MOM GETS THE LAST WORD
I thought I was finished with my mom's blog. There was a sense of completeness in that last entry where I changed her cause of death to four alternative endings that somehow made me feel like I had saved her, that I had finally protected her and done something to let her know how much she was loved and cherished.
There were many times I wondered if she knew what I had written, how much I had owed to her. A part of me believed that she did know. It was the only thing that gave me some peace in the history of our relationship and I thought I had the last word. But I was wrong.
Two and a half years after Mom's death and long after that last entry, I had a massive right hemisphere stroke. According to the brain scans and reports, my right temporal and parietal lobes were affected; the most damage was to the latter, the area of the brain that controls writing and creativity.
Not much registered in those first few weeks. It was all a blur to me, mostly a surreal , existence where nothing looked or felt familiar. My speech was bad, I was hard to understand. Even harder was when I tried to speak, I couldn't find the right words, didn't quite get the thoughts out. A neuro shrink gave me a pen and a notebook, so instead, I wrote. And I wrote.
On paper, I was still me. It was almost like magic - no stumbling with words or thoughts, no hesitation, no uncertainty. There were many times I would re-read a paragraph I had written 5 times to understand, to try to figure out why these words were so clear, so articulate, so full of life when I was none of those things.
I wrote every day. It was the one solitary thing I still had, the only thing I had that convinced me I was still alive, I was still here. No one seemed to know just where this was coming from or why. I was told many times over this just wasn't possible according to my 'infarct' and deficits. I never gave it much thought. I was just happy that I hadn't lost absolutely everything.
Three weeks later, I'm moved to a different rehab facility. Every morning, I have what they called cognitive linquistive therapy. Again, it was brought to my attention how strange it was that I could still write, how much better I was with comprehension with the written word verses the spoken ones.
That first week there, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a dream I had about my mother. In it, she tells me I can still write because that was the one thing she wouldn't let them take from me, that this was her way of thanking me for allowing her to die - with my words - with some dignity and grace.
Even though it was just a dream, it felt so real. I was so filled with emotion and confusion, I began to cry. I needed to believe it was her, that I finally had the answer to why I could still write, in spite of the fact that I shouldn't be able to.
I guess I was louder in my emotions than I thought and shortly, one of the night nurses came to check up on me. I told her I was sorry, that I just had a strange dream. She asked if there was anything I needed and when I answered 'no thank you', I noticed her perfume. I asked her what she was wearing, that it was familiar. " An oldie, Georgio, " she said as she walked out. That was mom's signature scent.
For what its worth, it seemed proof enough for me. Thank you Mom. Thanks for saving that one thing that will save me.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Thursday, July 12, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, November 21, 2011
SINS OF THE SISTER - PART ONE: REQUIEM FOR A WOOLY MAN
November 4, 2011
Orange County, Ca.
The Funeral of my brother, Gary Prince
Requiem For A Righteous Prince
There is a Hebrew word - Tsadik - a word translated as the perfectly righteous. Gary's Hebrew name was Yisrael - which means Prince. Tsadik Yisrael - A Righteous Prince.
I have been fortunate enough to have been Gary' sister and lucky enough to have had him love me.
People have stood up today and talked about Gary's generosity, his frugality, his dirty jokes and emails, speaking only of his bargain hunting, his finances, his humor. I heard someone say how angry they were that Gary was taken from us. I need to address the other side of Gary and the nature of his true spirit.
When I first heard my brother was gone, I never once experienced anything remotely like anger. Instead, I felt honored. Honor and privilege were the first things I felt when I heard my brother had died. Honor and pride were the last things I recalled when he was still alive.
For me, Gary was about many things, but generosity and jokes were not among them. Strip Gary of his money, his dirty jokes and his crude presentation of them and what you had was the Gary I knew: the sweet, gentle, kind little boy who became the man with those same qualities. Without the smoke screen of humor and finance, what you had was a man of great integrity and devotion, a fiercely loyal, loving man who was pure, genuine and all things good and decent.
As a child and as a man, Gary's essence was about making those he loved safe and secure and knowing you were never alone, never without guidance, never without sanctuary.
