To Move Forward to 1998 Diary
December 25, 1997
Merry Christmas to all my friends. And Merry Christmas, Mommy. I miss you. The little girl in me is aching to see you again, to hear your young girl giggles and older woman laughter and to feel the glory of your touch. I imagine that you and Philip and Daddy and Papa and Nana and all of those who have gone on before are celebrating together, but selfishly I wish you were here with me. I want you back so badly!
Christmas Eve was spent with friends and their kids, Christmas paper flying and laser guns and Jurassic Park command centers, drum sets, key boards, and more were qued up all across the living room and foyer. We shared a great meal and a few laughs, and then I returned home to wrap a few last minute gifts, hug my dogs, and cry my eyes out because my mommy isn't here for me anymore. Neither is my daddy. And it stinks. Pure and simple, being an orphan sucks.
This morning Heather called me; today was her day for tears. She came over and we spent an hour devouring the photographs in the memory book I made for her. I started it before Halloween and finally finished the last page at 2:00 this morning. Photos of my parents and their parents and me and Heather and, of course, Philip. My favorite photo is one of Heather and Philip taken at the Game Farm in Manorville, both smiling and healthy and loving and strong. Boy, those were the days. Then there's my favorite photo of Heather and Martha on a park bench in England. And my daddy's favorite photo of me. There was much to cry about and much tocelebrate. And thankfully, Heather loved the book. We noticed in visiting the pictures anew that in every single photo that Philip and Heather are in, she is standing or sitting next to him, squeezed in between us, like she is pushing to be with the love of her life. And her Tim so reminds us of Philip in oh so many ways. That's why she is happy with him.
Let's see, she loved her new computer and was very surprised. Everyone loved their gifts - - including me. For me, the very best gift of all was the day. Christmas Day. Spent with the ones I love. Heather, Tim, Sandy. And of course, Brian and Mikey, shared in the day as well. It was a wonderful gift. Thank you God for this gift and more. Thank you Spirit for everything in my life. For my life. Thanks Mom. But you should have been here. Somehow I still feel that this is where you belong. I want you here. I want you with me. I want to give you your gifts.
Merry Christmas, Mommy Dear. I love you now, more than always.
December 14, 1997
After my husband died I found the habit of going outside late in the night to gaze into the sky. I became interested in stars, intrigued by the life processes that scientists like Albert Einstein discovered years ago. When it is born, a star shines faintly. It's glow grows more intense into middle age. As it approaches old age, its light begins to fade until it suddenly (or so it seems to us) explodes and the gases enter our infinite universe. These gasses then join together to form new stars. I like that explanation; I always have. And I find myself looking for Philip, my husband, and Martha, my mother, and my father, Edward, among the stars. Not just once in awhile, but often.
"In one of the stars I shall be living
In one of them I shall be laughing
And so it will be as if all the stars
were laughing when you look
at the sky at night.
(The Little Prince: Antoine deSaint-Exupery)
December 13, 1997
I pray that all who frequent Martha's Kitchen are faring well in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. I know it hurts. I share your pain. I know it's difficult. I share your challenge. I know there is hope. I see it in theChristmas lights and hear it in the celebratory songs we sing. My favorite has always been, "I'll Be Home For Christmas". It was Martha's brother, Tommy's, favorite holiday song, too. Well, Mom, this year you won't be home for Christmas. And neither will Tommy. Well, Mom, come to think of it, you and Tommy are home. Together. With God. For all eternity. I love you and miss you. Please smile down upon me; please let me know you are there.
December 6, 1997
Often people email me about this web site, particularly about this Diary page. They are touched by a particular sentiment or hurting in a way similar to my own pain, or they want to say "hang in there, I care". Those emails delight me, and they comfort me. Knowing that somehow I touched another person in a way I wouldn't have if it wasn't for this web site.
As most things are yin-yang, so too is this. I know, for instance, that people I know in my "real life" (as opposed to my cyberlife which is sometimes just as real) frequent this page as well. My daughter checks in from time to time. So do friends like Sandy and Irene. And my niece, Cathy. And Meryl and work friends. And if I am perfectly honest with myself, I have to admit that it's sometimes difficult to be perfectly honest on these pages knowing that these people can read into my very soul at any given point in time. No one mentions it though. They ignore the craziness and the rampant rumblings of self-pity. And I appreciate that. If they say anything about these pages, it's always positive and also quite non-descript.
And the reason I'm rambling on about this is because although I am not a mean person, I want to do a mean thing. But now I want to ruin the Christmas of my brother for hurting my mother for so many years by mailing him a Christmas card and inserting one of my mother's memorial cards in the Christmas card so that it falls out onto his kitchen table with a note from me that reads, "Dennis, what did she ever do to you?" or something equally short and sassy. My brothers don't know that their mother is dead by the way. And most likely they won't care, but I care; and somewhere in my heart is an ache and an anger that's been there for years, and now I want to transfer that pain and that ache and that anger to them -- in remembrance of my mother, in memory of Martha, the mother who would have given her life for them, though they refused to give her even the time of day.
December 5, 1997
Mom's been dead for nearly six months already. Half a year. That is so hard to believe. Don't sound so freaking melodramatic Ann, I tell myself, but sometimes I can't help it. I'm still fighting that victim role you know. Really fighting it. The nomenclature I'm told for such situations is to refer to them as "surgical misadventures". That sounds much better than murder, doesn't it?
Tonight was a red letter night for me -- one of those giant steps for Annie that's only a miniscule step for mankind (but who really cares about that?). I played with my piano tonight -- the first time since Mom died. Somehow I equate the piano to Mom. She gave it to me. She applauded my successes (and I'm not talking philharmonics here people, just simple stuff like "Ode to Joy" and "Shortning Bread"), and she provided the unconditional love and support as always. It may sound dumb (it probably does), but playing the piano was a big step for me tonight and brought lots of tears and emotions to the surface that I've been trying to bury.
Who knows? Maybe she heard me playing. Wait. Hush. Listen. I think I hear Martha applauding right now.
December 4, 1997
I received notice today that Martha's Kitchen has been honored and awarded Featured Page status by GeoCities. Hopefully, this will help to get the word out to other motherless daughters who are suffering alone, and they may join us and share both our hope and our pain. The extra megs of space will enable us to continue to expand, too. Thanks GeoCities. Thanks Mom. Thanks to all of you who grace these pages with your presence.
December 3, 1997
Thanksgiving was uneventful -- without my sidekick a huge piece of the holiday was missing and a huge piece of my heart felt empty and alone. I work hard to escape the victim role I sometimes feel myself in. I am thankful for the fine friends and family I have in my life (and the two dogs and Mom's cat, too) and for a job which allows me to serve others as well as myself.
For today, there's a whisper in my ear telling me:
November 23, 1997
I haven't written one word in my diary since November 9th. I could give a multitude of excuses: I'm too busy, work has been overwhelming, I'm tired, etc. The truth is that I have been too overwhelmed by grief to write a word about it. That happens sometimes. When the dark clouds are closing in on us, we find it nearly impossible to reach out for the tools which will allow some sunshine to come in. The holidays will be difficult, but I knew that already from the other losses that I have suffered. Mom was fun at the holidays: ready, willing, and able to do most anything to celebrate. Ready, willing, and able to help others. She wrapped hundreds of Christmas gifts for needy children each year and always adopted a family which needed some holiday help. I miss that this year, miss sharing those things and so much more with her.
I heard a line in a movie on Friday which really hit home for me. "Death is the end of a life, not the end of a relationship". And that's so true. I find myself talking to mom all the time. The only problem is that she never answers.
God bless all my internet friends, especially those who are grieving over their moms. Remember that we will make it through the holiday season and more -- together.
November 9, 1997
I spend this evening going through some old photographs and looking at my father's slides with one of those old fashioned slide viewers that you have to hold up to the light to use. I enjoyed the time I spent with my past -- it was quite a gift. One of the slides was of my mother with her friend and former next-door-neighbor, Emily. They were both young with dark, glowing hair and smiles filled with hope and expectation, both younger than I am now. Mom and I visited Emily in the spring down in Florida where she is living. She is 75 or so, walks with a cane, and faces quite a few limitations in her daily life. How fast the time goes I think as I rummage through photographs, slides, and negatives, most taken by my father who was a photographer in the war (WWII). I find his 1944 DDiary in this box as well; it reads "To Technical Sargeant E.F. Wild - 1944 - with The Best Wishes For a Merry Christmas and A Victorious New Year from War Area Service Corps, National Military Council, China". The next page reads "To My Allied Companion from Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek, President of the Republic of China". It is obvious from the wear and tear, that this book saw Dad through a long period of service, through China and India and more. Now I am much more aware of being a fatherless daughter as well as a motherless daughter. The love they shared with one another was immense. So, too, was the love they shared with me. I love you too, Mommy. And Daddy. And now I know more than ever that it is so very difficult to just let go.
