A Year Has Passed

Today is the anniversary of April 27, 2013. It marks one year since Mom died. Edna was in town, and Wifey had plans to drive her back to Hollywood to be with her parents, but first they'd stop at MJH to see Wifey's Dad and my Mom. Dr. Barry had called the night before and said he wanted to see my Mom -- she had been in the nursing home 11 months, and he hadn't had the opportunity before, and wanted to before she passed. The day before, my sister of another mother Mirta had spent the whole night with Mom. We had called in hospice, as we knew the end was approaching, and Mom was in some distress. Hospice was a bit slow to get the increased morphine she needed, and Mirta stayed by her side all through the night -- making sure she was confortable. It was an act of love I can never thank her for. I drove to MJH and stopped for gas next to the place. My cell rang -- it was the nice hospice nurse. Sunny had died an hour before. I drove the 1/2 block, and parked, and went to her room. She was there -- hospice nurse next to her. I kissed her gray hair. She looked so peaceful. She was still warm. I knew Wifey was coming to her room with her father and Edna. My father in law, despite surviving the Holocaust and fighting in the Israeli Independence War, has a child's take on death. He never goes to funerals. He chooses to block. I called and called, as I didn't want to shock the old guy when he came in for his pleasant visit with Sunny and she was dead. Wifey's cell was off. Dr. Barry came in, and we hugged. I told him he was sent there for a reason -- to support me, and I loved him and I appreciated him, as always. When my father died 30 years before, he and Eric were my brothers -- they got me through the toughest time of my then 20 year old life. Nothing had changed -- the blessings of these men continue -- and there was Barry to prove it. Barry, the nurse, and I sat and made quiet conversation. Barry said little, but I could tell what he was thinking: my mother had shrunk to the size of the children he treats. She was so tiny and wasted -- I don't think she was 75 lbs... I heard Wifey and Edna in the hall, wheeling my father in law, and I jumped out, and started waving comically to warn them. I told them Mom was dead, and Wifey had to prepare her father. She did -- he and Edna were great. My father in law was solemn -- he really dug my Mom. Within the hour a very large black man from a Broward funeral home arrived. With little effort, he wrapped my mother in a royal blue bag, and gently placed her on a gurney. I kissed her one last time, and we all stood, military style, as she was wheeled out -- on her way to the funeral home for her cremation, which would happen 10 days later. Wifey and Edna wheeled my father in law back to his room. I looked back, one last time, to the room that was Mom's home for the final days of her life. The sun came in, and the disinfectants they heavily sprayed to cover the unplesant stink of her death -- well, they were only partly effective. I called D1 and told her. She came to meet us. I called D2 in Gainesville, and told her. My Florida sister and brother in law were in Mexico, my California sister was away for the weekend, and would hear the news in a few days. Wifey, Edna, Barry, D1 and I met at Soyka -- the restuarant blocks from the Miami Jewish Home that had become our remote family headquarters. We toasted Sunny. There were no tears -- her death had been coming for a long time, and we all expected it. We told Sunny tales and smiled -- remembering her. This am, my Florida sister and brother in law are meeting us for breakfast, along with D1 and Mirta. From there, we'll drive to Matheson Hammock, to the spot where I committed my Mom to the sea, fittingly last Mother's Day. She wanted to be with my Dad, and his cremains (love that word) were buried off the coast of Pompano Beach in late July of 1983. Biscayne Bay is part of the same Southeast Atlantic -- they are together for infinity. Mirta called last week -- remembering the day -- and asked to be included in any thing we do to commemorate. She told me my mother had affected her profoundly -- and the weekly visits she had were a gift. Mirta is known to be a bit grumpy -- and she said my mother's grateful and happy disposition became things she now emulates. And, Sunny taught her you don't have to fix things -- just go with the flow. So we'll gather, and recall the woman who gave life to three -- and whose love and lessons will remain forever. Sleep softly and sweetly, Mom.