Mitch Albom wrote in his book Have A Little Faith :
" If you could pack for heaven, this is how you'd do it -
Touching everything, taking nothing..."
This is indeed what Gary did. He wanted nothing in return for his deeds, but made it his job to change everything in his world, making it all a little better than before he got there. He was a master at teaching, yet his delivery was terrible and often misunderstood.
Those who knew Gary, really knew him, understood this: That beyond the crudeness and the laughter was an amazingly serious, highly principled, complex, joyous and sensitive man whose one true ambition was and always has been to right what was wrong, fix what was broken, fill what was empty and love and cherish everything around him. His passion for life, his family, his friends and his business associates was like nothing I had ever seen before. For me, knowing Gary loved me and honored me a his sister made me see the worth I often doubted.
Yes, he was an extraordinary man. But Gary taught me on a regular basis that there is true greatness in ordinary things. Ordinary things like love, loyalty, family, faith, compassion and joy.
I still can't imagine a world without my dear big brother in it, yet I know I am forever changed and bettered by him. It has been written that the only full heart is a broken one. My world is indeed a little colder now, a lot less safe and a whole lot bigger. And still, my heart is finally full.
I know I'll be living my life from here on in honoring more than just a memory, more than just a man. I will be carrying a little piece of Gary with me for the rest of my days and that, in itself, will make all the difference.
Gary, we are all so very proud of you, so grateful you were here. You were loved and honored beyond your wildest dreams and you did absolutely everything you set out to do and then some. You made a difference, you mattered, you listened, you helped, you healed and you made us all believe, that in your eyes, we were blessed, validated and heard. You touched everything within your reach and carried the burdens of those around you on your strong, steady shoulders and in your true and gentle heart. You were so many things to so many people. We adored you, we trusted you, we counted on you and what you gave us in return was the most important thing of all - knowing that somewhere out there, as dependable as the promise of a sunrise through the impending darkness, there was someone who believed in us, wholeheartedly, and would never let us down.
You'll be leaving behind more than you'll ever know. There is a whole family, an entire community who have lost both their anchor and their light, their reason and their grace. May we all find our way without you now with God's mercy and our precious memories of you and all you have taught us by your example. You were truly one of the good guys, saving the day one soul at a time.
You've changed my world and made it a better, sweeter, warmer place to be. Thank you for all that you were, all that you've done and the legacy you have left us with.
Good-bye, my righteous prince.
Good-bye
Orange County, Ca.
The Funeral of my brother, Gary Prince
Requiem For A Righteous Prince
There is a Hebrew word - Tsadik - a word translated as the perfectly righteous. Gary's Hebrew name was Yisrael - which means Prince. Tsadik Yisrael - A Righteous Prince.
I have been fortunate enough to have been Gary' sister and lucky enough to have had him love me.
People have stood up today and talked about Gary's generosity, his frugality, his dirty jokes and emails, speaking only of his bargain hunting, his finances, his humor. I heard someone say how angry they were that Gary was taken from us. I need to address the other side of Gary and the nature of his true spirit.
When I first heard my brother was gone, I never once experienced anything remotely like anger. Instead, I felt honored. Honor and privilege were the first things I felt when I heard my brother had died. Honor and pride were the last things I recalled when he was still alive.
For me, Gary was about many things, but generosity and jokes were not among them. Strip Gary of his money, his dirty jokes and his crude presentation of them and what you had was the Gary I knew: the sweet, gentle, kind little boy who became the man with those same qualities. Without the smoke screen of humor and finance, what you had was a man of great integrity and devotion, a fiercely loyal, loving man who was pure, genuine and all things good and decent.
As a child and as a man, Gary's essence was about making those he loved safe and secure and knowing you were never alone, never without guidance, never without sanctuary.
Mitch Albom wrote in his book Have A Little Faith :
" If you could pack for heaven, this is how you'd do it -
Touching everything, taking nothing..."
This is indeed what Gary did. He wanted nothing in return for his deeds, but made it his job to change everything in his world, making it all a little better than before he got there. He was a master at teaching, yet his delivery was terrible and often misunderstood.
