Still with her Words of Wisdom

It's July. Less than one month until I turn another year older and just a few days away from the anniversary of my mom's passing. What a strange word that is - anniversary. I think of anniversaries as happy moments - memories that make you smile, laugh and remember what it was like to be surrounded by the people and places you love. Should I describe it as commemorate? Remembrance? Maybe anniversary puts a less depressing shine on an event that has changed you forever. In the years since, I've left a career on one coast and tried to reestablish one in the central, but for some reason, my experience in California is of no importance or use to anyone here. Perhaps it's my age. Don't let anyone tell you that ageism does not exist. It most certainly does. It's quiet and insidious and quite laughable when you realize that the same people who think you are too old will one day be that to someone else themselves. There's some comfort in that. There's also a confidence that comes with age. Not settling for things. Not accepting an offer that is clearly beneficial only to the one offering. You also realize that life is fleeting and that the back end of life is scarier than the front end.

Five years ago, I never pictured my life where it is now. In fact, at one point, I thought I would be in San Francisco forever, and the friends I made there would be with me for life. Though I worked hard at maintaining relationships through all of my moves, ultimately, I lost some of them. But, then, you realize that some people are meant to be in your life at a certain time of your life. Some disappearances may hurt more than others, but the good memories of those times together smooth the disappointments and confusion that come later. I like to think of it as a new adventure, and anyone who knows me knows that I am thrilled when a new adventure appears before me. When I was younger, I know my relatives probably saw me moving around as someone who was never satisfied. I like to think of it as I never settled for what everyone expected of me. 

It's no mystery why all of these thoughts are swirling around in my head. My birthday is also quickly approaching. And even though I turned 60 last year, this August, I will officially be IN my 60's. There's a gravitas in that statement. One I'm not so sure I like.

Being fully in this decade of life leads me to realize that where you are is because of your own decisions. Any regrets that may have happened have led to the present. Someone asked me of all the places I have lived, which was the best. That was a tough one to answer because I have lived in some of the most amazing (and expensive) cities in the country. My top choice, as surprising as it may sound, is Los Angeles. I was no longer the naive kid who had moved to California. When I was 24, that foggy, beautiful city of San Francisco brought me such joy. It gave me memories and experiences that can never be repeated. By the time I returned, I was fully forged as an adult from my relocation back to Boston. There was another move to the Southland and then one more move to New York. Overall, I was at my lowest and loneliest in Manhattan, with is ironic because there are so many living there. As hard as I tried, I never found my footing there. Coming back to California and re-establishing myself in Hollywood was the best decision I ever made. And it was one that my mom fully supported.

I was afraid to tell her that I was once more leaving for the west coast. I didn't want to break her heart again. But in reality, I never broke it in the first place. True, she was always sad when I would be far away, but she knew I was not meant to stay. Seeing me succeed was always her greatest joy. Secretly, I think she liked it because it meant she had more places to travel. Maybe my love of Paris comes from the fact that it was the first city in Europe that we went together. I do know that she was the first person I thought of when I was first arrived in that city on business in 1995 and she is always the first person I think of each time I return.

My greatest fear was losing my mom before all others, and the universe was as cruel as I had imagined. Five years ago this week, it played that very card. Five years of shifting moments. Five years of change. Five years of finding my footing in a world without her. I think she'd love the life I have made for myself these past few years. I know she would've gotten a kick out of my living in Texas, but even more so from the reason I am here.  

When you think about it, five is a milestone in so many ways. A child turns five, and really starts to become the person they will be in the future. It's also, I think, probably the best age to take them on vacation. Interviewers ask that ridiculous question of where will you be in that amount of time, and you both believe the silly answer you supply them. Five years from today, the world will be very different than it is now. I can't even begin to image what it will look like. One thing for certain is I will be even further into this decade and my mom will be gone even longer. The grief of losing her won't fade. But, that's the price of love. The harder you love, the stronger the pain of the loss. I wouldn't have it any other way, really. What's life without love? I've known it. It's lonelier than being single in a crowded New York City bar on a Saturday night.  

"Don't be so excited about your birthday," my mom would always chastise me. "Just means you'll be going back to school soon."

Five years later and she's still making me laugh. I'll take her admonishment to heart and try not to be too excited about my birthday. The memory of her and the tone of her voice wraps me in her hugs. I'll hear her again and I will tell her, "Hey, at least this year, I don't have to go back to school."

Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?

Today would have been my mom, Rosemarie's, 91st birthday, and this year will also mark five years since her passing. Tonight, I will toast to her as I have consistently done by going out for Chinese food, which was always her favorite. Not only have the past few years shifted the direction of my entire life, but recently, in an interview for a job that was clearly beneath my skills, I got that ridiculous question, "where do you see yourself in five years?" 

