The Last Chapter - Truly the End of Days

Mothers Day 2012

Harriett Prince  - 12/18/1926 - 4/10/2012

   This will be my first Mother's Day without her.  Almost ten months since I last saw my mother, she passed away.  Unlike the way she lived - with the intensity of a stage 5 hurricane and all the fanfare of a parade - she died quietly and without incident, fading a little bit each month, each day, disappearing slowly and steadily until she was just gone.
   The force that had been my mother, the whirlwind that had become her essence was long gone by the time she left this life and I am still trying to grasp the vast distance and contrast between her life and her death.  It almost feels like the last few years of her life tried to rob her of her history, attempted to erase any trace of the pride, dignity and understated grace she carried with her her whole entire life.
   From my perspective, Alzheimer's  was the most cruel and unjust end to a life well lived, the antithesis of all that she was and what defined her.  I have to remember there is a great difference between a spirit, an actual life, and the incidental thing that destroyed it.  One does not cancel out the other.  Yet still, the sense of horror of witnessing death in such slow motion is a hard one to get past.
   Before we can get to the sadness, the ache of her loss and the joys of her presence, we must first understand and heal our broken hearts, the very broken hearts that should never have its place standing beside mourning, that should never be used to describe anything remotely associated with my mother.

   My mother had a life that needed no changing.  At her funeral, my brother Bruce described it as Camelot, almost like a fairy tale without the happily ever after.  What needs changing is her death, the ending to her story, something that makes it complete, fair, worthy of retelling, and leaves us knowing that those of us who deserve better, when all is said and done, get what is due them.
   Her death should have been one of adventure or bravery, of excesses or of love.  It should have been a death that equaled the passion of her life. She deserved an end that provoked awe and a smile, that made those that knew her nod when they heard, knowing it was so like her.  She deserved an end that gave us comfort, that let us know she died the way she lived, with kindness and gentleness, not missing a thing and enjoying it all up to the very last minute. Please, dear God, anything but what it was.

   On my mother's death certificate, the cause of death was listed as " Failure to Thrive".  I remember looking at it in disbelief, shaking my head at those words.  This was impossible.  There wasn't the slightest possibility that my mother would ever fail to thrive, no way this could have actually happened.  This is one of those things that will never make sense to me.
   I have taken it upon myself to change the death of my mother.  The last few years have been blurred and she did not fail to thrive on April 10 of this year.  When will remain subjective and the how is loaded with potential.  I feel like I have no choice.  You see, Harriett Prince was more than just a mother, more than just an Alzheimer's patient. 
   She was a woman with a hard beginning and a rich life, who loved and was loved and tried her best to be all things to all people.  Nothing can ever take away who she was and what she stood for in all aspects of her life.  I will try my best to prove this.


Cause of Death # 1. -   Blunt Force Trauma to the Head

   My mother was killed in a freak accident while shopping for shoes at Bloomingdales.  And not just any Bloomingdales, but the  Bloomingdales, that Art Deco palace at 59th. St. and Lexington in Manhattan;  The Mothership of Jewish women everywhere. She loved that store.  Bought me my very first deodorant there (Estee Lauder)  to prepare me for my upcoming puberty.
   She was killed instantly and painlessly, crushed by an avalanche of shoe boxes she caused by tripping over a piece of Clorets someone had dropped on the floor.  It was obvious she never knew what hit her because when she was uncovered, she had a smile on her face and was still clutching the perfect Burberry taupe sandal she had been looking for.

   If the eyes are the window to the soul, according to my mother, the shoes are the doorway to our self respect.  She used to tell me, as a child, that you can read everything you need to know about a person by their shoes.  If they didn't care how their feet appeared to the world, they wouldn't care about anything.
   As far back as I can remember, my mother imposed her nightly shoe ritual.  I had to clean and polish my shoes and, while in the bathtub, I had to wash my shoe laces.  It wasn't until I was around seven or so that I realized this wasn't something everyone did.
   I was sleeping over my mother's best friend Sara's house that one night.  I was in the bathtub, washing my shoelaces when Sara came in to check on me.  " What in the world are you doing? "  she asked me.
" Washing my shoelaces," I told her.
" Why? " she asked. 
"  Because they're dirty and my mother...."  I started to tell her.  "  Look, " she tells me,  " Your mother's crazy.  Here in my house, when laces are dirty, we throw them away. "  And with that, she grabbed the laces out of my hands and put them in the garbage.
   When my mother came to pick me up the next morning, one of the first things she did was look at my shoes.  Sara had put twist ties in place of the laces and wouldn't let me polish them.  My mother started to say something, but Sara stopped her.  "  Harriett, don't you dare say a word to that child about her shoes.  You want her to grow up to become a neurotic mess like her mother?  "
   They both stared at each other for a few seconds and then started laughing hysterically, holding on to each other until tears were running down their faces.  I remember asking my mother then if this meant I no longer had to wash my laces any more.  " Damn it, Sara! You've ruined her. "  my mother said, and again they broke into laughter.  
   I never did wash my laces after that, never gave my shoes a second thought for many years to come.  My mother noticed every time, shaking her head and muttering " Shanda "  under her breath.  And then she'd laugh and say Sara's name.

Cause of Death # 2 - Heart Failure    

   My mother died of heart failure while she was helping a man up who had fallen in the street.  She was walking by and saw someone who needed help.  It made no difference that the man who had fallen was a large, imposing one or that she was a small, old woman.  All she saw was someone in harm's way and reacted the only way she knew how.  When she succumbed, she was still clutching the guy's hand, trying her best to get him away from traffic, which she did do, in spite of her demise.  The last  thing she heard was a grateful man telling her she had saved his life.