Those who knew Gary, really knew him, understood this: That beyond the crudeness and the laughter was an amazingly serious, highly principled, complex, joyous and sensitive man whose one true ambition was and always has been to right what was wrong, fix what was broken, fill what was empty and love and cherish everything around him. His passion for life, his family, his friends and his business associates was like nothing I had ever seen before. For me, knowing Gary loved me and honored me a his sister made me see the worth I often doubted.
Yes, he was an extraordinary man. But Gary taught me on a regular basis that there is true greatness in ordinary things. Ordinary things like love, loyalty, family, faith, compassion and joy.
I still can't imagine a world without my dear big brother in it, yet I know I am forever changed and bettered by him. It has been written that the only full heart is a broken one. My world is indeed a little colder now, a lot less safe and a whole lot bigger. And still, my heart is finally full.
I know I'll be living my life from here on in honoring more than just a memory, more than just a man. I will be carrying a little piece of Gary with me for the rest of my days and that, in itself, will make all the difference.
Gary, we are all so very proud of you, so grateful you were here. You were loved and honored beyond your wildest dreams and you did absolutely everything you set out to do and then some. You made a difference, you mattered, you listened, you helped, you healed and you made us all believe, that in your eyes, we were blessed, validated and heard. You touched everything within your reach and carried the burdens of those around you on your strong, steady shoulders and in your true and gentle heart. You were so many things to so many people. We adored you, we trusted you, we counted on you and what you gave us in return was the most important thing of all - knowing that somewhere out there, as dependable as the promise of a sunrise through the impending darkness, there was someone who believed in us, wholeheartedly, and would never let us down.
You'll be leaving behind more than you'll ever know. There is a whole family, an entire community who have lost both their anchor and their light, their reason and their grace. May we all find our way without you now with God's mercy and our precious memories of you and all you have taught us by your example. You were truly one of the good guys, saving the day one soul at a time.
You've changed my world and made it a better, sweeter, warmer place to be. Thank you for all that you were, all that you've done and the legacy you have left us with.
Good-bye, my righteous prince.
Good-bye
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sins of the Daughter - Part 3 - The End of Days
The End of Days - 6/22/11
I feel like I am in limbo; caught somewhere between childhood and now, sorrow and joy. I am scared for myself, terrified for my mother. The sense of loss is beyond anything I have ever known, yet at the same time, my heart is full and my conscience has been given a slight reprieve.
The perfect order of things has changed. I feel I must redefine who I am, what I've become, this time with a history that has just been rewritten, a history that includes a mother who was a much greater part of it than I had remembered.
Although I have been fortunate enough to spend seven long days with my mother, there is a void of fifty five years that will never be filled, a void that can't really be measured in time, years, days, and there is an emptiness for all I have missed that will stay with me forever. I have lost more than time; I have lost an integral part of myself, my history, my memories, my past. I will never be completely whole or fulfilled again and I know whenever I think back to anything in my life, it will feel wrong, incomplete and unforgiving.
Yet, even so, I am profoundly changed. For the first time in my life, I got to know my mother, got to see who she was, let her know she had that daughter she always needed; that daughter that was finally kind, loving, understanding and unconditionally present. I can't be sorry that it took so long, that it took something as cruel as dementia, that it happened with just moments to spare, at 9 minutes to midnight and still counting down. I can only be grateful that it did happen before it was too late, before we both left this world with nothing to prove that we did indeed exist together, that nothing passed between us, that we remained strangers. And I am more than grateful, more than honored that we've been given this chance, this respite, this small window of time.
I never got a chance to tell her about my life now, what I've been doing the last eight years or the past thirty years. I didn't get a chance to tell her about my family, my life, my home, my plans, my dreams, my weaknesses. There were no details and no facts. I never got to say I'm sorry. Somehow, none of that mattered, none of it had anything to do with right here, right now, my mother, me, trying to stretch out a final joyous moment that's been such a long time coming.
My mother showed me this past week that love, loyalty and blood are stronger than any disease, transcends speech, intellect and understanding. I know now that there is greatness in ordinary things and there are no memories sweeter or more bitter than those that change you, impact you, destroy you and heal you - all in the same breath and all with mercy and kindness, loss and gain.
