Five years ago today, my sister and brother and I lost our mom to a very short battle with pancreatic cancer.
She wanted to die on her birthday and she did.
She wanted to be surrounded by family as she drew her last breath. And she was.
She wanted to die in peace, without physical pain, and she pulled that off too.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I think she’s still here – that she will be calling me to have lunch – an action, I hate to say, that at times I found highly annoying. I always seemed to be in a time crunch – with five kids at home and struggling to be a bona fide writer – who had neither the time nor patience for leisurely lunch dates? Now that all my kids have long ago flown the nest and my writing projects are more manageable, I’d heartily welcome her company over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but she is gone.
She could be my strongest, most strident critic at the same time as my must loyal and devoted cheerleader. When a group of 7th grade girls viciously turned against me and formed an exclusive club (RAILS – Revolution Against Iris Levine), my mom probed me for details as to what I could have done to provoke them, soothed my wounds and listened to me endlessly cry and rant BUT insisted I go to school every morning as usual while holding my head high and assuring me that all this too would pass. And it did. And those same girls soon became my bosom buddies – just as she had predicted.
From my brother Steve:
Thinking back, she sometimes drove me crazy with her neurotic behavior, but we all suffer from some of that – heredity is what it is. And I’m sure I drove her pretty crazy too with my unrelenting shenanigans – such as non-stop runs to the emergency room and the not-very-positive behavioral comments on my report cards.
Here are a few cherished memories:
I really loved playing little league baseball. After each game, my mom would always take me out – in my very special uniform – for a piece of coconut pie.
She always remembered my birthday with very special presents – one year it was a brand new catcher’s mitt that I used in my Little League All Star Game.
And I still watch the commercial she starred in at age 87 leading the charge to raise $170 million to renovate the Cincinnati Museum Center.
From my sister, Lori:
I feel like my mom is everywhere. For some long-forgotten reason, after she died, we had her mail delivered to me. I’m still deluged with a plethora of charity solicitations from the many organizations and causes she faithfully supported.
Just like her, I drink my cup of coffee and read the paper first thing in the morning. Just like today, it’s 9:30 am and I’m still in my pajamas. Just like she would be.
I’ll never again get flowers from her on every birthday.
I’ll never hear her voice asking me, “How are the girls?”
I’ll never get the opportunity to roll my eyes and think, “Oh God, here we go again,” when she would start her monologue about the injustices of being an only child.
We all know about the cycle of life and that she was taken from us in the right order in the ninth decade of life.
We all know the passage of time lessens the acute pain of loss.
We all know no one is indispensable – not even our mom – as the sun continues to rise and the sun continues to set in her absence.
And we all know life goes on and she’s no longer here, but the echoes of her words are still swirling around us:
I don’t know how you people live like this. (We are somewhat messy; she was extremely neat.)
I knew that. (In response to some new revelation we shared with her about marriage or parenthood.)
Everything in moderation.
The feelings you are feeling have been felt before.
Don’t do anything today that you will feel guilty about tomorrow. (Still not quite getting this one right.)
We all miss you, Mom. And I think we always will.
Love,
Iris, Steve and Lori