   This was so like her.  She never thought twice about the concept of danger or the consequences of stepping up.  She had an innate sense of what was missing, what was needed, what was important.
   When I was a kid, my mother had taken me into the city.  We were walking down the street on our way to somewhere when we saw a young guy sitting down, his back against a building.  He was filthy and unkempt and there was a pee stain across the front of his pants. 
   I remember my mother looking at him and muttering something about him being just a kid and how it broke her heart.  She took me into a corner store near by and bought something the proprietor put in a bag.  When we got back outside, she grabbed my hand and made a bee line for the guy sitting against the building.
   I watched as she knelt next to him, opened the bag and put the contents in front of him.  She put her hand on his shoulder and placed a cup of something in his hand.  " Hello, young man," she said, " You look like you could use a nice cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich. "
   She still had her hand on his shoulder and she was looking into his eyes smiling, holding her gaze steady and sure.  I was stunned at the contrast I was seeing; my impeccably groomed mother, exuding class and grace, kneeling beside and touching this mess of a human being, and treating him as if he were her own.  I recall the expression on the guy's face, first surprise and then embarrassment.  She grabbed his hand and whispered something to him, and the shame then transformed into a smile.  "  Thank you, " she said to him.  " You made my day." 
   When we walked away, I asked her why she was nice to that guy.  "  You're supposed to be nice to everyone, " she told me.  " Even bums and lunatics? " I asked her.  " Especially bums and lunatics, " she answered.
   I then asked her what she said to him.  She smiled.  " I told him I see him. "  she said.  " That he wasn't invisible. "  And then she explained that maybe the reason he got there was that nobody had told him that in the first place.  " Everyone needs to know they're important, even if it's just for that one moment. "


Cause of Death # 3 - Electrocution

   My mother was killed when she was struck by lightening.  She was traveling, indulging her sense of adventure when it happened.  She was standing on a hilltop somewhere, looking at the great expanse her surroundings, awestruck at the contrast between the green foliage she was standing on and the crashing waves of the ocean just beyond.  She was just thinking how much she loved traveling, how many places she had seen and been in her life, how lucky she was to know the world was hers for the taking.  It had just started to storm and she had just noticed how beautiful the lightening looked in the sky.  As she reached out with her arms outstretched, she was struck and killed instantly.  Her last thoughts were how colorful it all was, how different each and every place she had visited was, how every place had their own palate, their own design and how she fit into it all and belonged, no matter where she was.

  
  

Cause of Death # 4 - Natural Causes

   My mother died of old age at the age of 94.  She was baking, pulling out a tray of Cinnamon Bars from the oven as she turned to greet her beloved granddaughters for one last time.  She put the goodies on the counter and slowly and gently fell to the ground, her precious girls' names still on her lips...." Jennifer, Lauren Sarah,..." 
   Somehow, this seems the most fitting for me.  I think being a grandparent was where she shined brightest. As much as she loved all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, it was her grand daughters that gave her the joy I know she missed raising a daughter like me, who was everything she was not, and was clueless in the ways of culture, tradition and obligation.
   She adored her girls and couldn't love them enough.  Through the years, I have felt more than gratitude for the joy her grandchildren had given her and saw how they, themselves became the caretaker of the grandmother who had cared for them.  Through them, I began to understand how families work, how love and devotion change and shift through time, how no one keeps score and everyone stands behind you for the sake of loyalty and belonging.
   My mother was lucky and she knew it.  You could hear it in her voice and see it on her face in the pictures of her with her granddaughters.  What a fitting end this would be for her, knowing she was in her favorite company.

   Yes, she was so much more than a mother, more than an Alzheimer's patient.  She was a friend, a sister, a wife, a grand and great grandmother, a philosopher, a philanthropist, a gourmet, a hostess and an activities director.  She was a humanitarian, the life of the party, a joker and a neurotic mess.  She was a caretaker and a lover, a fighter and a pacifist. She was fearless and curious, loyal and steadfast.  Her heart directed her actions and her kindness shined as bright as her intentions.  She was a homebody and a world traveler, a student and a teacher.  She defied descriptions and yet she embodied all that defined devotion, loyalty and family.  She was more than mere words can unravel, more than the memory can contain. 
   The more I remember about my mother, the richer her past becomes, the deeper her essence runs.  I'm sure I will never be through uncovering who she really was, and I know I will find pieces of her deep within myself for as long as I am here. 

   About ten or so years ago, when my mom was moving from her home of more than 50 years and I was visiting her, she took me down to the basement into her storage room. She showed me a brass trunk I had seen throughout the years, but never knew what was inside. 
   She opened the trunk for me to show me.  In it was every letter I had written to her, every card, old term papers, rejected manuscripts, notebooks, binders, and postcards, all dated and labeled in her own hand.
" Summer at the Kibbutz, 1972",  " Chicken Ranch Commune 1981",  
" Mother's Day 1966 ",    " Boarding School 1973" ...... 
   I was stunned at what she showed me.  "  You saved all of these? "  I asked her.
   She reached in the trunk, picked up a letter I had written to her for her 75 th. birthday and held it close to her chest.  " I saved everything you ever wrote me. " she said.  And then she told me. " I can't tell you how many times I've read all these, how much I laughed and cried over them.  It was the only thing you gave me that let me know who you were.  And I know, one day, your words are going to change the world. "

   This is a start, Mom.  This is a start.