Sunday is Mother’s Day. When, annually, I write about my adored Mom so I can bring back the one person I treasured most. If I could rip out my insides to replace her, I would . . . to still tell her I never loved any other creature — big, small, man, woman, four-legged or two — the way I loved You.
And not in this life, nor in the many Shirley MacLaine and I may pass through, will I ever love anyone more.
My Mom, Jessica — Jessie for short — didn’t make demands. Didn’t take. She gave. When I did something thoughtless or stupid, made no difference. She was always there for me. My Yorkie’s named Jazzy because that’s closest to the name which meant so much to me.
My grandmother, who came over from the old country, Russia, was a janitress in the New World. Cleaned stoops. Took in boarders. Her husband, who never made much of a living, was a tailor. They had five children. My Mother, the baby, was born in Liverpool. She married a dentist but rapidly discovered she liked nothing about him, including his teeth, and divorced him after I was born. An executive secretary, she was a single parent.
I was always sickly and — no matter what — she was always there. And she pawned things because we needed other things. And then she married a dear man, who loved me and sold insurance. Mostly I remember that she was always, always there for me.
Mother was beautiful. I was not. Mother had my nose fixed. Improved my hairline. Put me on a diet. Fed me little green Feosol tablets religiously because I was anemic. Gave me speech and posture and acting lessons. Early on took me to a modeling agent and said: “My daughter is going to become somebody.” Underwhelmed, they said: “Maybe, but not here.”
I remember, I remember, I’ll never forget.
I can’t believe my Mother is gone. Losing your Mother is tough. For me, very tough. Even in my heart, the word is capitalized. From when I lay unfocused and unspeaking in the womb-home she created for me to when she lay unfocused and unspeaking in the home hospital bed I provided for her, she was my life.
Even in those years when she didn’t know who I was, I knew who she was. I knew somewhere inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, educated, verbal, vibrant, witty, dynamic, fun-loving killer lady who had forever been my everything, the core of my being.
When last I hugged my mom, an icy stab of fear sliced through me. Despite familiar surroundings, her increased fragility triggered my panic. I wanted to crawl into that bed alongside her, but there was no way. No room. And I was terrified I’d frighten her. Worse, the bed would collapse. I pressed up close, my body flat against the protective side bars. I could only stroke that small head. And lay in her hands the fuzzy teddy bear geriatricians said to place there so she’d feel something other than the cold steel of an unfriendly hospital bed.
I remembered that gorgeous head when it was full of information. When it ruled worlds. When it was big and strong and knowledgeable and featured that powerful thick reddish mane. It seemed tiny now. The hair, white. Sparse.
She no longer knew my name or who I was. She couldn’t speak. But when I leaned in close to stroke that head or hold her hand, her eyes didn’t flinch. She didn’t show fear. I thus calmed myself that somehow in her deepest recesses she sort of sensed mine was a friendly being.
I was an only child. I married in my teens. So we were four. After dad went, we were three. Then my husband went. And we were two. And then Mom. And now I’m one. April was my birthday . . . also the month I lost her.
Given our frailties, I know all sorts of stories exist out there. In some, the pressures of life have shredded the delicate fabric that weaves a family together. For whatever reason, out there are wide, ugly gaps between Mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.
So why inflict my own personal pain onto this page? Because it’s Mother’s Day. Because all I can give mine are the tears that, at this moment as I type, already flow.
I only say, if it’s within your ability — call. Tell your mother you love her.
I wish I could.
I can’t anymore.