November 2, 1997
I am lonely today, and my heart is aching. The finality of my mother's death is enveloping me like a cloud of radioactive dust, disabling my breathing bit by bit, and I feel like I cannot stand this anymore. Two days of rain doesn't help matters any. Neither do the impending holidays, hovering over me like enormous reminders of all the losses I have experienced over the past eight years and perhaps even beyond that. I am lonely now. I am angry. Angry because I feel as though my history has been lost. The people who were there when, those who loved me then, are all gone now. It's as if I have been reborn, strategically against my will I might add. A psychiatrist I know describes it as the death of my mother's superego, and the birth of my own. I don't care. I want her back -- her superego -- mine could have waited much longer to be reborn.
And this living alone sucks sometimes, too. Especially on rainy days in early November when reminders of dead mothers, dead husbands, and dead fathers are all that abound.
October 31, 1997
"Cops Identify Body Found Last Week"
"Nine days after a passing cyclist discovered a dead man on the sidewalk in front of a Lindenhurtst lumberyard, Suffolk authorities Wednesday identified the body as that of a homeless man named Ronald Riga. Riga, 48, apparently died of natural causes as he walked along West Montauk Highway last Tuesday, according to homocide detectives....Riga's body was found about 8 p.m. October 21 in front of Allers Lumberyard." (© Newsday, October 31, 1997).
Ron was one of society's throwaways. I knew him for 14 years. Sure he died of "natural causes" -- I'm sure he starved to death. God bless you, Ron. You always told me, "Jesus Loves You." He loves you, too, Ron. And now he can tell you that himself.
October 28, 1997
Another of Mom's favorite people (and mine) died on Sunday night -- her brother, Frank Dooley of Venice, FL. "Uncle Brother" as I called him (she called him "Brud") was a sweet, deliberate man with a wonderful sense of humor and honesty and a great love of ice cream (just like my mother). Mom and I visited Uncle and his wife in the Spring and had a marvelous visit. He was quite sick even then -- from nearly 70 years of smoking cigarettes -- with severe emphysema. When we left his house after saying goodbye, Mom commented to me that there was no doubt who would "go" first, she or her brother. Well, Mom, you were wrong about that. You left us first. Four months and a few days later your older brother joined you.
I wish I could believe that they are in some special place together, floating high above the clouds, hanging with my husband, Philip, my father, their parents and grandparents and friends who left this world before they did. Faith in that sort of thing is not there for me now. These days I tend to believe that once we're dead, we're dead, bodies simply composting in the ground, spirits gone except perhaps for what lingers in the hearts and souls of the loved one we leave behind. Yes, you can argue with me. In fact, my Roman Catholic upbringing argues with me about this all the time. You know better than to believe that it all stops, that it ends with a handful of loose dirt thrown on top of a wooden box manufactured by the South Brooklyn Casket Company. I used to know better; I'm just not so very sure anymore. Maybe one day Mom will tell me. Or Dad will fill me in on the truth. Or maybe Philip will stop by and show me what it is truly like on the other side. Or perhaps Uncle Brother will throw me a clue. Until then I have my doubts; my faith is not that strong; sometimes I wonder if it is there at all.
October 17, 1997
Two of Mom's favorite people died this week: John Denver and James A. Michener. My stomach turned as I heard John Denver compared to Mother Teresa. Give me a break, people!
October 13, 1997
A mother woman
never worships purple chocolate symphonies
but floods the true summer place a thousand diamonds away
like the urgent gift of a delicate delirious goddess in wild lucious honey
October 12, 1997
We, the motherless daughters of the world, must remember that we need to grieve at our own pace. We need to travel through our own journey, even if that means that at times we are dragging our feet or walking backwards. We need to remember to surround ourselves will nurturing people who are strong enough to withstand any discomfort we may cause them. If there are people in our lives who are unwilling or unable to accept and honor our anger, hostility, loneliness or despair, than we need to look in new directions. That is not to say that we can usurp the time and energy of our friends on a constant basis, but we must be able to know that those people within our intimate life circle can honor our feelings and our needs. We, in turn, need to remember that our responsibility is to take care of ourselves and to be responsible in our grief so as not to poison close relationships. At times there is a fine line here. We must go with our gut feelings. That's truly the best road for me.
October 11, 1997
Today is one of those weird kind of days where you begin to wonder about the nature of things and the universe. It seems that when I began to change the sheets on my mother's bed that a different kind of force entered her room. I am not sure what kind of force it was, but there definitely was a different kind of unique entity in that room. As I removed the quilt from the bed, several pictures fell off the wall. Then one of my mother's favorite dolls came crashing down from her chair onto the floor. All of this gives me an eerie feeling. I called and spoke to my daughter, Heather, about this. She felt that perhaps there was a poltergeist playing a trick on me. I know that the spirit I encountered was not that of my mother. It felt angry, more hostile, much more like the spirit of my father.
I suppose that things like this happen much more often than we notice. We sort of fly through our lives, too busy to stop and question the happenings and events of each and every minute, and do not really notice these odd and mysterious occurrences.
I would like to end this entry by tying up all the loose ends into one small knot. Unfortunately, I am unable to do that. I am not at all sure what is going on.
October 10, 1997
"When we have something precious taken from us, we inevitably go through a stage when we are very critical of everything and everyone who was related to the loss. We spare no one in our systematic scrutiny of the event, attempting to understand why this thing happened, and who is to blame. The human is always looking for someone to blame. . . We are hostile to the doctor because he operated; or we are hostile to him because he did not operate. No matter what he did, it was wrong. While we are in this mood, we look at everyone with a jaundiced eye. " That telltale line comes from a marvelous book by Judy Tatelbau, called The Courage to Grieve: Creative living, recovery, and growth through grief. When I read that sentence, I put it aside in the dark corner of my mind so that I could ignore it. More recently I have tried to look at the idea of this more objectively, trying to apply it to myself.
There is definitely little that applies to Martha's daughter! While I am feeling angry and incredibly hostile to the doctor and to the hospital and to those so called professionals who killed my mother, I feel that I am being realistic and honest in my assessment. In my humble opinion, this is not a case of looking for someone to blame but rather a case of looking for those professionals who are responsible for our lives and the lives of our loved ones to accept that responsibility, for both their successes and their failures. Sadly, that does not seem to be the case.
As the annual meeting for my agency grows closer, I feel more sadness entering my emotional self. My mother was so very proud of me and of my accomplishments, that it was always a joy to have her share in the annual meeting where I give the report and assume a more powerful leadership role. Martha always felt so proud of me and would be sitting there beaming. She would always bring up the story of the little girl named Ann who refused to even join the chorus or appear in an elementary school play. This little girl was so shy that she would become physically ill if see had to perform in front of an audience. As the girl grew up and became more assured of her abilities and became more successful in her career, she was able to get out in front of large groups of people and give presentations and speeches without making herself crazy, or making a fool out of herself. Martha was a part of this growth cycle, and it always amazed her that I was able to do this. Part of the reason that it was so easy was that Martha, my mother, was there to encourage and support me.
I am not sure what the annual meeting has to do with blame, but I know that those bastard doctors killed my mother, and if they had not been so careless as to knick her aorta and cause a hole in her heart, causing her to bleed to death, she would now be looking forward to attending the annual meeting and hearing my speech. But for me the reality is that I will hear the hollow sounds of no hands clapping.
I know that there are many motherless daughters out there in the world who are facing lonely presentations and even lonelier holidays, and I wish to reach out to each one of you. My hand and my arms are extended, and you need only meet me half way. God bless each and every one of you. Let's help one another.
October 9th 1997
"Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders."
This short piece was written by Henry David Thoreau in the last century, and is part of a "New" book published several years ago and billed as the first publication of Thoreau's last manuscript. The name of this lovely book is Faith In a Seed. The book is about the dispersion of seeds and other late natural History writings. I first read this wonderful book several years ago, and I found that it added a new dimension to my view of nature.
