My mother passed away in the early hours this morning. She had a good run, 94 years, although the last year or so saw her gradually waste away day by day as she lost her appetite completely, then her interest in most things. But that's not what I'll remember most.
Memory is a funny thing, especially for someone who feels like they've been gaslit at various times in their life. I don't entirely trust my own memories, and I've had to deal with my sometimes-misplaced episodic memory as well. So I choose to remember things that I believe ring true and provide me with the most emotional impact. That said, my two earliest memories are (1) a few seconds when I was a baby in my crib, crying, and Mom came in and picked me up to comfort me, and (2) when I was about 4 years old and had an earache, my mom holding my hand as we walked under the elevated subway in the Bronx en route to the doctor's office. The overriding feeling I have from both memories is one of comfort, safety, and security.
My mom was a self-professed "educational snob" and an avid reader who loved word games. She taught us Scrabble, loved watching Jeopardy with my late aunt until Alex Trebek passed, and I played Words With Friends with her until about a year ago. I certainly got my love of reading from her, but knowledge is a double-edged sword, as the more I read (and grew) the more I questioned. And many of the answers were not in keeping with her core beliefs, mostly religion-based. But we reached a detente by the time I was an adult (even though to an extent she and my dad treated me like a teenager until the end of their days) and the love we had for one another was never in question.
In some ways Mom's life, especially towards the end, also served as a cautionary tale, making me more keenly aware of my own fragility and health issues. I long since gave up FOMO for FOBO (Fear of Being Overwhelmed) and no longer wish to Go Out to many places other than the office in Manhattan, in large measure due to mobility issues. When I sense something is amiss I have doctors with whom I honestly discuss my situation, all kinds of braces and walking sticks to help me get around, and I don't kid myself as much as I used to about what I'm capable of doing. I sometimes wish I had a larger in-person social circle the way I did when I was younger (and before COVID increased the risk of being in crowds), but my online circle and work colleagues make up for that in large measure and, after all, I'm married to my best friend who complements me perfectly (and is, for the record, not allowed to predecease me).
My dad's death 18 years ago was sudden, the result of an auto accident on the other side of the country where I could not reach, and thus I never felt like I had any closure with him. My mom's situation was almost the opposite, she faded gradually and there was plenty of time to say all that needed to be said. Nonetheless, now that both my parents are gone I feel like the two pillars on which I was standing have crumbled, which is ironic considering I also feel like I've reached Peak Competence in my life, and can adult pretty well. There's a Jewish saying "may their memory be a blessing," and as an atheist I'm comforted by knowing that they're both together now, in my heart and in my head and in the things I choose to remember.
I began writing in part as a way to try and better communicate with my parents, neither of whom had the same frames of reference as me (although they were proud of my accomplishments), so in that respect I never quite succeeded, but my writing has continued to this day and I think I've held my own with my other social circles, and with whatever readers of this blog remain. After I retire (the plan is still June of 2028) I may switch to writing full-time, but there are a lot of things I "may" do now that I'm unmoored. For now I'll just concentrate on healing, one day at a time.
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