Instead of lying about how much I wanted to work for their dismal hourly salary position forever, I really wanted to answer, "What is wrong with you? Is that really the best question you have for me? Well, let's see — in the last five years, my mother passed away, I survived a shooting in Mexico, I got a boyfriend, I fell in love, my job dismissed me for being too old, I moved to Texas, got married and lost friends. So, no, I don't know where I see myself in five years." 

Next time I get that question, I will politely end the interview and take my leave.

Aren't where the years take anyone the great mystery of the future? And, being 60, the realization that I have more time in back of me than in front is something that I grapple with almost daily. I'm not sure if my mom ever thought of her life in those terms. As we sat with her in her hospital room, I know she was saddened by her inability to get better. At one point, she apologized, telling me how sorry she was for not getting strong enough to come home. 

I never really knew if she was aware that her time with us was nearing its end. The night we moved her to hospice, I lied and told her that the doctors wanted to transport her somewhere that they could take better care of her. I'd like to think that she believed me. She fell asleep, and on that Tuesday night, the heavens unleashed a storm like I had not experienced in years. Thunder shook the rooftops, lightening split the sky and torrential rain pelted down as if the clouds themselves were feeling my pain. I thought that if there was ever a night to leave this earth, then this was most certainly it. Yet, the storm passed, the sky turned blue and my mom lay peacefully asleep in her bed. Two nights later, after we had spent the day in her room, after we drove my father home, I turned to my brother and stated.

"We have to go back."

"We'll see her tomorrow," he said.

"No. We didn't kiss her goodnight. We have to go back." 

It was the end of discussion. So, after a bite to eat, we returned to her room. And, I will believe this until it is also my time to leave this earth - my mother knew we had come back. She was waiting. Later that same night, as I was finally having a much needed cocktail, when my phone lit up, I knew.

Did she predict where I would be in five years ? Did she know that her leaving was the only way for me to move onto my next chapter? Despite what Rosemarie thought of herself, my mother was a smart woman. When we whispered that it was okay for her to leave, that we were going to be ok, that we loved her, that she could let go - I believe she heard every word. Even though I wanted her to stay with us and I was at peace knowing the outcome, for these past five years, I have been angry that the universe took her when it did. Some days, I am able to turn that disappointment into happy memories, and others, I can hardly believe that I have to face another day without her. As she got older, her birthday celebrations were low key. When I lived in New York, I would take the train up from Manhattan and we'd have Chinese food in an incredibly tacky behemoth of a restaurant. Sometimes, we'd go bowling and always, we'd have dessert back in the house I had spent so much of my childhood wanting to leave. In 1990, she knew I should never return, in fact, before I relocated for three years, she surprised me by saying, "Why do you want to come back here?" At first, I was taken aback that she wasn't overjoyed. It was years later, on our trips to Europe that I realized she knew more about me than I did about myself. 

Five years later from that fateful summer, I wish I could show her where I am in life. To tell her what I've learned from all those years in California and show her what I have built in Texas. The night she left, my world shifted more than any earthquake was able to move me. In her way, she allowed me to let go of the last remaining slice of my time in Boston. This week, especially, she would have hated the amount of snow that pummeled the state. It made me think of one of my favorite memories with her during the Blizzard of '78 and the two of us traipsing through the snow and sinking into the snow drifts just to get to the grocery store. Maybe that's why I'm never bothered by all this insane panic buying that people do these days. We survived and had fun doing it.

I wish I could tell people the pain of missing someone you love diminishes, but it does not. The feeling morphs and shifts into something that's hard to describe. It's at times a happy memory, other times it's a sharp pain of sadness, or a flash of a smile or the sound of a laugh. The feeling of loss never goes away and you keep the memory alive by telling stories so you can bring the one you lost to life for those who never had the joy of knowing them. 

When I look at the date stamp on pictures from my phone, I always think to myself how we never really knew how much time we had left with each other. But, that's the way of life, isn't it? We don't know how much time there is for any of us. The world can shift in the span of any number of years or even moments. So, in five years, I just want to look back and know that I gave everything I had to the people I loved the most while they were with me. The ones who are no longer by my side - whether by choice or fate - were in my life for a reason. 

So, every year, I will continue to celebrate my mom on her birthday in a way that made both of us happy. The restaurant may not be as tacky, but the food will be just as good, and most likely, unhealthy. As always, I will toast to her and realize that there are no regrets  - well, except for not walking out of that aforementioned interview. But something tells me that chance will happen again. And then I can imagine calling my mom and hearing her laugh. 

"No, you didn't? Well, good for you. What is wrong with people?"

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