As I re-read it now, it gives even more meaning to me with regard to the enormity of our universe, nature, and the life cycle which we are all a part of. Without preaching or even allowing his muse to address our human life cycle directly, Henry is able to add a sense of understanding as to the necessity of death and the continuation of the cycle. Somehow what he tells us enables me to feel more comfortable with the idea of beginnings,middles, and endings.
He goes on to say "As I went by a pitch pine wood the other day, I saw a few little ones springing up in a pasture from seeds which had been blown from the wood. . . . In a few years, if not disturbed, these seedlings will alter the face of nature here.
Although I know better, I could swear the writer was writing about us, the motherless daughters of the world.
October 4, 1997
Sometimes we make mistakes. We do not mean to. It seems that we would not call them mistakes if we meant to make them. I hurt someone I care about today without realizing it. The question remains as to how to make amends to the other person, a good friend.
I am not sure that this friend will confront the me about this. The truth of the matter is that I hope she does not confront me. It would be so much easier for me, at least, if the issue was swept under the carpet. No, that is not the healthy way to address difficulties in a relationship, but at this point I do not want to deal with the problem head-on. For now, I will try my best to forget about the problem, and to resolve to accept my own responsibility in this matter. I will also try to remember that I am not perfect -- and neither is anyone else.
******
I heard on a recent news report that the French police will reconstruct the scene of the car crash which killed Princess Diana by ramming a Mercedes traveling at 100 miles per hour into the tunnel wall. That sounds rather ridiculous to me. Obviously no one is going to volunteer to ride in such a car, and if they did what could be learned from such a stunt?
All of this talk of recreating the accident as it occurred on August 31st, has gotten me to imagine what if the hospital and the surgeons recreated the scene of my mother's death. I know that this idea sounds crazier than the situation in Paris, and I know that it would never happen, but the thought of it is somewhat intriguing. And can you imagine who would volunteer for such a mission? And can you imagine how perfectly in step the surgeons' dance would be? A recent season premier episodesof E.R. was broadcast live, and many viewers watched the show just to catch a mistake or two. While it may be acceptable to have surgeons on a television show make mistakes and be responsible for medical blunders, is is never acceptable in real life. I am not sure how to get that message across to the surgeons and the hospital that killed my mother. I am sometimes tempted to go to the newspapers, television stations, and other media and shout Martha's story from the roof tops.
Just as we must get past the tragic death of England's Rose, I must get past the death of my mother. The problem is that the world is not ready to let go of Princess Diana just as I find it impossible to let go of my Mama for even one single second. There are times when I feel like I am the only woman in the world who feels the way that I feel, regarding the death of her wonderful mother, and then someone new writes to me on the web and I realize that much of what I am now feeling and dealing with is felt by many others. There are times when I just want to talk to Mom to tell her how much I miss her or to ask for her advice. Even though she is no longer here beside me, I tell her how much I love her and ask for her help quite often.
The other night I had a dream about my mother and her death. In the dream, Mom had died and I decided to buy and move to my cousins' house in Port Jervis, New York. I told my cousin, Mary Lou, that I would buy the house she is selling which belonged to my aunt and uncle. Mary Lou immediately tried to talk me out of doing this. She kept telling me how bad a mistake I was making. Finally, she told me the truth.
"The truth is," she told me, "Aunt Martha is living in the Port Jervis house. "
"My aunt Martha?" I shrieked. "Do you mean to tell me that my mother is living upstate in your house?"
Mary Lou nodded.
"Why in the world would you tell me that my mother is living in your house when I saw my mother die with my own to eyes?"
"I know that this will hurt you," she told me, "but it really is the truth. Your mother did not want to live with you any longer, she wanted to go out on her own. She did not know how to tell you this, so she faked her own death. She did not want to hurt you."
"It may seem to you that this is a possibility, Mary Lou, but I have to tell you that you are absolutely wrong. I saw my mother die."
"You only thought that you saw her die. You saw someone die, but it was not your mother. You and Heather even told me and other people that the woman who died did not look like your mother. The reason she did not look like Martha is that she was not Martha. Aunt Martha is living in the house upstate. "
At that point I realized that she was telling me the truth while it hurt me to know that my mother did not want to be with me, I was elated that she was still alive.
Then I woke up. I did not realize for several minutes that I had had a dream. Once I hit that place in reality when we find ourselves after such a horrendous dream, I realized that it was only a dream and that my Mama was really gone and that she was not coming back. As I rolled over to try to go back to sleep, I had this overwhelming desire to hop into my car and drive upstate to see if by any chance my mother is living in Port Jervis.
September 30, 1997
Heather stopped by my office on Monday unexpectedly. That’s always a wonderful treat. We sat and talked, and she made me promise to watch “Buffy, The Vampire Slayer” that night. “Buffy” is her favorite television show. After a few minutes the conversation became much more serious. We talked about dreams. Not the things we long for and plan for and make goals to realize, but the ones that come upon us unexpectedly and uninvited in the night. She had a dream the other night that her Grandma died. “And when I woke up I was so glad that it was just a dream,” she said. When she found herself fully awake she realized that this wasn’t just a dream, that Grandma was indeed dead, and that the nightmare wasn’t only a nightmare, but reality.
Then I told her about the dream I had on Friday night. My parents and I were on the SeaJet, going to New London, CT. Dad was there, too, even though he died in 1990 before the SeaJet ever ran. In the dream, he had difficulty ambulating and moving on the ferry ramp. He was bent at the waist at an angle of about 45 degrees to the right, and it appeared that he would topple over completely if he didn’t have assistance. I was telling him that he should have brought a cane, trying to get my mother to agree with me. She sat there staring out the window at the water of the Long Island Sound, ignoring my ranting. Finally I put my foot down. “Dad, I said, you are getting older. I’m not even sure you should be riding this damn ferry anymore, but if you must, please at least use a cane. I don’t want you to topple overboard.” Under my breath I muttered, “Use the damn cane.”
Mom turned around as if she were aware of our presence for the first time. Their eyes met, locking for moment. Then Dad told me, “I don’t use the cane anymore; I don’t need it. I have my Martha.”
September 29, 1997
I have a love affair going on -- with books. It's been going on since I was about three. I not only enjoy reading books, but I love touching them, buying them, smelling them, looking at them, being surrounded by them. As I write this in my computer room, I am surrounded by four book cases, two in front of me and two in in back. There's also a huge closet in here with shelves that are stacked with books. Nearly every closet door in the house holds a book rack. The deacon's bench in the living room is stuffed with books; so is the wicker trunk. There are books in my car; there are volumes in my office at work. There are books in the bathroom, in the kitchen.
As I said, I have this love affair going. And I've come by it honestly. My parents were both bibliophiles. Dad was into science and math and biographies as well as the classics. The man only had a ninth grade education but he was one of the most literate and intelligent folks I've ever had the pleasure to spend time with. Mom liked biographies and quilt books and some Danielle Steele type reading, but her all-time favorite was the Perry Mason series. She read them all; she knew them all. In recent years I got her hooked on Lawrence Block's Matt Scudder series, too. We would discuss Matt the way some people discuss their inlaws. We talked about his girlfriend and his ex-wife and his friends as if they were all coming by to have dinner with us on Thursday. That's the way books are, they provide us with an illusion in place of reality ... or a reality in place of our illusions.
My daughter, Heather, is addicted to books, too. In the first grade I would catch her hiding under the blankets shining at flashlight on a favorite book and reading past 3:00 a.m. And my niece reads incessantly, too, from what she tells me. It's in the genes. Our genes.
When Mom went into the hospital she forgot to bring a book to read. She had magazines, she had newspapers, but they are just not the same as books. She called me in a panic as I was leaving home to visit her and asked me to "grab something interesting for her." I picked up "The World is My Home" by James Michener. It's a book I had bought but hadn't gotten around to reading yet. After she died, the hospital returned the book to me along with her other belongings. It's been sitting in my computer room for more than three months now, but today is the first day I found the wherewithall to actually pick up the book and look at it again. The cover is lovely -- there's a great photo of Jim (I guess that's what his friends call him) in the great outdoors. Jim was 85 when he wrote this book, a memoir. That was five years ago; he's 90 now. I wonder if Mom would have finished her book if she had been allowed to live to the age of 90.
