What might she have been?
I look at my mother’s early photos, and always, I see joy. Maybe there were other things beneath that smile, which led her to him. Whatever it was, that sealed her fate.
Once he was in her life, she lived in his shadow. Yielded to his will. Was belittled by his words and terrorized by his fists.
In all the years I knew her, there had always been a “him” between us. Never just HER. Now that he was gone, what would our relationship be like? And who would she be now?
2013-2015 – The “two-year” plan
Whatever we thought Mom might be in terms of lost, cast adrift, needing someone to “manage” her as Dad seemed to do, I was surprised by her…and grew to respect her in some ways.
After his death, she remained in their home in the Pennsylvania retirement community for another two years. She probably would have stayed longer, but some health issues started up that made us finally convince her to be nearer to one of us.
But in those initial two years, she insisted on staying put. And she didn’t bounce around visiting any of her children. No, she stayed there…and she made herself a new life.
“I see all these women going from one child to another after their husbands die. And they never stay put long enough to go through getting used to things now.”
Her take was that at some point, a person was going to have to face being in that house alone. She wasn’t going to avoid it by constantly being away. No, she set herself on her own path and stuck to it.
I was surprised a bit. My father had always been the dominating force in the house, and so often, he portrayed her as someone we needed to take care of. So, her strong decision to go through her grieving process alone and on her terms was unexpected…but at the same time, something I respected deeply.
Now she could also be feisty and difficult, but you know, after a lifetime of living under his thumb, why not? The only time I did put my foot down was over her constant declarations that she was on the “two-year plan,” i.e., she intended to be dead within two years of my father’s passing. She said it so many times that it was upsetting everyone.
Finally, one day, totally exasperated, I told her, “Look. It’s not like we’re going to take you out back and shoot you so you can go in two years! So would you please stop with this already!”
As it turns out, Mom would outlive him by almost nine years. And they would be nine years of her life she got to be who she wanted to be.
Things she’d never shared before…
While Mom was not often a person hard to get close to, she was starting to shift now. One area she finally spoke about after a lifetime of silence was my brother. He was a year older than me and was stillborn. One day, there was a heartbeat; the next, there wasn’t.
They brought her into the hospital, where they discovered the umbilical cord had strangled him. And…she never got to see him.
In those days, they anesthetized women to deliver their babies. So by the time she woke from that, the baby was already whisked away. I guess they were trying to protect the mother, but….
My father and uncle took care of getting the baby buried.
As a child, I remember her saying to a friend about someone else losing a baby, “Well, you can always have another child…”
She rarely went to the cemetery to visit his grave. From where I sat, she seemed indifferent to that loss. For sure, having two more babies in quick succession and then a third a couple of years later kept her too busy to look back. And Mom never was one who looked back.
But now, she actually spoke of him.
“I never got to hold him or see him.”
It was said with such…sorrow in her voice. Something I’d never heard before.
“I wonder if I’ll get to see him when I die?”
As to the cemetery, my brother, because he was dead before they could baptize him, was buried in the side of the cemetery called “Unconsecrated ground.” To me, it sounded like he was unclean, a sinner, undeserving. But the rules were that if you weren’t baptized, you got stuck in unblessed dirt.
I always hated that and wondered why the Church felt compelled to punish an innocent child fresh from God. But she never said anything. Until now.
“I always wondered why they had to bury him there. I asked Sister Luke, and even she agreed it seemed wrong. She was going to ask Uncle Johnnie (my uncle, the priest).”
It was said again with quiet pain. And no doubt it may have been compounded by the fact that my aunt was killed in a car accident a few years later. That meant she probably never lived to ask my uncle that question. It was a double hit for my mother. And one she never spoke of again, until now.
Whenever I visited Mom, I would always take her to visit my aunt’s grave. It was nearby, in the cemetery at the nuns’ motherhouse. I never forgot that 1965 phone call telling my mother her sister was dead. Or…my mother’s anguished cry that morning. While I didn’t remember a lot about my aunt, I remembered her peacefulness, joy, and kindness. And how much my mother missed her. So I always visited her grave, and left a rose for her and the other two nuns who died with her in that accident. Mom never said much either way, but she never stopped me, and always came with me.
So on those visits after Dad was gone, I got to see glimpses of some of the pain my mother had carried quietly for decades.
