The Divine Miss M

TheDivine Miss M

Bette Milder

A Philadelphia Stage

June 2015

I've seen Bette Midler several times and she is always enjoyable.  She is not as bold and vulgar as her younger age but she is still just as funny.  So I saw her on this night with two of my sisters and my brother-in-law.  Most of us in the audience were older.  There were not as many gay men as there used to be in her crowd.  The back-up singers did more of the dancing than she did.  But it was still fun.

But as I sat there and listened to her, I had a moment of regret.  It is so unusual for me to have any regret.  But I thought of a moment, maybe 20 years ago when I was sitting on my mother's porch and she told me that Bette was coming to Philadelphia and she wanted to go see her.  And so did I .  And do did my sister-in-law.  And so did my two nieces who were 20. And so did my sister. And so we made plans to go, three generations of us.  We were going to go together.    But for some stupid reason, the plan never came to fruition. We didn't go.  Now, my mother is gone.  My nieces are no longer interested in her and an opportunity was missed and as I watched her catch her breath between songs, I had regret.

The Times I MIss Her The Most

The Times I Miss Her The Most
My Mother
1927-1998
Philadelphia, PA

My mom died when I was 42.  She suffered from a long battle of cancer and finally, she surrounded and went quietly in to her new life.  Her death was peaceful but I still miss her, some days, more than others.  The times I miss her the most are:

• On her birthday.
• On my birthday.
• On Mother's Day.  She died the day before Mother's Day.
• When the lilacs are in bloom.  We had a big tree in our back yard and she cut twigs every night the tree was in bloom and placed them on our table.
• When the azalea bushes are in bloom. We had big bushes in our front yard and she looked forward to seeing them in bloom every year.
• Every time one of her grandchildren reach a particular milestone.  She would have loved those moments.
• When I pass a bowling alley.  She loved to bowl and frequently asked me to join her old-lady bowling league.  I tried to explain to her that I worked and lived two hours away from her.  But those were minor details in her mind.
• When I see her few remaining friends.  Most of them have died off but those who remain her still weep for her and that always breaks my heart.
• When I see a butterfly.  She loved butterflies.
• When I see the perfect gift for her in a store.  I still look for gifts for her.
• At the Philadelphia Craft Show.  I loved going to that show with her.
• On Thanksgiving.  She made great Thanksgiving dinners and after she died, my siblings and I split up for this celebration. Everyone went to their in-laws as the new default.

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My Parents Paid A Lot of Tuition Money

My Parents Paid A Lot of Tuition Money
Philadelphia, PA
From 1966 to 1995

1950- My parents married on December 29

And then the kids followed;

1952- Kathy
1954- Jimmy
1955- me
1956- Sharon
1957- Chris
1959- Tricia
1970- Brian

And then the school tuitions followed.  My parents sent us to private high schools and then paid for our undergraduate education. Here is just a small sample of the tuitions at these times:

1969-
   high school tuitions- Kathy, Jim, Sharon and me

1970
  college tuition- Kathy
  high school tuition- Jimmy, Sharon and me

1973
   college tuition- Kathy, Jim and me
   high school tuition- Sharon, Chris and Tricia
   pre-school tuition- Brian

1975
    college tuition- Jim, Sharon, Chris, and me
    high school tuition- Tricia
    pre-school tuition- Brian

1980
    college- Tricia
    private grade school- Brian

When he finally paid his last tuition bill, my father probably wrote 70 checks.  That's a lot of money.  I am forever grateful to my parents for this sacrifice.

