My mother passed away in 1986. She was 69 years old. I miss her every day.
Mom had smoking-related asthma. She never really tried to quit, until the last two years when her lungs were too weak to continue. She bravely kept up her normal pace of life, occasionally landing in the hospital for intensive inhalation therapy. I know she detested what she had done to herself. Everything else in her life was approached with deliberate moderation. She ate carefully, stayed out of the sun, napped every day, and was a terrific role model. Except for that one thing. Damn cigarettes.
She and my dad came to visit us in March of that year. My son John was barely three, and Joe was a baby. She loved those little guys. Now that I have the luxury of hindsight, I never should have allowed her to come to Seattle in the worst month for molds and pollen. But she couldn't stay away from those babies. Within two days, she was admitted to Evergreen Hospital, where she stayed for a few weeks. Finally, unable to make progress, they flew her back to Butte, where the climate was dry and familiar. As they loaded her into the jet, I kissed her good-bye, and she spoke her last words to me, "Happy days, Honey."
Once she was in Butte, they put her on a ventilator. My sister and I loaded John and Joe into my parents' car to drive to Butte. We arrived two days before she died.
Now, I'm not trying to get all mooshy for Mother's Day, and my purpose is not even to keep beating the drum against cigarettes. I want you to know what happened after Mother died. She had been part of a women's group they called "Bridge Club." Mom hated to play bridge, so when it was her turn to host the group, she tried to divert the ladies from card playing if at all possible. One time she even had all the husbands crash the party, and that night went down as one of the all time great get-togethers Bridge Club ever had.
Two of my siblings still lived in the Butte area, and three of us lived near Puget Sound. As we all arrived home, our childhood chums, college friends, neighbors, and co-workers began to show up at the house. My friend Karen wielded a vacuum, others brought trays of food. Many came by just to visit. No one, not her children, not Dad, not her friends, expected Mom to die. But as soon as people heard, they came to lend help and emotional support. The Bridge Club put on the reception at the house after the funeral. The house was so crowded that we could barely move from one room to another. So many people loved and appreciated my mom. I just hope she knew it.
I'm now four weeks out from surgery for colon cancer. I can tell that I am getting better because my garden is calling me, and I feel like answering. During my recovery, I was deluged with food for the family, gifts, and flowers. My friends (especially my version of the Bridge Club that we call the Birthday Club) were there to take care of any need that arose. My house was cleaned, and people were ready to run errands. Lenny's friends and co-workers were generous in so many ways. Many cousins called to check on me, or sent e-mails to say hi. Even my readers (from the King County Journal days, as well as friends of the blog) checked in for updates.
But I was a little surprised at something else. So many people took the time to send handwritten notes to tell me what I meant to them. I was humbled by the kind words of long-time friends. People told me specific things where my life had mattered to them, and their encouragement and kind words were a healing balm. It was like a living funeral- people were talking about me, but I got to be there! When the time comes for me to die, these friends (siblings and cousins included) will be without regret. It's a good way to live.