Happy 101 Mom

 Today would have been my dear Mom's 101st birthday -- or would it have been? We celebrated on April 13 her entire life, and then, when she was about 90 or so, Wifey and I took her to a doctor's appointment. Their records, and Medicare's, had her birthday as the 14th. When I asked her about this, she replied "Oh, whatever -- I always liked the number 13 -- it's my lucky number!"

It was vintage Sunny. Facts mattered less than feelings. And her feelings were almost always warm and positive.

I reflect back today on some of my earliest memories of her. I'm 5 years old. I looked forward to kindergarten ending -- I'd run to the front of East Broadway Elementary School, and find her in the gold Pontiac Catalina -- a '65. She'd take me to McDonald's on Hempstead Turnpike, and we'd have lunch. The glove box opened to cup holders -- which to me seemed the height of technology -- and she'd place her coffee and I'd place my orange drink. We'd eat and she'd ask me about my day. I felt important. 

I always knew she was a beautiful woman -- especially compared to some of the other Moms on the South Shore of Long Island. And since a beautiful woman loved me so -- I grew up extremely confident when it came to girls. I truly thought, often with delusion, that I could date anyone I wanted. I guess there are worse things for a mother to instill in her son.

By the time I reached junior high, I didn't need much mothering. I was pretty independent -- although she did make a life decision that caused me to suffer, but probably toughened me up well. When I started Salk Junior High, we met with the guidance counselor. I still recall him well -- Mr. McNamee. He said my grades and tests showed I should be placed in Advanced Classes.

Mom refused. My older sister had been placed in Advanced Classes, and struggled. She complained she was with all the "eggheads" and was placed back into the regular classes. Mom assumed, I guess, that all her kids were the same, and so I started out in regular classes.

This was Levittown in the mid 70s. Unless you were in Advanced, you were with tough, not very intellectually motivated kids. I used to raise my hand to answer a question, and Joe Benedetto, his real name, would say "You stick up your hand one more time, and I'll kick your ass after school." Joe was big and had body hair. I kept my hand down.

Finally, after 8th grade, and repeated threats on my life for trying to participate in intellectual discussions, I went back to Mr. McNamee and asked him to switch me to Advanced . He did, and I met a group of egghead friends -- many of whom I still treasure. In fact -- we have dinner plans this Sunday with Kenny -- probably the smartest guy from my school days.

And as it turned out, I learned to negotiate in unfamiliar waters -- lessons that served me well later. So even Mom's mistake with me ended up helping me. When I discussed it with her years later, she didn't even recall the affair, dismissing me with "Oh -- you were always such a great student! Dad and I were so proud."

When we moved to Florida, the day after graduation, Mom was just 60 -- the age I'm about to turn. To my nearly 18 year old self -- she was already an old lady. Indeed, the love of her life would die just 3 years later.

And as it turned out, Mom's life was hardly near the end -- she had a full 1/3 more to go! As a financially comfortable, though not wealthy, widow, she traveled the world with her sisters and friends. She had 6 grandkids, and met 4 great grandkids. She just savored when her family was all well and happy.

She was truly independent until age 89. At that point, she crashed her car, and, coincidentally, she began to crash, too. From 89-92 she insisted on living independently, in the condo she so loved, overlooking a strip of grass and a parking lot, and resisted all efforts to move her. Finally, right after she turned 92, she had a fall and ended up in the hospital. Her doctor, my brother Eric, said her albumin level was consistent with starvation. She was barely feeding herself. That was the clarion call for a change -- and I moved her to Miami Jewish Home.

Her final 11 months were peaceful and happy. My sister of another mister Mirta visited her often, and they grew close. Mirta says Sunny has as big an impact on her life as anyone -- showing a positive outlook, even in a nursing home.

Indeed, I would wheel her outside, and she'd look beatifically skyward, and exclaim "Thank you, Mother Nature -- the sun feels SO GOOD on my skin!"

I'd take her to a lovely gazebo in a garden, and buy her an ice cream sandwich. She'd proclaim it the most delicious ice cream she'd ever eaten. And this is indeed her attitude until the end -- grateful for all the blessings of life, and appreciative of each small joy.

Two weeks after she turned 93, she died. Mirta had been with her the night before, and I told her to go home at 1 am. Bless her -- she made sure the hospice nurse followed through with the morphine order --Mom was struggling to breathe easily. I got up early and drove to Miami Jewish. I stopped for gas right next door, and while I was pumping the fuel, got the call -- Sunny had just died.

On Mother's Day, we had her cremains back from the funeral home. D2 was home from UF. Wifey, the Ds and I took the box over to Matheson Hammock -- and, though it was against the law, placed them into the Bay, which is part of the Atlantic, where my Dad's ashes were scattered 31 years before.

Like a scene from a movie, just as I placed the last of the ashes, several gorgeous white butterflies emerged from the mangroves. I had never seen that before. We just smiled -- it was as if Grandma Sunny were signaling to us -- savor the beauty. Be happy. Live from the heart. Details of life -- well -- maybe not so important.

So maybe later, Wifey and I will head over to Matheson Hammock, and stand where her final earthly remains were put into the sea, and we'll tell some happy tales, of a beautiful and loving lady. Happy birthday, Mom.