July Memories

July Memories

• 4th of July Celebrations at the Cameos.  We went to their house in the suburbs every year.  Their back yard was a long, open field the length of three or four football fields.  We would run and run and run and play outside in this open space that seemed like an endless world.
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• July 9, 1995- my birthday. I had the only summer birthday in the family so my celebration always seemed a bit more special to me.  We usually did something fun on my birthday.  We went to a matinee show or had a picnic somewhere or went to the zoo.
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• Summer school.  I went to summer school for too many damn years.
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• Summer jobs @ the beach during my college years
•    1973- Hartman's Amusement Park
•    1974- Howard's Restaurant
•    1975- Crust and Crumb Bakery
•    1976- The Mooring Restaurant
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• The school building is empty and it is my favorite time to wander around. The floors are freshly polished. Walls are painted. All the blackboards are cleaned.  But I know this sanitized moment will all varnish on the first day of school.
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• Fireworks, barbecues, ice cream trucks, snow cones, afternoons at the pool at Llanarch Country Club, PA, sunburn, mosquitos, green head flies, crickets, grass hoppers, cutting the lawn, lightning bugs.
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• kayaking along the North East River- MD
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• afternoons lingering on the beach on Long Beach Island, NJ
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• dreadful, dreadful summer jobs while I was in college.
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• Ice cream trucks driving slowly downtime street, ringing their bells and me , holding my breath that my mother will yell out, "Go stop him, let's have a treat."  That didn't happen too often.
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• Candy Striper- 1970, 1971, 1972- Lankenau Hospital, PA
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• 1990- a trip to Italy
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• 1992- Thailand, my first trip to Asia
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• 1999- Tibet and Kathmandu
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• 2000- Ireland
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• 2001- Safari through southern Africa- South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe
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• 2005- Viet Nam and Cambodia
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• 2006- Mongolia- Naadam Festival
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• 2008- Morocco- the Mareskess Express
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• 2009- Summer of Lymes Disease.  I hated this summer.
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• 2010- my first summer of my retirement.  I retired on my 55th birthday- July 9, 2010.
• 
  
• 2013- Jacmel, Haiti: managed a Wellness Program through the Haiti Family Initiative.
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• 2014- Jacmel, Haiti: I returned for a week to open a sewing school
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• 2015- Varanasi, India
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• 2016- Northwest String Summit- Oregon, USA
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• 2017- Great Sand Dunes National Park- CO
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• 2017- got my lifetime pass to the USA National Parks for only $10.

          2018- Breckenridge Brewery Hootenanny- CO

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Six Hotdogs

My mother ran a tight ship at home. She was always in charge. But she had to. My father was busy starting his professional career. So my mother had to manage all of us by herself. My parents had six of us in 7 years. And then 11 years later, when they were 43, they had our crowned prince, Brian Edward. We were a lot of work.

My father worked diligently to manage his financial obligations. As a young father, he worked full time in the day and then hurried off each evening to law school at Temple University. Then he graduated and quit work to study for the bar exam. He couldn’t afford to fail this exam. Then he got his first job as a lawyer, he started teaching business law classes at night at Drexel University and Temple University. This job assured all of us free tuition to college in 15 to 20 years from now. Most of us hadn’t even started first grade and already he was planning options for us for college.

So my mother took care of everything in the house. And some of the tasks were more difficult than others. Like grocery shopping. We didn’t have a car until I was five and even then, my mother didn’t drive. So we walked to the grocery store every week. My mother would lead her parade of children. Kathy held Patricia’s hand. Jimmy held Chris’ hand and I pulled Sharon along. My mother dragged a food cart behind her as we trudged home.

When we moved from North Philly to West Philly, we got a station wagon and my mother got her driver’s license. And our family excursions expanded. As a treat each June to start our summer vacation, my mother took us to the King of Prussia mall. There was a little food kiosk with outside dining. My mother told us that we were going to “a little French café” in the mall. “It is just like being in Paris” she would tell us. “We eat outside and watch all the people go by.” And we always liked to go there because it made us feel so worldly. Sometimes my grandparent would join us and they would recant their stories of their days in Paris and the Azores.

The kiosk was circular. Half a dozen tables surrounded it. And it sat along a promenade. People promenaded back and forth with lots of packages. Women walked with enthusiasm. Their husbands staggered behind them, bored and worried about money being spent. Children pulled on their mother’s blouses and skirts. They wanted to go home. Store clerks ran quickly during their lunch breaks, hoping to snag a great sales item from another store. Security guards patrolled the area, pounding their night sticks in boredom. And my mother pointed out every quirky family interaction and we watched with great interest.

