Before the funeral, the Rabbi asked if I could say a few words to tell everyone a bit about who my mom was and I had to say no. My throat was closed with grief; no words would have come. The more I thought about it, I realized there were some things I wanted to say, so if I were able to speak at the time, this is the eulogy I would have given at my mother’s funeral.
I would have talked about how she was my best friend and a terrific mother. Even though she had close girl friends (more like sisters, really), she would always call them back in order to take my calls. There was never a doubt that family came first. Most of our phone calls were nothing special, just catching up for the day … she was excellent at talking about nothing at all. In college and grad school, calling home was a way to connect because her love came through even over the phone lines. One week after her death, I still find myself reaching for the phone to tell her something … and then it hits me that she isn’t there to pick up anymore.
She was the strongest woman I ever knew. She battled lupus, lost 175 pounds to save her life, and fought like hell against breast cancer. Up until two days before her death she was asking when they would be able to give her chemo because she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She was married to my dad for thirty-nine years and raised both me and my brother while dad traveled a lot for work. We always managed to get sick, need stitches, or have to go the emergency room when dad was away. Yet she always managed.
Mom taught preschool for twenty years and was a weight watchers leader for ten years. She was a classroom mom, chaperone on field trips, went to softball games and middle school football games (for Rick) and high school football games (for me in the marching band). She was the glue that held us all together; if mom wanted you at Thanksgiving your butt better be at that table for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was her holiday. She didn’t care too much about the others, but that one meant family to her and she was happiest when we were all there. Almost as happy as when we all left.
Being diagnosed with cancer pissed her off. There were too many things she had to do. Lord help the people who in the beginning tried to tell her that cancer could be a blessing—she had no difficulty telling them otherwise! Before the first mastectomy, we had a “boob blast” party. We said good bye to the boob, had boob shaped foods, played party games (anyone for a game of “pin the nipple on the boob?”), and wrote messages and prayers in white balloons that we released to the heavens … I don’t know what everyone else wrote but I prayed for a cure.
She was a shopper. I always hated shopping; my idea was to go into a store and get what I need and leave. Mom could make shopping into an endurance sport, a trait supposedly inherited from her grandmother. Apparently that trait skips a generation so Mom and Anna could go shopping together very happily. Mom taught Anna that matching was very important; tops and socks had to match. They would be gone for hours and come back laden with bags. There are very few clothes I actually had to go out to buy Anna. I would set a budget and they would usually come close … unless it was just too cute to pass up and then Nana would treat. Mom never met a pair of socks, handbags, or lipstick she didn’t like. Dad and I have started going through her things and now I have enough brand new socks for years. There are bins of handbags to go through. Thousands of dollars of lipsticks are scattered throughout the house. Looking good was important; the only time I saw mom without her makeup was during the time she was too sick to make it upstairs to her cosmetic bag. She was on her deathbed, sucking on oxygen, and struggled to tell me that I should take her makeup to use when she was gone because her makeup was better quality than mine.
