Today It's Your Birthday

Today is my birthday, and for the first time in my life I wasn't awoken by my mother singing an over-the-top rendition of "Happy Birthday", either in person or over the phone. This gave me a sense of importance as a child that devolved into a source embarrassment during the acne years. For the past 10 years or so, however, it has been something that made me laugh; something that I took for granted. Thinking back now about my mother's singing voice, and her silly demeanor in general, I have to take a deep breath to choke back the tears.

I thought this whole thing was going to get easier once the funeral was over and I was back at work. Well, I thought wrong. I frequently find myself short of breath, paralyzed by the realization that, as I carry on here, my mother is no longer there; no longer a phone call or a 4.5 hour car ride away. I am thankful to be able to say, however, that during this trying time my family has been blessed --each individually and vicariously by association-- with the boundless love and support of our friends and each other.

I've struggled to make sense of this. And by "this" I mean pretty much everything. And I'll likely continue as such. The burden of this loss is tempered, however, by those around me. Specifically, one close friend of mine has offered what I consider to be some of the most useful pearls. Having endured similar pain, he has been extremely supportive, availing himself at the drop of a hat to talk, or just to be there. (Given my shortcomings, more often than not this has meant just being there.) While I admit there is a certain credibility stemming from our shared experience, what is most striking is his willingness to embrace the idea that, while our broad stroke circumstances are shared, our respective tragedies are ultimately unique, each distinctly our own. As such, this is a process that cannot and should not be rushed, nor will it ever be fully understood, much less by other people. He acknowledged having been at a loss for words when he greeted my family at the funeral, not wanting to make it seem like he knew what we were going through. And honestly, this emotional humility has meant the most to me. The last thing I've wanted to hear over the last few weeks, however well intentioned, is who knows exactly what I'm going through. Paradoxically, his insistence that he didn't know led me to the contrary conclusion. As such, his advices have taken on greater meaning. He has urged me to continue talking and thinking about her as a way to keep her with me; an idea I had been searching for that I had failed to adequately conceptualize. Though I will continue to struggle, I'm strangely comforted by the notion that I can keep her around by talking and thinking of her. She brought too many smiles to too many people for anything less.

Obviously, the rest of my family cannot be lost in this. Firstly, I couldn't have conjured up any of the requisite strength to cope, let alone persevere, without Moose. Her importance is incalculable. Bearing much of the brunt of responsibility since her arrival home from Costa Rica has been my younger sister. I am eternally thankful she arrived home soon enough to share some real quality time with my mother, while also making sure --with a sensitivity, empathy, grace, and determination each distinctly hers-- that her final days were filled with the kind of love and dignity she deserved. Though sometimes we misunderstand each other, I am grateful also that my mother knew well and benefited from the dutiful, quiet strength, and timely sense of humor of my brother, as well as the love --as bold, brash, and honest as youth can provide-- of my youngest sister. Above almost all else, I'm thankful my parents found each other, my existence notwithstanding. I'm thankful that my dad is exactly who he is and always has been, and that he has been so for the sake of my dear mother all along, and because he knows no other way.

I'm grateful for all of my mother's friends, as good as they were to her in life, kind still towards her family after. At one point, after my mom had passed away but before I had returned to Boston, my mother's cell phone rang. Instinctively, my sister answered the call and was greeted by surprise on the other end. The caller, a close friend of mom's, had assumed the call would have gone right to voicemail, or that at least that no one would answer. She was calling to listen to my mother's voice on her voicemail greeting. My sister having picked up, they shared an awkward conversation and an uncomfortable chuckle before my sister assured she would let the phone ring if she wanted to hang up and call right back. (Since then, I've made that phone call with the same intention more than once.) Last week my sister received another call from the very same telephone number. (It is perhaps relevant at this time to mention that my mother did not have anyone's phone number stored in her phone because she didn't know how to do so. She knew phone numbers by heart.) Hesitant, my sister answered the phone and was greeted by the warm assurance that this call had been made with the hope that she would answer, in order to share with her a dream about my mother, and likely some of the solace it provided. In the dream, she bumped into mom at the grocery store. Surprised to see her, she couldn't help but notice how beautiful and healthy she looked. After hugging and screaming, as women often do, she fed her compliments while she twirled around, undoubtedly showing off. Assuring her once more how beautiful she looked, my mom responded, grinning, "I'm not in pain anymore!"

Most of all, I'm thankful for my mom. All of her. Every day, every hug, and every phone call:

She loved to laugh, sing, and dance. She could command the attention of an entire room, or graciously defer to one of her many partners in crime (though most often she deferred nothing). One of my favorite pictures is a relatively recent one of her dancing and karoeking with my brother. They're both smiling and singing, and he had just reached for her microphone. You can tell from the way her hand rests on his, and from the look on her face, if you know her well enough, that, while she was encouraging my brother to sing and dance alongside her, there was no way in hell he was taking her microphone.

I was a relatively wild pitcher at the age of 10. I was also relatively self-conscious, something that never afflicted my mother. I was warming up on the mound before a game one summer afternoon, my teammates behind me in the field, opponents taking practice swings and watching from the dugout, when she arrived. Though I didn't notice it at the time, she showed up with a pitcher of frozen margaritas for some of the other team mothers. What occupied my attention, however, was the boom box she carried under her arm. Deliriously nervous, I made a deliberate effort to refocus my attention on the task at hand, an attempt rendered futile when she turned on "Wild Thing" at full volume. Initial embarrassment soon gave way to laughter when I realized the coaches of both teams, my teammates, and opponents were all laughing hysterically.

Unmistakably Irish, but having had an Italian immigrant landlord in her early 20's, mom used to scold us for wrongdoings in broken Italian and with Italian gestures when she'd really had it. This has only taken on a humorous dimension in retrospect. When I was a kid and she started screaming in Italian, I knew there was going to be hell to pay.

I could continue in this vein until the wee hours of the morning, but it's my birthday, and I'm sure mom would want me to try to enjoy myself amongst some friends, so I'll leave you with what I hope will become one of countless definitive anecdotes:

A few days after she had passed away, my brother and I took her car to run a few errands. Pulling out of the driveway he suddenly remembered that the car was equipped with an audio note system that allowed you to dictate messages/reminders that could be recorded and available for retrieval later. Naturally, mom being mom, she never really got the hang of it. This is a woman who didn't have email and paid for groceries with checks. Most of the messages were from my brother; either crude jokes left for their entertainment or shock value, or recordings of him and mom singing to whatever happened to be in the CD player. The last one, however, was a crystal clear message from her that I'd like to think she left for whomever happened to get in the car after her. "I love you," she said.