And then we would have lunch. My mother always ordered for all of us. And we always got the same thing. “I’ll have six cokes and six hot dogs,” she would say. This order never deviated. But one time, one of us spoke up, “I don’t want a hot dog. I want a hamburger.”

This announcement startled my mother so she turned to my sibling and asked for a clarification, “You don’t want a hot dog?”

“No, I want a hamburger.”

“Okay”, she says calmly and the rest of us were in disbelief. We couldn’t believe it was that easy to speak up. Why hadn’t we thought to do this?

So my mother turned to the waitress and said, “Excuse me but that will be six cokes and five hotdogs.”

End of discussion.

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The Adoption From Peru

The Adoption from Peru
Summer 1994
Philadelphia, PA

Deb is friends with both my sister and me.  Years ago, we studied at Penn State University.  And we have remained friends ever since.  As a matter of fact, she moved to Philadelphia after college.  So she was frequently at my mother’s table for dinner, listening to our stories and filling us in on the dysfunctions of her family.

When Deb was 32, she announced that she was going to adopt a child.  Deb was single with no hint of a partner in sight.  She was in the midst of starting up her private day care center and always just one small financial disaster away from losing her business.

“Deb, Deb, Deb”, my father would comment as she posed one financial or legal question after another to him.  Deb often asked my parents for advice from time to time.  And sometimes, they just offered her advice, whether she asked for it or not. “May I make a suggestion” my father would ask.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t have her own parents.   Both of Deb's parents are living but they are much older and they fret over her.  In dealing with all things controversial, they often ignore the truth. For example, one time, Deb got an invitation from an unknown family to attend their reunion.  Puzzled, Deb took the invitation to her mother.  The mother took one look at the invitation and panicked. “Oh, that.  I was hoping they wouldn’t invite you.” And that was the end of the conversation.  But it served to confirm Deb’s suspicions.  Deb's mother had been married before and her three much older brothers were really her half-brothers.  The secret had been kept from Deb and even as it was now opened, it wasn’t discussed because it was still too difficult for the mother to handle. So Deb did not attend the reunion at the request of her mother. Deb stepped in line, right behind her now half-brothers and buried her mother’s secret, never to be discussed again.

But now Deb had a big life changing decision to make and she wanted my parents’ feedback.

“Deb, Deb, Deb”, my father shook his head.  My mother, who had 7 children of her own, always commented that “kids aren’t all they are cracked up to be.” And as each of my siblings married, my mother would pull them aside, the night before their weddings for the “talk”.  Her message was consistent “Why don’t you be the aunt, not the mother.  Don’t have kids.  Be the rich aunt who gets to go on trips and buy expensive jewelry. You don’t need to have kids these days.”  And so, Deb got some sort of version of my mother’s take on motherhood.

My parents’ lack of encouragement didn’t deter Deb.  She began to pursue the process of adoption.  Being single, the options in the USA were limited.  So she was going to have to pursue an adoption in a foreign country.  When I heard that she was going to Peru to adopt a daughter, I worried about Mrs. Grant’s reaction.

“Deb,” I told her, “Your mother is going to have a hard time explaining this to her neighbors.  She is going to fear that people will think you had sex with a black man.”  Deb was incredulous with my statement. “Oh please, my mother is not that bad.  She wouldn’t think that.”  Deb spoke as if she adamantly believed this but I knew she would store this thought away for further reflection.

The process moved along slowly and Deb kept my family apprised of her situation.  And with each update, we asked the same question, “Have you told your parents yet?”  And sheepishly, she respond “No, not yet.”  She just didn’t have the courage to face their confusions and fears of this big decision.

