Tribute

Some of you have asked if I would post the eulogy my brother and I wrote for my mom, so I'm going to make this my final post that's specifically about this topic (though I'll continue to reflect on both her and this experience in the context of the larger picture. How could I not?) I put a * where my brother's part began, though he needed to start reading for me a bit before that. If I'd known when I wrote this that I would also have to deliver it, I may not have been so gut-wrenchingly honest! At the end my brother also thanked the many friends, relatives, doctors, and nurses who helped our family along the way.

Line by line, a eulogy forms the hardest story you'll ever have to write. It isn't easily started or finished, not because we don't know what to say, but because in saying it we are saying goodbye.

Some of you are here to say goodbye to the woman you knew as a devoted Catholic. Maybe she stood next to you singing in the choir, or led a prayer meeting you attended. She might have been your CCD teacher, or placed the Eucharist in your hands on Sunday morning. Others are here to say goodbye to a gifted artist, a woman who spent her life painting in oils, acrylics, and watercolors, attending art classes, participating in gallery shows, becoming a member of the Rhode Island Watercolor Society, and traveling to Block Island in late summers to paint by the ocean, a place she loved. You may have known her as a secretary or a talented seamstress. You may have called her wife, friend, sister, cousin, or Auntie Winnie. All of you, I'm sure, knew her as stylish, soft spoken, and sweet-natured.

My brother and I knew her in many of those ways too, but most importantly we knew her as "mom" — a devoted mom who told us many times that she was happiest with her family gathered around her, and who proved this by filling our lives with love that manifested itself as warm meals on the table, a well-kept home, a thoughtful gift for no reason, sound advice when we asked for it, hugs whenever we needed one. She never failed to put our family first, and there was never a time she said, "I'm tired" or "I'm busy. Fend for yourselves."

In my mind is a collage of memories hard to categorize except as things I won't forget: my mom and I crying and laughing while we chop onions and sip wine in my small, over-heated kitchen on Thanksgiving; how she liked to make stuffed animals "talk" to us in a funny high- pitched voice; back-to-school clothes shopping expeditions; her making me not one but two birthday desserts for my 36th birthday; her uncanny ability to find out about whatever one of us was trying to get away with; how she would wait expectantly in the kitchen to greet us when we came home; how for the past ten years I could always count on seeing a new email from her in my inbox every time I checked; how much time she spent helping me practice the piano and complete homework assignments; how she doubled the joy of any success we've had with her happiness, pride, and unwavering faith in us.

It's impossible to share memories about our mom without mentioning Christmas, which was her favorite holiday and a year-round endeavor. As soon as one Christmas was over she would begin preparing for the next, stowing away presents all over the house and usually forgetting how many she'd acquired by the following December. Our family didn't have "gifts beneath the tree" because they wouldn't have fit beneath the tree. We had gifts piled up on all sides of the tree, practically hiding it from view. As we got older my brother and I would teasingly scold her saying, "Mom! You really don't need to do all this!" But she would laugh and shrug and tell us, "I know that. But I want to. I enjoy it!" And she did. And when another holiday get-together was drawing to a close and we were getting ready to head our separate ways, she would lament that it had "flown by" and was "over too fast" and looking back now, I know we whole-heartedly agree with her.

Somewhere in a family album there's a snapshot taken on my first day of kindergarten. My mom is trying to leave me with the teacher and other children, and I'm fastened to her leg, my face red from crying, my mouth open in what I imagine was a howl of fear at the thought of being separated from her. 32 years have passed since that first day of kindergarten, and I like to believe I'm all grown up. But inside a part of me there's a 6 year old reluctant to let go, and as an adult I've come to realize fully what we know instinctively as children — that a mother's love and devotion is a gift greater than a million presents around the tree. I have faith that for my brother and I her love will endure far beyond the limits of the mortal body it came wrapped in.
*
That mortal body suffered greatly over the last few years. I still remember how badly we were shocked when we learned, in 1994, that mom had aggressive breast cancer. We were devastated, but our mom would not let us fall into despair. She faced her illness with grace, courage, and a strong faith in God. She was more worried about how the illness would affect my dad, my sister, and me than she was about herself. Her attitude surely was a big factor in how long she was able to beat cancer and continue to enjoy her life. Doctors, nurses, and staff constantly remarked on my mom’s good nature and kind personality.

In February of 2009, mom moved in with me. Despite her many physical problems and increasing pain, we still shared many good times together. When trips to the theater and DownCity Restaurant, where we were greeted as “mother and son,” became impossible, we replaced that with Friday night fish and chips at Ye Olde English and Saturday night steak sandwiches at Kay’s. Later, we would get take out and watch TV together. And when my sister would drive down, either alone or with Jason, we knew that we would end up laughing until our sides hurt at some bit of silliness. My mom was my hero, and I’m sure my sister shares that sentiment. She taught me so much through her example—through her quiet dignity—and I know that the Lord has greeted her with, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Come and share your master’s happiness!"