I remember reading once: " In search of my mother's garden, I found my own. " There is a small element of truth to this, yet I can't help believe that we should never have to search in the first place. If we were whole, undamaged, aware, we would instinctively know from the beginning that such a garden exists, that it doesn't take years, despair or unanswered questions to be motivated to find it. It just is. Always has been.
I wish I could recall when it all changed for me, when my childhood became a test rather than a result, when my family, or more specifically my mother, became so inaccessible, so distant, so unfamiliar. I wish I could remember that moment, go back to that very instant and forget it forever, change it, make it something that held no substance, had no matter, made no difference.
I still have no idea when it happened or what it was. But it became the very thing that changed my direction, made me lose my way, gave me that eternal sense of emptiness that brought me to here, this moment, this day, where I can only wonder where would we all be if things had been different.
I still wear my regrets like a straight jacket. Probably more so now than ever before. Yet still, I can finally move within its confines, I can breath a little easier. Yes, I can breathe.
I feel like I am in limbo; caught somewhere between childhood and now, sorrow and joy. I am scared for myself, terrified for my mother. The sense of loss is beyond anything I have ever known, yet at the same time, my heart is full and my conscience has been given a slight reprieve.
The perfect order of things has changed. I feel I must redefine who I am, what I've become, this time with a history that has just been rewritten, a history that includes a mother who was a much greater part of it than I had remembered.
Although I have been fortunate enough to spend seven long days with my mother, there is a void of fifty five years that will never be filled, a void that can't really be measured in time, years, days, and there is an emptiness for all I have missed that will stay with me forever. I have lost more than time; I have lost an integral part of myself, my history, my memories, my past. I will never be completely whole or fulfilled again and I know whenever I think back to anything in my life, it will feel wrong, incomplete and unforgiving.
Yet, even so, I am profoundly changed. For the first time in my life, I got to know my mother, got to see who she was, let her know she had that daughter she always needed; that daughter that was finally kind, loving, understanding and unconditionally present. I can't be sorry that it took so long, that it took something as cruel as dementia, that it happened with just moments to spare, at 9 minutes to midnight and still counting down. I can only be grateful that it did happen before it was too late, before we both left this world with nothing to prove that we did indeed exist together, that nothing passed between us, that we remained strangers. And I am more than grateful, more than honored that we've been given this chance, this respite, this small window of time.
I never got a chance to tell her about my life now, what I've been doing the last eight years or the past thirty years. I didn't get a chance to tell her about my family, my life, my home, my plans, my dreams, my weaknesses. There were no details and no facts. I never got to say I'm sorry. Somehow, none of that mattered, none of it had anything to do with right here, right now, my mother, me, trying to stretch out a final joyous moment that's been such a long time coming.
My mother showed me this past week that love, loyalty and blood are stronger than any disease, transcends speech, intellect and understanding. I know now that there is greatness in ordinary things and there are no memories sweeter or more bitter than those that change you, impact you, destroy you and heal you - all in the same breath and all with mercy and kindness, loss and gain.
I remember reading once: " In search of my mother's garden, I found my own. " There is a small element of truth to this, yet I can't help believe that we should never have to search in the first place. If we were whole, undamaged, aware, we would instinctively know from the beginning that such a garden exists, that it doesn't take years, despair or unanswered questions to be motivated to find it. It just is. Always has been.
I wish I could recall when it all changed for me, when my childhood became a test rather than a result, when my family, or more specifically my mother, became so inaccessible, so distant, so unfamiliar. I wish I could remember that moment, go back to that very instant and forget it forever, change it, make it something that held no substance, had no matter, made no difference.
I still have no idea when it happened or what it was. But it became the very thing that changed my direction, made me lose my way, gave me that eternal sense of emptiness that brought me to here, this moment, this day, where I can only wonder where would we all be if things had been different.
I still wear my regrets like a straight jacket. Probably more so now than ever before. Yet still, I can finally move within its confines, I can breath a little easier. Yes, I can breathe.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sins of the Daughter - Part 2 - The days
Day 7 - 6/21/11
I'm going home today, but fortunately, will get to see my mother one last time before I have to be at the airport. It almost feels surreal that by tomorrow, I'll be back to my own life, my own world, thousands of miles away, but I know I will be taking a part of her with me and will hold on to it, never to be lost again.