And so, on Thanksgiving night, I am at my parents’ house when the phone rings.  It is Deb calling.  “I told them” she tells me before I even get to say “hello.” There is relief and exhaustion in her voice. I know right away that she had to talk about it.  But I interrupt her.  “Just a minute”, I say.  And without even covering the receiver, I shout to the rest of my family, who are scattered, all over the house, “Deb told her parents.”

My mother charges out of her bedroom. “Don’t say another word. Tell her to come over right away.  We want to hear the whole story.”

It is now 9PM.  Deb has just driven 1 ½ hours from her parents’ house.  It would be another ½ hour before she got to my parents’ house.  But she agrees to come over.

The doorbell rings.  My mother gives the command, “put the kettle on. Let’s have tea.” And we charge down the steps, answer the door and take a seat in the living room.

I can hear my father call out, “Don’t start without me.”  I look up and see him trotting down the steps in his worn out, old man flannel pajamas. He is tightening the belt of his plaid robe.

After we have all congregated, Deb is giving front and center stage.  My mother advises her, “give us all the details, don’t leave anything out.”

Deb laughs in disbelief of our perverse interest in her story.  And yet she is also comforted in our understanding of what a monumental step this was for her. Deb cannot get through a sentence without one of us interrupting, asking for clarification, wanting more details, more descriptions.

She gets through the story and the turns to me and says, “And you know what she asked me? How am I going to explain this to my friends?”

“Explain what“, Deb asked her.

“Well, what color will she be?  Will she be black?’

And then Deb thought of my statement.  And she is disappointed in her mother.  But her mother is nearing 80 and she is who she is.  So Deb pulls back from the offense of the question.

“You can introduce her as your adopted granddaughter”, Deb tells her.  And that seems to satisfy the mother for the moment.

The news of the adoption was not well received by her parents.  And so the evening ended a little earlier than expected.  Deb got out of town shortly thereafter.  She needed to leave before any more hurtful comments fell out of her mother’s worried mouth.  Her father, on the other hand, was speechless.  And when she said her goodbyes, both parents cried.  And Deb shook with the dual feelings of relief and fear.  Relief that she had the courage to tell them and fear that she was now going too far beyond her family limits.

So she came to my family for comfort and reassurance that the world would be alright tomorrow.  She gave us every minute detail of her real life drama.  And we treated her story as if it were good sit-com material, as if we were listening to an episode of Seinfeld.

The Friendship House

THE FRIENDSHIP HOUSE
Wilmington, DE
January 2011

What has the queen of England ever done to warrant her good fortune of wealth, fame and freedom from financial worries? The only true claim to fame is that she was born to the right family.  This was just the luck of the draw.

So was I.  I was born to the right family.  This good fortune has enabled me to live in an emotionally happy family; become well educated and feel loved: three great commodities to a successful life. And I have always recognized that not everyone is so fortunate.

 I recently  volunteered my time at the Friendship House. Among a variety of services provided, this organization collects clothing from middle class people and give them to poor people.

 I gathered a few pieces of clothing, from my pile of clothes, and took my meager offering to the warehouse.  Once inside the warehouse, my things were quickly taken from me and I was given a receipt for tax purposes and then quickly dismissed.  When I informed the woman that I wanted to volunteer a few hours of my time, she was taken aback.   She insisted that I sign in and designate my affiliated organization. I told her that I was here just as a volunteer off the street.  I had no affiliation.

“Oh yea, we got some of those from time to time. Your section is at the back of the book.  Sign here.”  So I added my name to the three other women who have volunteered their time this month.

Karen seems to be in charge that day.  She knows the routines and she assigned tasks to everyone.

“Well, ok.  You can hang things.”

 I was assigned my task and given my tools:  marker, tape and two types of hangers.  Quick instructions were given and then I was left to my own. But quite frankly, a whole lot of instruction is really not needed. During the course of the day, middle aged white women bring in bag after bag of used clothing.  They drop their bundles off at the door.  And then these volunteers tag them and hang them around the warehouse.