I am trying to locate the exact place where my mother stopped reading this book as if there would be some sort of unique and magical message in those particular words, words written by Mr. Michener for his readers, but left there by Mom for me to see. But I can't find it. No matter how hard I look, I can't find the last page she read. I shake the pages. I check for bookmarks. I look for splits in the binding. I cannot find the last page she read. Mom, when reading her own books, dog eared pages. That was her one habit which drove me crazy, and she knew better than to dog ear the pages in any of my books. Now I wish she had. Of course I still wouldn't have her last reading narrowed down to one sentence, but it would be narrowed down to a scant two pages rather than a more than five-hundred page tome.
I guess I will never know the last words she read, but I do have a strong message for her. If you can hear me now, Mom, remember this. You can come back and dog ear the pages in my books any time you want to. I bet even Jim would think that it's okay.
September 28, 1997
Heather and Tim were here for dinner tonight, and we had a lovely time. I made chicken and broccoli plus biscuits and salad and apple puffs (well, the apple puffs were store bought). As always, I gave them all the leftovers to take home for tomorrow's dinner. It's just too bad Mom wasn't here to share our joy.
They brought me a beautiful "Thanks for being our mom gift" -- a musical picture frame which plays "Unchained Melody". They want me to put a photo of Mom in it. I will do that and place it on my desk at work so I can see Mom's smiling face peering through the heart at me. Heather told me that she and Tim were visiting the new San Francisco Music Box Company store at a nearby mall, and she was feeling really sad thinking about her Grandma. Martha collected music boxes, you know. Well, she decided to get me a gift which was so sweet, especially since money is really tight with them right now.
You know I receive such wonderful emails from people who visit this site. Some are sad, but most have a real uplifting quality about them. Women really share their hearts and souls with me about the pain of losing their mothers and others whom they have also loved. I know that I am not alone in this often painful, dark, and lonely place. There is a thread that binds us all together, and the Internet gives us the gift of weaving that thread a little bit tighter.
For those of you who have written to me, thank you. I always answer my emails. To those of you who have yet to write, don't hesitate. Share your joy about your mom's life, share the pain of her death.
In this world we are here to help one another. God Bless.
September 11, 1997
We have a cool, rainy day in New York today, just the kind of day I hate. I feel better, look better and enjoy life more when the sun is shining. Mom didn’t complain about the weather too much unless the snow went on and on, and she wasn’t able to go out of the house for a long period of time -- or the damp weather was bothering her arthritis (arthuritis is how she pronounced it). Come to think of it, Mom didn’t do much complaining at all (I’ve always done enough for both of us).
One time I asked her what her favorite year was. She thought about it for a second, and replied, “I’m not sure, but 1985 was a great year.”
“Because I married Philip?” I asked.
“Well, of course that, too.” She laughed.
“Mom, what was so great about 1985 besides the fact that I married Philip?”
“Well,” she said, “it was one of the best years because you got divorced from Chuck... and also because your father stopped being able to have sex.”
That folks was my Mom, the lady who laughed, always told the truth -- and never complained much about the weather or anything else.
September 9, 1997
I’ve been on vacation and return to work tomorrow. As I look back on this vacation I see that I have spent more than my fair share of time rummaging through my mother’s belongings and rummaging through my own mind for memories and remembrances. Her voice; her face at my First Holy Communion. Her smiles at my wedding. Her frowns at my father. The scent of her hair. The gleam in her blue Irish eyes. The touch of her hand. I remember the evening before her surgery. Her chart at the hospital indicated that the staff had helped her wash her hair, bathe, and attend to other personal hygiene matters, but when I looked at Mom, I could tell that that wasn’t the case. She said they had been too busy to help her, and since she was not allowed up by herself, I took her into the bathroom and washed her hair, stayed with her while she washed herself, helped her into a clean nightgown, and then, once she was back in the bed, I rubbed lotion on her feet and legs for her. She laughed and made a comment about how sweet I was to do that, especially since I hate to touch people’s feet. I laughed and told her she owed me one. I kissed her goodbye and told her not to worry. “I’ll be here before they take you up to the operating room tomorrow morning, “ I assured her (or maybe I was assuring myself).
She was taken up early the following morning, so I never did see her before the surgery. The post surgery memories I have are horrible visions of bright red blood spurting out of the chest tube and into a water-filled box on the white tiled floor in the ICU, of watching my mother bleed to death, of watching my daughter watching my mother bleed to death. I try my best to replace these visions with my mind’s videos of happier and more joyous times.
A cyberfriend sharing something with me today about how in life she tries to focus 5% on who to blame and 95% on how to heal. I really like that; it makes sense to me. It’s far healthier than having the percentages the other way around.
In moving back to the foot and leg massage, In balancing the things my mother did for me during her lifetime and the small favors I did for her, the conclusion is obvious to me: “Mom, you don’t owe me a thing.” Although knowing her, she might disagree.
September 8, 1997
A friend on the web whose significant other is battling cancer emailed me a quote today that really hit home: “Pain is inevitable; misery is optional”. That’s so true, I told her. We cannot avoid pain in this life, but we can choose how to behave and cope and deal with that pain when it slams into us like a runaway train. I think that rather than it being a mere decision about how we will move forward, it is a process -- a journey, not a destination. And I am doing my best.
Today I completed the sad task of sorting through my mother’s belongings. I’ve been working on this project for nearly two months. Yes, Mom had a lot of “stuff” to go through, and the process was slow, but in a way it was a liberating adventure of passing through my history, our history, and beginning the process of moving on.
This Internet, World Wide Web is a strange place sometimes, isn’t it? I reach out to cancer patients and their significant others; I reach out to motherless daughters; and beagle owners and GeoCities residents and those who need help with their homepages, and those who need help period. And many people are there reaching out to me. But I am beginning to feel beaten down in a way by those who attack me and stalk me and others. First someone was impersonating my dead husband; that hurt like hell. I couldn’t imagine who would do such a thing to me (and more than once), who would want to hurt me, who could be so vicious and hurtful, or who could have such a sick sense of humor as to do such a thing. Then there is the “Mother Teresa” thing as I call it. When I heard that Mother Teresa died, I put together a tribute page for her on this site in order to provide a forum for any interested netizens to share their thoughts and feelings about her life, her teachings, or her death. I thought that some of us motherless daughters might be finding parallels between her loss and an escalation of our own grief, and this would be a sharing tool for us to have. Unfortunately, there are people whose reactions to this page were rude and arrogant and abusive. How sad that is. How sad for that person. How sad for all of us who want to use the Web and the Internet to do good, to reach out, to learn, to seek, and to love.
That, I suppose, brings me back to the quote my friend forwarded to me. “Pain is inevitable; misery is optional”. These Net events have been painful, but I refuse to be miserable over them. I will continue to trust, to reach out, and to do my very best for myself and others here on the web and elsewhere. That’s what the life of Mother Teresa was all about. Come to think of it, that’s what my mother’s life was all about.
September 6, 1997
I’m depressed today although I have tried to place other labels on that depression. Labels like sad, tired, in need of being nurtured, lonely, lost, and more. The truth is that I am depressed. This grieving stuff sucks. I watched Princess Diana’s funeral this morning, and my heart broke for her two young motherless sons who will never experience the joy of knowing their mother as adults or showing her their children. I watched the people of Calcutta mourning the loss of Mother Teresa. I suppose since she was old, did not wear gowns by Versace or hang out with Elton John, and did not have the tabloids pursuing her, we will not see the world paying its last respects to Mother Teresa in the same way as we did with Diana. Rather than experiencing it through many lengthy memorials on the television networks and beyond, we will have to do our grieving through fifteen second sound bytes. That, I suppose, tells us all a great deal about the world we live in.
I had a dream about Martha last night, that she wasn’t dead. She came back to life after she was pronounced dead (which would have been an even stranger twist of fate since no doctor ever really pronounced her dead) and appeared to be her usual, smiling self. I was wondering how to tell her that I had given so many of the belongings she cherished away. As I stirred in the pre-dawn light, I felt a sense of joy I have not known in months. Waking up this morning was brutal for me once I realized that this was only a dream, and that Mom really was dead, gone forever.
Her death certificates arrived the other day, too. I suppose that that proves that she is dead; without them you cannot be officially dead even though you have already been autopsied, embalmed and buried.