I've been dreading this day, this moment, when I'll have to say good-bye to my mother, very likely for the last time ever. I walked into Mom's room and she greeted me by name again, with a smile and a peaceful look on her face. Her room was filled with morning sun, the New York City skyline glistening through her window and there was a lightness in the room I hadn't noticed before.
For the last time this trip, I took off my shoes and laid down next to my mother, looked into her eyes and smiled at her. " It was so great getting to see you again, " I told her. She smiled back and for the first time this week, she reached up to me. " Yes, " she told me, " It was wonderful. " She asked me if I was coming back and I told her I would.
Our good-bye was quick; I love you, I'll miss you, basic salutations, mindfully avoiding the obvious and keeping the emotions in check, seemingly for her benefit, but mostly for mine. We stared into each others eyes one last time, and looking at her with all the love and respect I had inside of me, with my hand over my heart where she could see it, I said the one thing that needed most to be said. " Thank you, Mom. For everything. " She moved her hand close to her own heart. " You're welcome. "
I am sad, but more than anything else, I feel blessed. I have experienced something this past week I have never felt before, something deep, profound and foreign to me. When I looked into my mother's eyes and she looked back at mine, I felt something divine, a long lost connection not only with my own mother, but also with myself. Every time I had I looked into my mother's eyes and really saw her, I felt the presence of God, completely and wholeheartedly. I couldn't have hoped for more.
I'm going home today, but fortunately, will get to see my mother one last time before I have to be at the airport. It almost feels surreal that by tomorrow, I'll be back to my own life, my own world, thousands of miles away, but I know I will be taking a part of her with me and will hold on to it, never to be lost again.
I've been dreading this day, this moment, when I'll have to say good-bye to my mother, very likely for the last time ever. I walked into Mom's room and she greeted me by name again, with a smile and a peaceful look on her face. Her room was filled with morning sun, the New York City skyline glistening through her window and there was a lightness in the room I hadn't noticed before.
For the last time this trip, I took off my shoes and laid down next to my mother, looked into her eyes and smiled at her. " It was so great getting to see you again, " I told her. She smiled back and for the first time this week, she reached up to me. " Yes, " she told me, " It was wonderful. " She asked me if I was coming back and I told her I would.
Our good-bye was quick; I love you, I'll miss you, basic salutations, mindfully avoiding the obvious and keeping the emotions in check, seemingly for her benefit, but mostly for mine. We stared into each others eyes one last time, and looking at her with all the love and respect I had inside of me, with my hand over my heart where she could see it, I said the one thing that needed most to be said. " Thank you, Mom. For everything. " She moved her hand close to her own heart. " You're welcome. "
I am sad, but more than anything else, I feel blessed. I have experienced something this past week I have never felt before, something deep, profound and foreign to me. When I looked into my mother's eyes and she looked back at mine, I felt something divine, a long lost connection not only with my own mother, but also with myself. Every time I had I looked into my mother's eyes and really saw her, I felt the presence of God, completely and wholeheartedly. I couldn't have hoped for more.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sins of the Daughter - Part 2 - The days
Day 6 - 6/20/11
One more day and I am overwhelmed with sadness and loss. When I walk into my Mom's home, I hear her yelling in her room. Her caretaker's told us she had a rough night, hadn't slept and pulled her colostomy bag and diaper off during the night. My aunt and I take off for awhile and come back a few hours later.
She is still agitated, yelling, fidgeting. This just might be the last time I'll get to see her as we have to get to the airport tomorrow morning and we're not sure of the timing and her wakefulness. I walk into her room, lay down next to her and look into her eyes. " You're taking me home, " she says to me. I answer her, " Sorry, Mom, I can't do that. "
She continues yelling, telling me that people are watching her, trying to hurt her. I take her hand and look into her eyes. " No one will hurt you, Mom. Not while we're here, " I tell her. " It's O.K. "
I begin to understand her frustration, although I know I can never fully comprehend what she's feeling inside. I see she's fighting, struggling against some unknown demon, trapped beyond anything that can be contained within her room, her world, her being. I tell her how sorry I am that she has to go through this, that she needs to stop fighting, that there's nothing left to fight. " Please, " she tells me, " Make it stop. "
I tell her I can't, I can't do anything except love her and see her now, understand how much she's struggled and never forget all she's done in this life. I tell her she's done good, did everything she set out to do, left a trail of broken hearts and souls filled with happiness and honor. Again, I tell her how proud she should be, how lucky we all are to have had her with us. She asked me if I see her. I tell her yes. She asks again,
" See me inside? " Yes, I tell her. I see all of you. She tells me she can tell. She sees me, too.