There were six of us working today: five African American women in their late teens/early 20 and me. We worked in silence and with a little bit of indifference to each other.  No one talked to each other.  The radio was playing and there was a humming from the heating system but there really was no conversation.  Everyone worked in isolation and deep within their own guarded thoughts.  Occasionally, they might talk to each other. Occasionally, there would be a question that only required a single word answer and then there was silence again.  And they definitely were not talking to me.

I was to work with Valerie who was not introduced to me and as a matter of fact, no one was introduced to me. I introduced myself and she begrudgingly murmured her name. I asked Valeria how often she volunteers here.  She tells me sharply “I put in my 20 hours a week”.  That is enough information to help me understand that probation obligations motivate these women to volunteer their time.

I thought I would initiate some general conversation.  I would pick a topic that was one sided, so that we could all agree with each other. I announce to the group “What about those courageous people in Libya?  Who would have thought that anyone would attempt to bring Kaddafi down?”

My statement was met with blank stares to me and darting glances to each other.  They looked at me and then put their heads down. No one knew what I was talking about.  And in hindsight, I am not sure they knew who was Kaddafi and where was Libya.

So, I just shut up and focused on today’s task:  hang up piles and piles of used clothing. And now, my confidence is shot and I struggle to find a new topic to bring up.

Valerie appears to be pregnant but I am not completely sure, everyone helping today has a weight problem.  So I decide to avoid this situation until she brings it up.  I didn’t want to make another faux pas.  Eventually she does tell me she is expecting her first child and now I can safely talk about something with her.

She is going to have a little girl and she is going to name her Julie, after her deceased mother. Valerie tears up as she mentions this tribute to her mother.  We both talk about losing our mothers too early.

Another woman joins us at the table.  She acknowledges Valerie but she ignores me.  They talk about where she might go for lunch.  She talks about her children and their deliveries and the price of diapers.  Both women do not look old enough to babysit, let alone have children of their own. She has a need to go the Salvation Army for some sort of assistance.  Valerie spiels off the hours of operation with the knowledge of someone who regularly uses the services of the Salvation Army.

Then there is a quieted, quick discussion between the two of them on how many hours each of them must complete this week for probation.  They conversation is hushed and spoken almost in code.  There is definitely no intention of including me.

Valerie tells me that she can’t find work just yet. So that is why she is volunteering her time here.  She will do this until she finds real work.  I reinforce the need to give back to society and she agrees with me.

She dreams of being a nurse.  As soon as her baby is born, she is going to take a course to become an LPN.  She thinks this career move will provide her with bring her good money, fulfilling work and job security.

And as I listen to her talk about how lucky she would feel to reach this goal, I dragged piles of clothes out of a large bin.  Blouses went on the wire hangers.  Pants went on the padded hangers and then tagged for sizes.  We place the clothing on a rack and someone else came along and took them and sorted them away by size, gender and season.

Music played over the radio.  And the commercials focused on an audience of poverty.  “If you are a grandmother and taking care of your grandchildren, you may qualify for food stamps through the WIC program.”

The phone rings and I hear Karen telling someone, ‘No, we need a referral first.  Have him go back to his minister and get a referral.”  Valerie told me that the general public can access this clothing only through a referral from a church or social agency.

There are lots of clothes in the warehouse today, an abundance.   I am a little baffled by all of this. The warehouse is in an improvised area.  So why was there so much in storage?  It is winter time and there are over 100 boys’ down jackets on one rack.  Why are they hanging there when they should be on the back of cold, young boys whose parents’ greatest sin in not making enough money?

Most of the clothes are “gently used”. Others have never been worn and still had the original tags on them.  Others were tattered and should have been relegated to the rags pile.  But no distinction is made.  Everything gets tagged and put in their proper category.

Slacks from the fine men’s stores do not have sizes on them.  I guess one of the perks of paying more money for expensive clothing is the luxury of not having to confront your size.  The sales clerk will take care of that. We went through a lot of jeans.  And most of the jeans are donated by people of abundance:  44X30; 36X32; 40X29.

