Worst Storm of My Life

OCTOBER 12, 2020

4:00 AM October 12, 1994
The phone on my nightstand is RINGING
My father calls to rain bad news
Your mother is Not Breathing
I just called an ambulance; your sister is on her way 

A Grief Storm begins
but I don’t recognize the signs
I am also Not Breathing

We bury my 57-year-old mother
I become the Calm Before the Storm
Eerily quiet, focused
I am still Not Breathing

It is my turn to speak (!)
I try to suck in a clean breath of air
From a climate too dense with humidity

Walking towards the podium
My ears are pounding surf and I am deaf
I cannot take in the sound of the death of my mother

Stepping out from behind the “family only” curtain
I feel over-exposed to the Elements of Earth
The Chapel is packed, standing room only
It’s my turn to speak
And I’m blinded by a thick fog
I can’t hear; I can’t see
I am still Not Breathing

But it’s my one opportunity to speak
At my Mother’s Funeral (?)
Fuck it.
I square my shoulders and walk to the podium.

Finally breathing…I Am my Mother’s Daughter
Who she was, is who I am
And Love never dies

###

Two Odes are Better Than One

Ode to Showing up
Ode to comedy; he who laughs, lasts.
Ode to regret; wasted time spent in reverse.
Ode to showing up; even with everyone gone I appreciate the thought that counts.
Ode to loneliness; for always keeping me company.
Ode to depression; makes a real dent.
Ode to feelings; mine love to go out.
Ode to friendship; another vessel has sailed.
Ode to loss; when there’s nothing else to lose.

An Ode To Effort
E is for Effort, an Ode 

An Ode to the Effort of making a Shiva call; the act of visiting the home of a Jewish grieving family after the funeral.  Turns out it was a good way to meet your future spouse, according to my parents.

Speaking of parents, here’s to mine, Judy and Morty, whose same time each year Efforts at Copulation gave me my start in life and three years 3 days later, gave my sister hers.

I’d be remiss without a shout out to Dr. Man’s Name whose efforts in my birth were not nearly as great as those of my mother, although to hear him tell it you’d think differently.

Here’s to my loving grandmothers Molly and Sadie, whose Efforts in the BEST BUBBE Competition nearly resulted in a rabbinical arrest at the first Simcha at Synagogue.

My ode to California, such stellar effort in luring my parents to your beautiful state and saving me from being raised as a Jersey girl.

Here’s to Mrs. Johnson, my kindergarten teacher with the roll of blond bangs, whose efforts to apologize to me in my own home are appreciated even to this day.  Mrs. Johnson, I hope you learned your lesson back in 1962.  You cannot trick a 5-year-old into taking home the wrong tempera painting by rolling it up and securing it with a thick rubber band.  When they say an artist is born, not made, I think I demonstrated that passion by running home from school and telling on you.  My mommy knew right away I hadn’t painted that ugly clown blob; she knew I was still in my Choo-Choo Trains Period. 

An ode to Shirley Firestone, a fabulous abstract artist for her brave efforts to teach abstract oil painting to a bunch of 5th graders every Saturday morning.  Using a palette KNIFE.  And toxic oil paints. Rags. Which culminated in my first group art show, at the local bank. My mom had to purchase a frame for my masterpiece, which cost more than the class and certainly more than the masterpiece was worth. But I learned an important lesson; oil paints never dry and if you don’t sign your work, it’s hard to remember which side is up.