September 18, 2007--That's It

“I’m wrong. I’m wrong. Gussie lived there before she moved to Florida. Then she sold it to lovely people. Then Leonard came down. And that’s it.” My mother had a rough week. A very rough one. She’s 99 and so we rushed to see her. But now I hear the familiar sound of her voice filtering out to me as she sits in the den, nestled next to Rona, telling her again some of the family stories. To help assure that they will not be forgotten once she is, as she puts it, “gone.” “I slept on this sofa when my brother Jac came here for a visit. I gave them my bedroom. They never knew I slept on the sofa. But I was fine. Lie down. See how comfortable it is. How I miss him. And Helen of course, who was like a sister to me.” She had four biological sisters and now they too, along with Helen and Jac, are gone. She is the only one from her generation who is left. But now, though she seems better than she had been last week, she has been saying many valedictory things and perhaps in this way is signaling to us that she is getting ready to leave. She told us this morning, over breakfast at the Bagel Tree (they have those kinds of trees in Florida where the New Yorkers have migrated) that she doesn’t fear death. But that she is afraid of dying. She also took pains to remind us again where her papers are, her safe deposit box, even her small cache of money—“I always have $100 here. Make sure you remember where it is.” “And remember that all you have is each other. I want to know that you will love and take care of each other. If there are things that are upsetting you, issues between you, I want you to put them aside. You will need each other. This much I know. Nothing is more important than that. Everything else you must forgive.” I am in the dining room and can hear Rona murmuring that she understands and that everything is all right. She has nothing to worry about. Above all, we want her to concentrate on getting stronger. To put aside for the moment her lifelong devotion to us and all of the family. It is her turn, at least for a while, to allow us to worry about her, to do things for her. She has more than earned that. And yet I hear her saying, “But I can’t rest unless I know that you are all well. That’s the way I am. Can you expect me to change now? I’m almost 100 and, yes, I think about everyone. I do worry. Is Jared happy and secure in his job? [He is well, Rona says, and from all reports is making good progress. They like him and why shouldn’t they?] And I so much want to be here for Margo’s graduation. I want to know where she’s going to college. That’s very important to me. [Rona says, She also is doing well. You do not need to worry about her. She’s smart and will find a good place to go.] And then there’s . . . . ” I type louder since I feel they are saying things to each other that I do not feel it is right for me to overhear. Though in truth there isn’t anything I haven’t heard many times before, still I block out the sounds by also humming to myself. I quickly realize I want to block them out not because of concern about eavesdropping on intimate matters but because I am not ready yet to confront the most final of realities which their conversation evokes. (In spite of my best efforts I can still hear them now talking about what’s in her desk and files.) I have been more fortunate than anyone deserves to have a mother so ancient and yet so perfect of mind and body. If there is anything to feel blessed about, this is surely it. “If I have to go to the hospital . . .” cuts through my best efforts to isolate myself. But I have also become spoiled, feeling, in her age-defying near perfection, that with her always here I would live on, indefitely sheltered from the abyss by her very existence,. And so I sit here in emotional self-exile surrounded by framed pictures of the past—all her sisters and brother are here as well as at least one image of every member of our very extended family. For years they have existed in the hazy background, stuffed in among the crystal and bric-a-brac, of an old lady’s apartment. Now they are suddenly animated. I am brought again to Fay’s 90th birthday and to vivid memories of Chuck’s 70th. There is a glimpse of Noelle’s wedding on that dreamy summer day and reminders of shucking corn at Bantam Lake with Len and Holly. And in the remotest, most shaded corner of the living room, on the carved lamp table, there are pictures of cousins so distant from me that I cannot either identify or name them. From these I am jolted now to a clearer understanding of what my mother meant when she said, “This is all you have.” There are things I have to do. There is still time. Or so I hope.