I left after two hours to go to my class. My back hurt and I felt a little dirty from touching all that clothing. I gladly left this oppressive place to go someplace more pleasant. Today’s topic in my travel class: tropical trips to Borneo.  Maybe I will do there some day.  The probation women got to go home in six more hours to their dreamless world:  their prison of poverty, their luck of the draw.

An American Tragedy

An American Tragedy

 Some families experience unspeakable violence.

As a high school principal, I often call the local police.  They would come at my request to handle student fights, and petty theft and small drug deals.  But when they called on me, it was because of something much more serious in nature.

So when I see a police officer making his way to my office this morning, I held my breathe.  Did I lose a student to death? Who had been arrested?  Was there a terrible accident?  The officer enters the main office and acknowledges me with a facial gesture; I wave him in to my office.  I close the door and he draws a breathe. “Steve Norton’s mother is dead, we just found her and I need to talk to him right away.”

Each year, I have a ½ dozen students who lost parents to death.  But the police were never involved. So this is very, very unusual.

“What about the father” Where is he?” I ask.

“Sorry, I can’t talk about him.  We are under investigation.”

That is enough said.  I understood the police think the father murdered the mother.  I call my assistant principal in and apprize him of the situation. I instruct him to call for Steve’s guidance counselor and then I want him to go and get Steve and escort him to my office.

Gary too asks about the father and I don’t hesitate to tell Gary of my suspicions. “The father may have murdered the mother.”  The police officer neither confirms nor denies this accusation but he flinches. Maybe because he had not been secretive enough and now the cat is out of the bag. Or maybe he is relieved that I spoke the truth and he wouldn’t have to be so evasive.

Within minutes, the guidance counselor is at my door and I don’t recognize her.  I forget that Denise left today on maternity leave and we have a substitute in for the next 12 weeks. There is no time to ask for her name which I knew last week but right now I completely forgot because the door opens up and in comes Gary.  Steve is trailing right behind.  I ask Steve to take a seat and he is intimidated by all of these adults in the room.  The police offices had his back to Steve and this perplexes him.

“Did I do something wrong? “ Steve asks worriedly.

I look to the police officer but he doesn’t turn around.  It is clear to me that I am going to have to deliver this awful blow to Steve.

“No Steve, you aren’t in trouble. Have a seat, sit down. I have terrible news to give you.”

He sits down and I blurt out the news, nervous and saddened that this boy has to hear this from strangers.  He is shocked, speechless.  He doesn’t cry. He just puts his head in his hands and shakes his head in disbelief.  He rocks himself. And we just stand there, dumbfounded.

I continue to mumble on because I don’t think I could take the silence. I tell Steve how sorry I am but my words seem so shallow.   I tell him he can come to any of us for help and I begin to introduce his new counselor, but of course, her name has not yet come to me.  And so I stumble over this introduction with an awkwardness that appears thoughtless, insincere.

Then Steve asks me, “What about my dad. Does he know?”

The police officer does not respond.  I ask Steve if he knows where his dad is.

“He should be at work”, Steve quickly replies.

“Where is that?” I ask nervously.

Steve gives the name of the company where his dad works.  The police officer writes this down.

“Steve, do you have a cell number for your dad.” I ask.

“Yea” and Steve whips put his cell phone. “I’ll call him right now.”

“Wait”, I tell him.

“Why?” He is confused.

“Steve”.   I draw a deep breath, “I think the police think your dad may have caused your mother’s death.”  I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth. I want to throw up. No one else speaks and we are all silent.  Steve is stunned.  He doesn’t know what to do or say.  He just wants to get out of here.

The police officer finally tells Steve that they are gathering his younger brother and sister and bringing them to the police station.  There is another sister, who was sent home from school earlier today, due to illness.  She was the one who found their mother, dead, straggled, on the floor.  She is already at the police station.

The police officer wants Steve to come with him to tell the younger siblings. He is not really coherent; he isn’t crying but he is visibly distraught.  He doesn’t want to leave school in a police car but he wants to break away from here.  So Gary offers to take him.  He wants to go to the middle school and get his brother.  So Gary and Steve take off.  The police officer finishes up scribbling notes and then he leaves.