There was a special report on open heart surgeries on the news last night. The hospital my mother died in was highlighted since they have only 1.6 mortalities per 100 open heart surgeries each year. I know my mother was the 1; I just don’t know who the .6 mortality is. At any rate, no one else should die there. We all know their figures lie anyway as soon as they begin to refer to them as “adjusted mortality rates”, and they do not indicate what the adjustments are or how they are done. Aside from that, the 1.6 deaths per 100 is too much...especially if your mother or loved one is included in that figure.
My friend, Lisa, designed a beautiful banner for Martha’s Kitchen. What a surprise! Lisa is a cyberfriend; we have never met in person. Although I don’t know the sound of her voice, I know what’s in her heart. She is a special woman; a very special friend.
God bless.
September 5, 1997
A Saint If There Ever Was One, God's Angel on Earth
September 2, 1997
I’ve been thinking about Mom today. It’s the 40th anniversary of her father, Tom Dooley’s, death from lung cancer (in those days no one knew cigarettes were coffin nails), and I’m wondering if Mom and her father are back together again. That would be wonderful. Him eating his favorite meal (a cheese sandwich, cheesecake, and a cuppa tea), and she having her favorite meal (a hot fudge sundae), working crossword puzzles together, and re-acquainting themselves with one another. That would be such a special time. Who else is there? Nana? My father? Mom’s brother? Her sister? So many have gone before her.
I wonder if Princess Diana is there already; if so, Mom’s frothing at the mouth thinking that she had left the princess down here and didn’t have to see her anymore. You can’t get away from Diana-gate today or yesterday or tomorrow. It goes on and on. I can’t believe a woman with her intelligence would be riding in a car with a drunk driver speeding along at 121 miles per hour and have no seat belt on. For what my opinion is worth, I might do all of that if someone was chasing me with a machine gun; but to play Russian Roulette with all the gun’s barrels loaded to get away from people who only want to take your picture does not make any sense to me. At the time when I look my worst (either when I’m sick or early in the morning when I first wake up and haven’t put my face on yet), I would not risk my life to get away from a photographer with a loaded camera. And if I looked like Princess Diana .... well, I wouldn’t worry at all. I might be annoyed at the lack of privacy, yes, but that goes with the territory of celebrity.
None of the circumstances surrounding the death of Diana make sense to me. Then again, the circumstances of my mother’s death don’t make any sense to me either. Come to think of it, few things in this world do.
September 2, 1997
In Memory:
September 1, 1997
Today is my birthday, the first without my mother. I have her gift beside me even though she is not here. For some reason Mom decided to give me my birthday gift early in June this year. I told her I didn’t want it. She said I had to take it, that she wanted to see my face when I opened it. “You know I only like to open gifts on my birthday, Mom,” I told her. She laughed. “I’ll get you something else by then,” she told me. I finally agreed to open it. Inside the box was a magnificent Faberge’ basket with nine separate and distinct enameled eggs inside. The colors, the workmanship, are beyond description. I have it here now. I am fingering the eggs, rolling them about in my hands, caressing them. Eggs are a symbol of life. Today is my birthday. Thanks, Mom, for giving me my gift while you were still here to enjoy it with me. Thanks, Mom, for the beautiful eggs. Thanks, Mom, for the wonderful gift of life. And, before I forget to tell you, Mom, thanks for giving me the best gift of all:
You
August 31, 1997
I was devastated last night when I heard the news about Diana, Princess of Wales. I liked her. I admired her. I really liked her. I liked her not for her beauty, her brains, her position in life, what she was; but also for the challenges and difficulties she struggled with and what she wasn’t. I thought of Martha last night, too. My mother did not like Princess Diana. She disapproved of her lifestyle and the intimate details of her life which she discussed in interviews because these things could hurt her children. If Diana’s photograph was on a magazine cover, Mom wouldn’t buy the magazine. I would. We agreed on many things, but of course not all. I think Mom would agree with me on this though: the press didn’t kill Diana. The papparazzi didn’t end her life. Someone (Dodi, the chauffer, the bodyguard, or Diana herself) made the decision, made a personal choice, to drive too fast to escape from demons real or imagined. The result was the ultimate tragedy, but it is not the fault of The Sun, The Enquirer, or Star Magazine. We cannot blame them. We cannot blame ourselves. We can only pray for her motherless children.
August 18, 1997
Take a trip back to 1945. Do you hear the Glen Miller band in the background? It’s a hot, humid, and hazy afternoon. Edward arrives at Martha’s apartment, and she is smiling. They embrace. They walk, arm in arm, to the subway and travel up to Yonkers. They are married by a justice of the peace. Afterwards they stop in a bar to have a good luck drink, then return to the dingy little post-war Brooklyn apartment they would begin to call their home. Her seven year old son, George, from a previous marriage joins them, and the future holds two more children, another boy and a finally, a girl. The fact that the sons break their parents’ hearts doesn’t matter here. The fact that the one son has a daughter does. The fact that the couple soon saved enough money to move to the suburbs doesn’t really matter here. The fact that there was the birth of a daughter does. What matters here is the continuation of the family and the effect that both their everlasting love and one small union on a hot August day had on all of humanity. Heather, Cathy, and I are living proof of that.
**********************************
A Love Letter From Edward to Martha
Dated Thanksgiving Night 1986
She was scheduled for a hysterectomy the following day
Hon,
I am sitting here in your chair, it’s midnight and sleep won’t come! I love you and miss you and wish I could be with you, cause I know you’re fearful of tomorrow. I’ve been so lonely since you’ve been in the hospital. The house seems much too empty, that I can barely manage not to cry, it’s just plain awful without you.
I’ve been remembering all the years we’ve shared, and how truly happy you’ve made our home and our marriage -- how little we had when we first married -- all the lean years -- but I guess we were richer then we realized way back then because we had each other to back us up!!! At this very moment I’m recalling our wedding night, we had no electricity, and I had a lot of thoughts that night about our future, wondering if the war had burned out something in me, a mess of furniture bought without money, a not-too--good of a job -- I thought a lot of thoughts that night, but most of all of how many years and events arrived before our wedding ....
I wish we could have afforded a honeymoon --- we nevr did have one -- you never had an engagement ring. I never had the money ... even on your birthday, anniversary, or Christmas, money was scarce. I’m remembering all that now. Just thinking back, I can’t remember just when I started to love you. I just did!
I’m remembering standing on the deck of a ship anchored off Guadacanal when I was on my way home from China, and how my thoughts included you, wondering if there was some way out of the dilemma.
I guess destiny played an enormous part in our lives! How we met ... all the obstacles ... a long, long, long war that never seemed to end ... with so much of the tragedy that goes with war. But it’s funny, a lot of the bad events of the war are hard to remember, but where you are involved, I can recall very vividly -- concerts in the park, the 1939 World’s Fair trips. We did have some fun, didn’t we?
I guess our lives would have been very different if we had married earlier -- but I’m certain that I’d still love you as much as I do this very minute.
About tomorrow, the surgery --- if I could I’d bear the pain you have to go through, but I can’t. I just hope that you’ll come through it and regain your pep and vitality and that health-wise it would have all been worthwhile. I wish I could pray; I can’t. This letter must be my prayer or my way or praying. I love you. I hope at this very minute that my love reaches you and gives you some support -- at this very moment I’m crying, I’m worried;
Please get well.
Ed
**********************************
August 17, 1997
There has been so much hoopla over the 20th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death lately. Television shows, magazine articles, re-runs of movies and concerts, and more. Even QVC hosted several two-hour “We Remember Elvis” hours to sell Elvis phones, pillows, blankets, and limited edition cookie jars. Dan Wheeler, the host on Saturday, described Elvis’ death as “one of those life altering moments in which everybody remembers where they were”. I’m not sure E’s death altered my life in any tangible way, but I do remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news. I was feeding Heather a bottle in the living room of our apartment in Bayport when a special news report flashed, and the news was announced to the world. I looked at her and thought that I had found the answer to his death. When one mother’s child was born, another mother’s child died. Before you email me on this one, yes I know it doesn’t make sense; I even knew it back then -- but my mind strives for logic and sanity in a world that does not grace us with either most of the time. So, I said a little prayer for Elvis, and for his mother, Gladys, who had gone before him. Then I burped the baby -- and dashed to the telephone to call my mother.