The midnight run to the truck stop
On one particular visit, Mom mentioned a book she read, Heaven is For Real, about a young boy who “died,” then came back, and shared stories of the many relatives he saw in heaven, relatives he had never met. His father wrote the book, and now, it was a movie. While I was there, the DVD was due to be released at midnight the next day. It would be available at the Walmart store at the truck stop exit in the next town. My mother said she hoped she would be able to find a copy soon.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I told her, “We’re going to the truck stop tomorrow at midnight!”
Now, visiting a truck stop in that area at midnight might not have been the wisest thing — it was rather rural and isolated, and who knows who was around.
My mother looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said, “No, we’re not!”
But I wasn’t having it. And the more I said we were doing it, the less she argued. And the more she started laughing about such a crazy idea.
At 11:50 p.m. the following night, we were standing in Walmart’s TV section at the truck stop, waiting for the man to bring us our copy of the movie. She had finally come around to doing this and actually seemed a gleeful, like we were doing something “mischievous,” and having an adventure not usually undertaken by 84-year-old ladies! But she was definitely into it by then.
Right at midnight, the man working there walked over and handed her the DVD. She looked at it, holding it with a reverence as if it were a blessed prayer book. Her face simply glowed.
The next day at lunch, she made sure to tell all her friends what we had done, a broad smile on her face as she shared every detail.
She kept that movie until the end. I have it now.
Are you alive?
It was a moment of terror. None of us could reach Mom. For a couple of hours that day, all any of us could get was a busy signal on her phone. Images of my mother dead on the floor filled my head. And given that the closest one of us was still a good six or so hours away, it meant that running over there was impossible. Finally, one of us got in touch with the Sister in charge of the complex and explained the dilemma. She ran over to Mom’s house immediately, no doubt holding her breath.
My mother answered the door, surprised to see the nun standing there.
“Good! You’re not dead!!” the Sister blurted out.
After that, we began a series of conversations about her needing to be closer to one of us. Given her age and especially some new health issues, we were concerned that if we waited too long, it might be impossible for her to make such a move. And we didn’t want her there alone, ill.
No, she wasn’t happy. Yes, I understand. But it was the best choice, and so began a several-month operation to make it happen. She would move to Virginia, to a retirement apartment complex there. Each of us played a part, taking turns visiting her and packing things up. Ed and I were the last link – we would meet the moving truck, get everything shipped off, and escort my mother to Virginia.
Leaving Pennsylvania behind…
Now, Mom could still be a hard woman to please at times. I spent the last day in her house cleaning her bathroom out and washing down the fixtures and floors. And then I promptly got violently ill. Caught whatever stomach bug my mother had suffered a few days before. And of course, it was the morning of the move.
My mother had made it clear she wanted to be at the house for the movers. Ed actually preferred we handle it. When I got sick, he told my mother she needed to stay with me at the hotel. Mom was mad and made me pay for it.
In between runs to be sick, I called her to ask for some ice chips. Her indifferent reply was that she was going to breakfast and maybe would stop by later. As I said, Mom could still be a hard woman sometimes.
I understand it was her home, and she wanted to be there. Yet, she also wasn’t going to question Ed as the man when he said she should stay with me. And I understand his concern. I was really sick.
As it turns out, it was good that I was at the hotel. The movers called to say they weren’t going to show. They were going to blow us off. Despite my illness, I blew a gasket and tore them apart on the phone, then demanded to speak to a manager. And then his manager. And then the company’s regional manager. By the time I went up several levels, we had movers, and they showed up within the hour. My mother, who was sitting there watching me tear people apart on the phone, suddenly changed her mood.
Once all of that was done, we packed up our rental car and drove us all to Philadelphia. The plan was to drive the three hours that day, stay overnight at the Philly airport, then fly down the next day, so none of the travel would be too hard on Mom.
As we drove out of town, I noticed my mother looking out the window, silent and thoughtful. I wondered what she felt, but knew she wouldn’t share. She was pragmatic. And she knew that this was her last look around. The next time she would be back here, it would be in a casket.
Thus, as so many times in the past, she would take note of something, then file it away and move on. I expect this was no different and did not intrude on her thoughts.
Whatever she felt, by the time we had dinner at the airport hotel, she seemed to enjoy her creme brulee. And she was unworried in the airport, knowing somebody else had all the arrangements covered.
She just immersed herself in crossword puzzles and enjoyed the zippy cart ride through the airport to her gate – three times because they kept changing it. No question, it was a big help to arrange for assistance at the airport. We all enjoyed that cart ride.
As the plane took off that day, whatever her thoughts, Pennsylvania was left behind. The next, and last phase of her life was before her. And it would be an experience for all of us.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
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Soul Mosaic 
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