Casey, the counselor, and I are left alone and we don’t know what to say to each other.  We are filled with sorrow and horrified by the ugliness of what just happened.  After a few, long, painful minutes, I say to her, “well, welcome to Springfield.  Nothing like a baptism by fire.” It is all I could come up with.  I have no words of comfort for her, this stranger on my staff.  We sit in silences for a few more minutes and then she nervously excuses herself.  I tell her she can go home for the day. She doesn’t go home but I check on her later in the day. She is numb and I tell her that tomorrow should be easier. But she knows I can’t guarantee that.  And I just hope that she will return tomorrow.

Within the hour, the story broke and I am getting phone call after phone call from reports.  I do not speak to any of them.  The Nortons live a block from the school.  So by the end of the school day, the house had been corded off with police tape.  Reporters and their trucks are stationed right outside and the house had an eerie, deserted look to it already.  All of my students charge over there and start their own investigation.  And everyone is abuzz about this family’s misfortune.

By the end of the day, the father turns himself in.  He is filled with regret.  They had been fighting again and he had had it with her.  So he started to chock her.  But he claims he never meant to kill her.  Now he is terribly, terribly sorry.  He cries into the television cameras.

To add to this drama, one reporter went to Mr. Norton’s father.  With no shame, no thought of his grandchildren, Mr. Norton Sr. claims that the mother deserved it.  ”She was a real bitch”, he thoughtlessly says, “She drove him nuts.’

That night, I spend the evening, alone, in the darkness, dazed, trying to comprehend what happened. I berate myself for not having been gentler. For not having the right words to comfort this child in my care.  But I know that there are no right words for this ugly kind of tragedy.

Yesterday, four children lived in a home with two parents who fought all of the time.  Today, they lost both parents: one to death, the other to jail.  They also lost their innocence, their sense of security, stability, their home, each other and a multitude of other emotions which will haunt them forever.

Till Our Last Breath

Till Our Last Breath

Bryn Mawr, Pa

May, 1998

My mother was dying of cancer.  She probably only weighed 85 pounds. We all knew we didn’t have much time left, maybe a couple of days but no more than a week.  And so we spent our days around her bed, telling stories, remembering family moments and trying to suck in every last opportunity to say what we had to say before it was too late.

We were approaching Mother’s Day.  So there were lots of cards from my father, siblings, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighbors and a lifetime of friends. These lifelong friends were coming and going to say their goodbyes to my mother.  Sometimes there would be three or four of them.  Some were feeble and there were not enough seats for them.  And as they left the room, I realized that not only were many of these old friends saying goodbye to her, it was probably the last time I would see then as well.  So I wanted to take care of them.

I brought in a few chairs from the other room.  And then I added a card table or two for their drinks. And I added a box of tissues.  It was a little junky looking, but now people could now visit in some comfort.

“Get all this junk out of here”, my mother said demandingly.

“What,” I said, just as I was positioning myself squarely in one of the seats I had just brought in.

“The room looks like a lobby.  I don’t like the feng shui. Get all this furniture out of here.”

I tried to explain to her that I didn’t put it all here for appearance.  Her visitors needed a place to sit.  And “besides”, I told her, “You have bigger issues right now than the feng shui of your bedroom.”  I reminded her that she was dying.

“I don’t care; I don’t like it. It’s my room. Get this stuff out of my bedroom.”

This woman could exhaust me.  So I leaned forward, looked right at her and asked, “When are you going to stop bossing me around.”  And then I sat back in my chair.

She got up on her boney elbows, using all the strength she could muster in her sick condition.  She looked right at me and as clear and as confident as she was in her prime, she said to me, “When am I going to stop bossing you around?  I’ll tell you when.  When the first one of us takes her last breathe.”  And then she lay down again, smugly and proud of her comeback.

I got up, laughed, and moved the furniture back to the other room.