August 16, 1997
Mom made me laugh last night. She had that gift in life just as she has it after life, but I wish she was here to laugh with me. I should be grateful for any laughs I get these days -- there haven’t been too many. And frankly, there’s no time for me to laugh because my time is still spent obsessing over the autopsy reports, the lingering questions in my mind, and the whys and wherefores of my mother’s death. I am utilizing every tool known to me to try to get past this, but nothing is dulling the pain or answering the questions which disallow the peace from entering my heart. Maybe that is the way it’s supposed to be, I tell myself. Maybe this is God’s plan. If it is His plan, I don’t accept it; won’t accept, and don’t want to know about it. Just bring my mother back. Do you hear, God? Bring her back home.
August 15, 1997
Mom’s friend, Barbara, called to see how I am doing. Well, the truth was she called to tell me how she is doing. And the answer is not good. She misses my mother. No kidding. She calls herself my mother’s other daughter, and I cringe, but I say nothing. Then she asks me if I have any extra quilts around that Mom made and she can have. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I think but do not say. My father hated Barbara and her children; he yelled at her all the time. And that was easy because she lived right next door to us. The children irritated him because they were noisy, and they refused to back down in his presence. He hated Barbara’s first husband until the man died; then they suddenly became the best of friends. Anyway, my mother became friendly with Barbara and her children after Daddy died. That’s when we allowed ourselves to discover the kindness in their hearts that never surfaced while he was screaming at them. The truth of the matter is that I like Barbara. And I like her children. They were all good to my mother, remembering her at birthdays and Christmas and mailing pictures of the grandchildren and keeping in touch with an old neighbor. Sure, I like them -- but not nearly enough to share my mother with them!
***************************************
Then I received a card from Mom’s friend, Jo, in Buffalo. She’s the woman in the wheelchair who is connected to a breathing machine twenty-four hours a day. I wonder how she can sound so freaking cheerful -- and grateful. She sent me $25 to plant flowers in my mother’s memory or to take my daughter to lunch to talk about Mom. That was a nice gesture, but not the real gift. Her note was the gift. In a scrawling, sprawling handwriting she shared with me memories of my mother and how Mom would call her and listen to her talk endlessly about her health problems. Mom never got bored, Jo said. And I know that to be true. After they talked Mom would tell me about Jo’s health problems. Then she’d tell everyone else she knew about Jo’s health problems. And by then it would be time to call Jo again. We all worried about Jo; even people who had never met her but knew of her through my mother. Mom’s friends here on Long Island, even today, ask about Jo. I make a mental note that Mom is dead, and Jo is still here, and things are seldom the way they seem in real life. Jo tells me that she will mail me some photos of her and my mother when they were pre-teenagers and formed a club called “The Young Debs”. Then she wrote the line which guaranteed her a swift response to her letter. “I dated Eddie [my father] once,” she mentioned. I want to know about that. I need to know what her date with Dad was like. I will write to her tomorrow to ask those questions ... and to thank her for her most welcome gifts.
August 14, 1997
My cold is still there. When my temperature went over 104, I had to admit that this isn’t “just” a cold. I am shocked daily when I open the mail. So far, Mom’s hospital bills alone (not counting the doctor bills, anesthesia, etc.) totalsmore than $100,000. Medical treatment, even that which can be considered below-par and negligent, does not come cheap. Mind you, she was only in that hospital for four days; it didn’t take long for them to kill her.
Yesterday was a rainy day here, one of those gray days when it feels good to cuddle up on the couch with your dogs and read your favorite book. I did that for awhile. Then I continued on with my project of sorting through Mom’s things. I worked my way through a closetful of quilting fabrics. Deciding which ones to keep and which ones to give away was a difficult decision, especially since I do not quilt and have no idea what I will do with the fabrics I have chosen to hold onto. It just makes me feel good to have them close to me, the ones I know were her favorites. The colorful and unique fabrics she bought when we were in England and Hawaii pissed me off when she bought them,but now I hold them dear. Well, they didn’t exactly piss me off, but then again they did; hauling what felt like tons of heavy fabric through airports and customs and into taxis and limos until my back ached and my temper flared. Well, Mom, I tell her now. Buy all the fabric you like. I will haul all of that for you and more. I’ll do anything if you will just please come home.
August 9, 1997
I am starting to feel better physically. I think my resistance was down and that’s when those mean, old cold germs seem to hit the hardest, don’t they? The autopsy preoccupies me. I’ve mailed it to Char in Louisiana who has shown in to Dorothy the nurse. Heather has shown it to Fran the nurse. I’ve shown it to half of Long Island. Everyone has a different opinion on it. It is clear that my Mom’s aorta was knicked during the first, second, or third surgery. It’s clear that she bled to death from a tear in her heart, but it still isn’t clear how, when, or why the tear got there. I have requested her medical records from the hospital. I want to read them myself before going to the next step. A big part of me wants to believe that this was unavoidable but the carelessness displayed (how does a skilled, experienced surgeon just happen to knick an aorta?) rests heavily on me. One more question: Where is "Quincy" when you need him?
Seeing my niece again was wonderful. I wasn’t sure whether to include this part of my journal here since it isn’t directly related to my Martha’s death, but Cathy was a big part of Martha’s life. Another piece of her immortality. In some ways sitting and talking to Cathy seemed so natural, like we had done it a thousand times before. In other ways it was a very special and unique gift. She is a warmer, friendlier, and more down-to-earth woman than I had imagined with a great sense of humor and an ability to accept the unexpected and roll with the punches. As I used to say to Martha all the time, to be a part of this family you really need to have great stamina. Only the strong survive it. Cathy has that stamina and lots more. She has survived. And Martha wherever she is smiles.
August 5, 1997
My cold is worsening to the point where it feels comfortable, like it has always been there; an old friend come back to roost. I carry the autopsy report with me everywhere I go. I urge everyone I know to read it. My secretary. The post man. Anyone who stands still for more than ten seconds finds the packet thrust into their hands. Not really, but it is beginning to feel that way sometimes. I made a bunch of photocopies of it. To do what with? Mail it with this year’s Christmas cards? I really wonder what Mom would want me to do about pursuing this. She’d say, “Eat right. Sleep for the night. Get rid of the cold, be strong and bold -- and then -- decide tomorrow. And remember -- whatever decision you make is the right one for you -- and me."
August 4, 1997
A sore throat and a cold greeted me this morning. I want my Mommy to bring me soup and tea. Instead I hug the beagle, and I cry. He is used to this; I seem to do it often.
The autopsy report is dog-eared by now. I have read it over 100 times, yet I still don’t understand it. Time to get a medical dictionary and spend a few hours of grunt work. What is the next step I wonder. A solitary voice gives me the answer. “Read it one hundred and one.”
August 3, 1997
My cousins are shocked by the report; they view it as damming the hospital. We spend the weekend talking about it and my mother. On the four hour drive home I realize that there is no sense of relief or release on my part. Mom did not hop out of the Fed Ex truck yelling, “April Fool”. Bed is my relief. I will face this tomorrow.
August 1, 1997
The Medical Examiner’s Office sent two copies of the autopsy report to me, one via Fed Ex and one via snail mail. Which one arrived first? The snail mail copy (score one for the United States Postal Service). Heather and I read the report together, or I should say I read the report aloud, fifteen pages of medical jargon; do I really need to know how much my mommy’s brain weighed? Her lungs? Reading the report, I felt like a peeping tom, like I was violating her boundaries, knowing the biological functioning of her body better than she ever did.
Maybe reading this report could have waited. Maybe reading this report should have waited; now I am off to visit my cousins’ in New Jersey.
July 31, 1997
The autopsy results which were supposed to be released in September are being Fed-Exed to me today. It’s strange how the four to six additional weeks faded away once I contacted the County Executive’s Office, and he contacted the Medical Examiner. I keep thinking of the day Mom decided to have the mitral valve replacement. She was crying when I saw her. We both were. I said, “Mom, we’ll get through this the same way we’ve gotten through everything else -- together.” Looking back, little did I know.
Today’s mail delivered another bombshell; two pathology tests were done on her heart tissue at the hospital on June 19th. Was she dead or alive or maybe somewhere in between?
And the Social Security Administration mailed a certified letter to Mom today ordering her to appear in their office within 20 days or her benefits would be stopped. I called the office and asked what day my mother would be there because it would be oh so nice to see her again.
I found a story that Mom wrote about the cat she had when she was a little girl, Angel. He was a stray she dragged home once upon a time in the 1920’s when she was a little girl living in Brooklyn. The name of the story is, “Angel Without Wings”.
