SWEET MOM DIES AT 96 TO JOIN MY DAD

“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.” Charles R. Swindoll

After 76 years of marriage and losing my dad, my mom followed him and passed away less than five months later.

The plane I was on had just landed; I took my phone off airplane mode and saw a voicemail from my oldest brother. “Mom has passed; I just thought you wanted to know.” I went into shock; I was not informed she was failing. If I had been, I would have gone in a different direction, one to say goodbye. I said goodbye to my dad. I am grateful for that.

Ode to Mom:

One of a kind. As a young girl, she made her way through the cobwebs and orange fields to visit her grandmother and great-grandmother. These women were all women of substance and what one would consider ‘strong women,’ honest, reliable, forthright, hardworking, standing tall, and beautiful.

Mom married my dad at age 19 and became a mother nine months later at age 20. She quickly fell into motherhood as she had beautiful examples of running a household.

She raised five children, some of those suffering from mental illness; I saw her make great efforts to help those who were different. In the fifties and sixties, mental illness was not as understood or adequately addressed. My dad’s idea was to get them in line; my mom knew better. You cannot spank mental illness out of a child.

For me, it was scary and sad; I suffered from intermittent anxieties, not knowing when our home would blow up as it often did. I kept quiet and excelled in school, and I knew I wasn’t like them. My fierce mother did all that she could to help her suffering children. I watched wide-eyed as I knew somewhere deep inside me that they were suffering; why couldn’t they be calm like me? I asked myself over and over until I stopped; they couldn’t.

Mom was stylish; I loved shopping with her as we bought clothes for the corresponding season, such as clothes for ‘football season’; yes, we would dress up, my mom in a red plaid skirt with a jade pearl necklace, brown leather loafers, a white button-down top and sweater over her shoulders.

She carried herself like a queen, and no one questioned her dimpled- smile. She was extraordinarily patient and stood in her strength; although my dad cast an enormous shadow in her presence, my mother held herself within his shadow. She taught me how to be strong, and that strength carried through to my daughter and my granddaughter.

She showed up for my children and was very present. She had sleepover parties for my daughter at her home. She attended all of their events. We had family dinners at my Dana Point home on Sundays; Mom was there for all of it. When my first son was born, my mom came to help me and stayed at my Carmel home for two weeks. She was a class act and a reliable source of grace.

She was a gal I chose to hang out with. To be with her, and often double-dating with my folks, was fun! One drink too many, she would begin a joke only to giggle her way, never to finish; why should she? It was funny to her.

In later years, I adored staying at their home with my mom and dad for the past six years when the caregiver went on a much-needed break. I would have days to feed them memorable meals, drink delicious wine, watch movies, USC football, and play bridge. It was extraordinarily precious this time with them. As my children grew up and became adults, they, too, chose to spend entire weekend days just being with my parents. It was sweet, and making the effort will never be time lost.

Her doctor said that, at her age, she could be on a walker, and she replied in a vehement voice, “I have a walker, my legs!” She never let anyone bully her into something she did not want.