Years Falling Like Grains of Sand

You never met my mother. You couldn’t have, because she died before you had the chance. In fact, she died ten years ago. Today. Exactly.

My mother was a kind woman. Possibly the kindest you could meet. She had unimaginable patience, even for the most insufferable people. She opened her heart to all who needed help and would have given her last crust of bread to someone who she deemed needed it more than her.

She was my best friend.

She was the neighborhood mom. None of my friends called her “Mrs. O’Brien.” She was just “Mom.” Her patience and compassion spilled out to all of my friends, she made them feel welcome, and at home, even when she had made it clear to me that she didn’t want me hanging around certain individuals. In her mind, the only reason they might behave in ways that she felt were inappropriate was that they weren’t given the love and patience at home that they deserved. So, she gave them her love and patience. And, except for a few occasions that resulted in complete shunning by my group of friends for upsetting my mom, they responded in kind.

My mom was also a Mom. And I mean that as the highest compliment possible. She was always there for us growing up. When my dad died, she had seven kids she was still trying to get out of the roost. My oldest brother was married, but I had two brothers in college, sisters in various states of school or getting their own apartments and my brother and I who had just started junior high and kindergarten. It would have been a stressful time for any parent. However, her spouse had just died.

She never made us feel like we were missing anything. I scarcely remember a day when she wasn’t there. She always found a way to make ends meet and to make sure we had everything we ever needed. And, sometimes wanted. Had I known then what I know now, I never would have begged for an Atari 2600. But she found a way for us to have one.

She was always there. Always ready for us to cry. Always willing to take the abuse that we would heap upon our mothers at certain ages because we felt we were smarter or better than them. Now, of course, I realize who was the better person. Now, of course, I realize why she took that abuse and didn’t just wash her hands of whatever stupid situation I was blowing up into an “Incident.”

She was a supremely compassionate person. She took everything because she knew that we were suffering, in our own teen ways. Only she was wise enough to know that our suffering would end.

She, of course, knew of suffering. She was a child of the depression. She was a widow. She was raising a gaggle of children on her own. She rarely allowed a sickness to get her down. Even when she contracted pneumonia, she wouldn’t allow it to get the better of her.

However, when she came home and told me that she had cancer, in my heart I knew that this might be the one thing that would finally get the better of her. Pancreatic cancer has a dismal survival rate. And no matter how loved a person may be, even love cannot save you from the ravages of this disease.

I was numb. I was angry. But we worked through all of the treatments. Chemo therapy. Radiation. Surgery.

When the great surgery, which was to buy us maybe five more years with her, failed I took a hockey stick and just destroyed a portion of my basement out of anger and frustration. Fear.

She had a good summer, despite her illness and the decimating properties of her treatments. She still gardened, much to my embarrassment. She was able to visit her friends and family in the Chicago area. She went swimming in a lake, even though she was so thin and frail at that point that the life jacket was bobbing above her ears.

But in November things started going bad. She spent some time in the hospital, but came home a few days before Thanksgiving. I remember sitting and watching The Beatles Anthology on television with my brother as my frail, little mother slept on the couch.

Thanksgiving morning I was woken up by my brother. We had to get mom to the hospital. An ambulance was coming. She had been suffering all night long. Quietly, because she hadn’t wanted to bother us while we slept.

As she was being placed in the ambulance she called out to me to make sure I had my insulin. Even when she needed to be taken care of, she never stopped caring.

That was the last time she was at home. Within a week or so, she was gone.

I was there the night she died. But I left the room. I couldn’t bear the thought of being there as her presence left the room.

I lost my mother and my most trusted confidante in the same moment. It was devastating.

To this day, a decade on, I still turn around and think she’s behind me. There are times I almost pick up the phone to call her to tell her something. That I’m getting married. That I’m going to be a dad. That my daughter’s going to be on TV. That the girls want to come over and play.

It’s tough. The girls ask about Grandma Rita and Gert at times seems truly upset about lost opportunities. She assures me that she talks to Grandma Rita in her dreams. And, you know, with this kid I believe her.

Still, there are times, and this is not manly to admit (of course), when I miss her so much that it hurts. Times when the desire to pick up that phone is so strong, that it’s overwhelming.

My wife talked about a book she read with Gert the other night. That book is somewhat of a family joke because Daddy cries whenever he reads it. The girls will trot it out sometimes to wreck their old man. They sit and listen and pat my cheek as I get choked up.

It’s a simple story about a woman who loves her son. When he sleeps, she crawls into his room and picks hum up and sings a little song. In the end, the mother is old and sick:

The son went to his mother.
He picked her up and rocked her
back and forth, back and forth,
back and fort.
And he sang this song:
I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living,
my Mommy you’ll be.

Love you mom. I miss you.

Here are some songs that I think you would like. I hope you can hear them.

Jeff Tweedy - Please Tell My Brother
Joe Brown - I'll See You in My Dreams