Questions, no answers, but a plan in place to meet my niece tonight. It’s been 18 years since we’ve seen one another. I’m excited, hopeful, grateful to share the time and talents of someone who has the some of the same DNA in her tissues as Heather and I do. I recall her then little girl’s laugh and bright eyes, how she spent every car and bus ride with Mom and me counting Volkswagens, how she loved “The Monkees” and “The Odd Couple” and her music. Part of me feels sad that Mom did not get the chance to meet Cathy again, her first grandchild, all grown up, but I know that wherever she is, Mom will be there in spirit, another angel, but this one has wings.
July 24, 1997
One of my mother’s childhood friends telephoned me this evening from Buffalo. I could hear the hissing of the oxygen Jo breathes from a machine twenty-four hours a day in the background. There was a litany of ailments: diabetes, crippling arthritis, congestive heart failure; the list went on and on. Then she said, “You know, Ann, your mother had such a hard life at times. Your father sometimes made things difficult for her, and your brothers broke her heart, but the years she lived with you were the happiest of her life. She said so all the time.” I know that, of course. Without a doubt. But it felt good hearing someone say it out loud again. Mom said it all the time, and I believed her. Those years were wonderful for me, too, Mom. All the best. And since you’re gone, your friends and family, all of the old folks call me. To tell me about their ailments. And their grandchildren. And to tell me how much you loved me. As if I didn’t know. It’s funny, Mom, I am free to fly now -- but I have no idea where to go.
July 23, 1997
The silence, both within and without, was deafening last night. I decided I needed to make myself laugh so I conjured up all the funny Martha stories I could think of ... the time she cut up all of my out of season suits and dresses for quilt scraps (mistaking my work duds for her seldom worn clothing) ... when, in her Edith Bunker voice, she asked me what it was that gay men do (“Oh my,” she said afterwards, “no wonder your father would never tell me”) ... to the time not so long ago that she called me at work to tell me that Tchotchkes (our beagle) was wearing my underwear ... or the stories about her favorite cat Angel falling off the roof ... or the umpteen times she interrupted me in board meetings and staff meetings to ask her favorite question, “What do you want for supper?” Now no one really cares what I eat for supper -- or breakfast. And no one cuts up my good clothes to piece together into quilts. And come to think of it, it’s been a while since the dog has worn my underwear.
July 22, 1997
Today I found out that someone betrayed me. Who it is and how he betrayed me isn’t that important. What is significant here is that my first thought was to pick up the telephone and tell Mom. She’d stand up for me; she always was on my side. I dialed the number. Reality hit when the NYNEX recording told me that her number had been disconnected, and “no further information was available.” I started to cry. I wanted to talk to Mom. Why can’t they at least give me a forwarding number?
July 21, 1997
I called the Medical Examiner’s Office today hoping to get some answers; the autopsy report will not be released until September. I’m still in limbo; still in limbo. Intellectually I know that no amount of information will ease the pain or bring her back; emotionally I need to find some answers to the questions harboring and haranguing in my mind. “Mom, where are you?” I whine. “Where are you now that I need you so?”
July 19, 1997
Mom's been dead a month today. In some ways it seems like much longer since I've heard her laugh and seen that adorable Irish twinkle in her eyes. Much longer. And ... if I tell the truth here as I promised myself I would do, I sometimes hear her laughing and see her smiling now, those wonderful gifts embedded so very sharply in my memory. It's been a month today and still no word from the coroner. We don't know what happened or why. I read some of my dad's love letters to her. What a love story they had! They met when she was 16, he was 19. He proposed marriage, but she said she was too young to get married. And, as she told me later, she'd been hoping to marry more of a tall-dark-and handsome hunk. Six months later she married the hunk. Not soon after she knew she had made a mistake. A tragic one; the hunk wasn't who he appeared to be in so many ways. He went to prison, she took the baby and went back to her folks'. Fast forward a few years. Martha and Edward meet -- a happenstance -- on a Brooklyn street. He is still single. He has always loved her. She loves him. They marry. Ten years, one marriage, one baby, and the biggest war the world had ever seen later. Destiny my father called it. He has her back now, his Martha. But it wasn't time yet I tell him. My Mommy's been dead a month now. I want her back. And, if you are listening God, I want my Daddy, too!
July 18, 1997
I took a plunge today and went to the beach place Mom and I bought together in 1991 and spent nearly every weekend and vacation in. Friends offered to come with me; to ease both the journey and my pain. I declined the offers though. I knew I would be okay. Of course I spent most of the day procrastinating about going. First I had to do laundry. Then it was time to vacuum, dust, wash floors, clean the bathroom; anything to prolong the inevitable. On the hour and a half drive out there, I thought only of my mother and my first visit to our second home without her. When I unlocked the place and opened the door, there was neither a sense of familiarity nor a sense of home. This was a new place. Our knick knacks and personal belongings had been taken away in anticipation of the renters who come and go now all summer long. This was a new place, rather barren and cold. I closed the door and paced the five hundred feet of boardwalk to the ocean. "Where am I going?" I asked myself. "What am I doing here?" The answer came swiftly just as my feet hit the sand. I'm searching for my mommy and the sense of familiarity and home that followed wherever she journeyed. Motherless daughters are homeless. Our roots are damaged and broken. Will they ever heal?
July 12, 1997
In speaking with Heather today, I shared my frustration re. the amount of time it’s taking for the autopsy findings to be released. She (the murder mystery maven in the family) disagrees with me. She feels that there is no delay, that these things just take time. Then I ask myself why I continue to dwell on this theme anyway. It is time for me to pay for mom’s funeral (the bill is due on July 15th) and to move on. The other side of me says, “No way can I do that. Mom would want me to find out what went wrong with the surgery so that it won’t happen to anyone else -- ever!” The cynic in me does not believe that the autopsy findings will reveal the truth; doctors bury their mistakes. And if there was nothing to hide, why would they already have told me so many lies? Too many questions; too few answers. I will continue to play the waiting game. There’s one thing I know for certain -- my mother is dead, and there’s no joy in being a motherless daughter.
July 11, 1997
I spoke to my friend, Irene, today. She’s recently divorced. She lost a teenage son to brain cancer a few years back. She said the worst was losing her mother; that nothing compared to that. I tell her that losing a child must be worse than that; she says no, that is the second worst. We talk about how our losses pile up, one after another, and wonder what is supposed to take their places. She talks about a friend who asked her when she will stop talking about her son. It’s time, the friend tells her, to forget about him and move on. I answer the question for her. Loudly. When will she stop talking about her son? NEVER. We need to continue to share our loved ones with our friends, to remind the world that they were here and left their mark, and that they truly live on in our hearts. Irene says she feels like getting drunk now; I agree. We both laugh; neither one of us drinks at all. But somehow on the day after my mother’s birthday, it seems like the right thing to do.
July 10, 1997
Yesterday was/would have been Mom’s 78th birthday. I ended up taking Heather to the hospital ER for severe back pain/urine problems. I worry all the time about her and me; especially me. If I get sick, my mom isn’t here to take care of me anymore. No one is; I find it difficult to be able to rely on Heather to take care of me in an emergency. I wonder what other people do. Every article I read I think I have the symptoms of the disease, whether it’s thyroid, diabetes, cancer, whatever. I think I have it all. I am scared all the time. Could not get out of bed today; never did get dressed. Also, Jimmie’s mother died, and we talked about how there will be no one to put the porch light on for her when she’s due home anymore. This sucks big time. I want my mother back. I want someone to take care of me. Broke out in hives yesterday morning. Not sure if I overdosed on b-b-q sauce and beans or if Heather’s 6 a.m. hysterics about her back etc. set them off. I worry about EVERYTHING. Vacation almost over. Anxiety prevails. Don’t know how to get through this. I have never felt so alone. I have to get through this; no choice. Without a doubt I cannot let Martha down.
