lots

of cursing, that it was too early for us to look for a place for her and that she wasn’t

ready. There were many financial and practical reasons why continuing to live in her

and my father’s villa down in Florida wasn’t an option, but she continued to fiercely dig

her heels deep in denial until she finally accepted her new reality and agreed to move.

The next sobering wakeup call was my mother’s disdain for her first apartment, a

ground floor one-bedroom in Lexington, Massachusetts, near the Revolutionary War

battleground where the famous shot heard around the world was. I was excited about it,

not just because of its historical surroundings, but because it was literally a stone’s

throw away from a food store and hair salon and it was a quick drive from downtown

Boston. My mother had boasted about being a city girl, born in Queens and raised in all

its neighboring boroughs, and she claimed she wouldn’t settle for living anywhere but in

the city when she moved. Given how vulnerable and dependent she had become just in

the months that lapsed since my father’s death, we knew her “Carrie from Sex in the

City” dream was just as unrealistic and impractical as her moving into a rent controlled

three-bedroom on Pluto. And so, we worked hard to convince her that Lexington would

be a reasonable compromise that came with perks the city didn’t have, like being able to park your car without having a stroke, having your rent get you more than the equivalent

of a closet minus utilities, and not needing to hike to a nearby laundromat.

“So, what do you think ma?” I asked after she arrived and started slowly moving

toward her new digs with her swollen legs that had been in a cramped moving van for

many hours. She couldn’t see the place in person ahead of time because of restrictions

having to do with the Covid pandemic and had only seen photos of it online. “Do you

like it?”

“Not really,” she said, along with an edgy chuckle.

“Not really” was the general, discontented vibe that followed for the next several

years, although reassuringly sprinkled with outbursts of gratitude and even the

occasional high praise in the form of “You’ve been wonderful” and “You are keeping me

alive.” To say it was all or none with my mother would be a bald-faced lie, as both the

life she lived, and the person she was, had many endearing and- at the same time-

provocative layers. I supposed the same could be said about most of us.

(stay tuned for part 2 of “Foxtrot: My Mother’s Last Dance”)