July 8, 1997
Tomorrow is Mom’s Birthday. I’m never quite sure whether to say is or would have been. Anyway, I decided to visit the cemetery today. It was hot and so humid that the air everywhere felt oppressive. I drove to the national cemetery and parked my Rav4 on the grass; the sign in front of me read, “Park vehicles all the way off the grass.” I suppose I wasn’t with it; I thought the sign was telling me to park all the way on the grass, so that’s what I did. I walked to Section 72, holding my breath as I neared grave number 550. I could see it across the rows of white stones standing like interminable rows of dominoes. My parents’ stone lay on the ground, face up, but off to the side. In its place on their grave was a metal marker with both names and dates of death; that must suffice until the new stone is put in place, the one bearing my mother’s name as well as my father’s. I didn’t know what to say to her. I commented that the grass was growing on her grave already, that time was passing by. I told her that I felt closer and more able to talk to her at home than at this governmental resting place. Then I yelled at my father. “Daddy,” I told him, “it wasn’t time. It wasn’t time for you to have her back. She was supposed to stay here with me now.” Then I realized that it must have been time, that God doesn’t make mistakes, that she would be celebrating her 78th birthday without me but in a better place than this. “I love you, Mommy,” the little girl cried out again. Then I walked to back to my car across the brown grass, trying not to step on any graves, got in my car, and pulled away.
July 4, 1997
How I Am Coping With Mom’s Loss; How Do We Celebrate Her Life? These are such difficult questions right now. We are asking ourselves what we can learn from my mother's life and what can be learned from her death. Thus far, nothing further has been learned about why she died, what went wrong with the surgery, how she ended up with a hole in her heart, a pacemaker and three open-heart surgeries in 24 hours. Why she bled to death when she was "the perfect candidate" for mitral valve replacement surgery. The coroner's report has not been released although the medical bills seem to be flying in here faster than the speed of light. Check here for updates re. the medical examiner's report and what happened as well as how we are doing. It is sometimes difficult not to be bitter, but that's not Annie's style. Annie is more forgiving than most and will find a way to turn this around and make it into a positive. Meanwhile I want to thank all my cyberfriends and cyberfamily for the prayers, notes, cards, and good thoughts and kind words that you have sent to me. The outpouring of love and caring has been my major sustenance and solace. My husband died; my father died, but nothing in my life prepared me for losing my mother or Heather for losing her grandmother. Thank God we have each other!
I have slowly been going through Mom's things, one thing at a time, not wanting to change anything in her room, sort of feeling that she would be coming back back home. Hugging the handmade quilts she lovingly stitched for us and the warm afghans she crocheted for us, playing with her teddy bears and Shirley Temple dolls and teddy bears.
As I said to Heather recently, "Grandma's been dead long enough; I want her to come home now." That’s how we both feel.
The dogs are adjusting to a new routine; and thanks to our friend Suzie in Virginia, they received a care package filled with homemade dog biscuits. Manda is doing pretty well -- I brush her and she purrs; two seconds later she chomps down on my hand, and then she purrs again. That’s Manda! She’ll keep purring, and one of these days I will need plastic surgery for the bite mark scars on my hands. Suffice to say that we are adjusting very slowly to not having Grandma here. Our sense of humor and our faith gets us by.
No gallons of Hagen Daaz in the freezer. No Pop Tarts in the cupboard. And no one to wear her "there's nothing wrong with me that a little ice cream won't fix". It's sad, it's heartbreaking, and it's painful; there are no choices to be made now. One can only go on living, living for today, hoping for tomorrow and keeping warm memories in our hearts.
June 24th
98 degrees and a sunny day. So many friends at the wake and beyond. I don't want to bury my mommy today a little girl's voice cries out from within. She looks like she is sleeping. I don't want this to be real. I don't want to say goodbye, Lord. I'll keep visiting her at the funeral home like I did at the hospital -- anything to keep her with me. No, I tell myself. That is impossible. I cannot keep her with me. She is already rotting away. My anger and pain grows as we all know the doctors killed her; even a hospital employee called the coroner to tell him so. The last week has been a whirl of mistakes, lies, and loss. The little girl cries out; she wants to know where her sweet mommy has gone to; the little girl forgets that she is 43 years old.
Mom’s Eulogy - June 24, 1997
I would like to share a very special story with you. It is about my mother
and me. It may also be about your mother and you.
The Widow and Her Daughter
Taken from a story by Kahlil Gibran
Night descended swiftly upon the northern town, overtaking a day wherein much snow had fallen on the surrounding villages. It made of the fields and the hills a white page upon which the winds had inscribed lines and then erased them. The tempest played with them, making the angry sky at one with wrathful nature. People took refuge in their houses and beasts in their stalls, and no living thing moved. No thing remained without, save the bitter cold, and the black terrifying night, and death, strong and fearsome.
In a lonely cottage in one of those villages a woman sat before the fire weaving a garment of wool. By her side sat her only child, looking now into the fire, now up at the serene face of her mother.
In that hour the storm grew in force, and the winds increased in violence until the walls of the house trembled and shook. The girl became frightened and drew near to her mother, seeking in her tenderness a protection against the enraged elements. She held her to her breast and kissed her and seated her on her lap, saying, “Be not afraid, my daughter, for it is naught save Nature warning man of her might against his littleness, and her strength by the side of his weakness. Fear not, my child, for beyond the falling snows and thick clouds and the howling tempest is a Holy Spirit who is knowing of the needs of the fields. Beyond all things is a Power that looks upon the wretchedness of mankind with mercy and compassion. Be not frightened, my precious one, for Nature, who smiles with the spring and laughs on a summer’s day and sighs with autumn’s coming, now wants to weep. With her cold tears is watered sleeping life under the layers of the earth.
“Sleep, then, my child, for your father looks down upon us from eternal pastures. Storm and snow bring near to us the remembrance of those immortal spirits. “Sleep, my darling, for out of the warring elements will come forth beautiful flowersfor you to gather in the mouth of the river. So it is, my daughter, that men reap not love save after painful absence and the cold without.”
The girl looked up at her mother with eyes darkened by sleepiness and said: “My eyes are sleepy, Mother, and I am afraid to go to sleep before saying my prayers.”
The mother embraced her tenderly and, looking through her tears to her child’s face, said:“Say with me, my child: Have mercy, O Lord, upon the poor and guard them
against the bitter cold and clothe their naked bodies with Thy hands. Look Thou to the orphans aslumber in huts, whose bodies are hurt by the snow’s cold breath. “Hearken, O Lord, to the cry of the widow standing in the street between death and cold. Stretch forth Thy hand to the rich man’s heart and open Thou his eyes that he may see the wretchedness of the weak and the oppressed.
“Show pity, O Lord, to those ahunger outside doors on this dark, night, and guide the stranger to a refuge of warmth, and have mercy on his strangeness.
“Look, O Lord, upon the fledgling and preserve with Thy right hand the tree fearful of the harsh wind. Be this so, O Lord.”
And when sleep had gathered up the girl, her mother laid her upon the bed and kissed her brow with trembling lips. Then she returned to the fireside, and there sat making for her a coat of wool.
Thanks, Mom, for protecting me from so many storms, both real and imagined; for
teaching me my prayers and for listening to my dreams; for loving me and Heather and
all of your friends and family; for wrapping Christmas presents for The Ministries
children and for me; for each morning’s cup of tea and each day’s evening meal; for
giving me life, for teaching me laughter, and especially for the special times we shared
during the last seven years we lived together.
Most of all, thanks, Mom, for being you.
And finally, I would like to end with an Old Gaelic Prayer:
Deep Peace of the running waves to you
Deep peace of the flowing air to you
Deep peace of the smiling stars to you
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.
I love you. Always and Forever.
June 19th
My beloved mother, Martha died today. There are no words to describe the pain she suffered or the pain we are overwhelmed by now. Please pray for us.
June 17, 1997
Twenty years since Heather was born. It's hard to believe it's been that long! Mom's open heart surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. Please keep her in your prayers! It's been a long haul!
June12, 1997
We are waiting for Mom to be transferred to the heart center for valve replacement surgery and possibly bypass surgery as well. She is in good spirits, but understandably nervous about the upcoming surgery as well as the recuperation. I have advocated on her behalf (translation: Annie has been fighting with the doctors) to have her transmitted to a rehabilitation center post surgery in order to speed up her recuperation and to enable a smooth transition for all of us. At this point, that's the plan. Please keep Mom and all of us in your prayers.
June 8, 1997
As of June 8th, Mom has been admitted to the local hospital's Intensive Care Unit. She is suffering from congestive heart failure. Was in some discomfort due to breathing difficulties. Please keep her in your prayers! I will post any news on her condition here and apologize in advance for any unanswered emails. Between trips to the ICU, work, family, and trying to maintain a sense of myself, time and energy may be extremely limited, but I will check my email daily.
This Diary copyright Martha's Daughter, July 1997. All Rights Reserved. Banner courtesy of Lisa at Chougui Works