One more day and I am overwhelmed with sadness and loss. When I walk into my Mom's home, I hear her yelling in her room. Her caretaker's told us she had a rough night, hadn't slept and pulled her colostomy bag and diaper off during the night. My aunt and I take off for awhile and come back a few hours later.
She is still agitated, yelling, fidgeting. This just might be the last time I'll get to see her as we have to get to the airport tomorrow morning and we're not sure of the timing and her wakefulness. I walk into her room, lay down next to her and look into her eyes. " You're taking me home, " she says to me. I answer her, " Sorry, Mom, I can't do that. "
She continues yelling, telling me that people are watching her, trying to hurt her. I take her hand and look into her eyes. " No one will hurt you, Mom. Not while we're here, " I tell her. " It's O.K. "
I begin to understand her frustration, although I know I can never fully comprehend what she's feeling inside. I see she's fighting, struggling against some unknown demon, trapped beyond anything that can be contained within her room, her world, her being. I tell her how sorry I am that she has to go through this, that she needs to stop fighting, that there's nothing left to fight. " Please, " she tells me, " Make it stop. "
I tell her I can't, I can't do anything except love her and see her now, understand how much she's struggled and never forget all she's done in this life. I tell her she's done good, did everything she set out to do, left a trail of broken hearts and souls filled with happiness and honor. Again, I tell her how proud she should be, how lucky we all are to have had her with us. She asked me if I see her. I tell her yes. She asks again,
" See me inside? " Yes, I tell her. I see all of you. She tells me she can tell. She sees me, too.
Sins of the Daughter - Part 2 - The days
Day 5 - 6/19/11
Sunday, 2 more days before I leave for home. I am trying to hold on to each moment with my mother, to savor each look, every word. She has company today, an older couple who were friends of my parents from before I was born. My aunt, who brought me here to see my mom, is with them, too. I stay in another room to avoid confusing her, but I am strangely concerned about her well being.
I hear them talking to her and although they are kind and gentle, I am disturbed by all their questions and the expectations of answers. I shrink every time I hear a " Do you remember....? " or " Who's this....? " when a photograph is placed in front of her. Somehow, I have a feeling this reinforces her helplessness and reminds her how lost she's become.
I want to protect her, shield her from anything that could hurt her, but I know I am decades too late. I have done my share of damage and so many incidents come flooding through my memories that I am heartbroken. Disregard, apathy, indifference, disrespect; so many images flash before me that I am stunned that this was me, my doing, my actions, my history with this woman who I've just discovered, just learned how important she was, is, forever will be. This goes far beyond remorse, regret and shame and although I know my mother has forgiven me, I'm not sure I can ever forgive myself or ever learn to accept those thing I did, or even worse, those things I didn't do.
Her company has left and I go into her room to visit her. Again, she remembers me and seems happy to see me. I can't believe how lucky I've been, how receptive she's been to me. She seems tired, mildly agitated, distracted and I realized I haven't heard her laugh, not once since I've been here. Her caretaker is Russian and I recalled a Russian swear word I had learned. I leaned over and said the word to her, smiling. Kakashka - roughly translated to shit head. " Kakashka, " she repeated back, and started to laugh. Her caretaker heard us and reprimanded me. " That's not a nice word, " she told me, " It means this, " she said, pointing to my Mom's colostomy bag. That made Mom laugh even harder. " Kakashka, " she said again.
When things quieted down, I told her I was leaving in two days and that I would miss her, how amazing it was to get to see her again. When I was looking into her eyes and hers into mine, I told her to try to remember what this feels like, to have someone always there in your heart, that no matter what, she would never be alone. She didn't answer, but she still held on to my gaze. I started to cry and turned away. She said " No! ", and I turned back to her. " Sorry, Mom, " I told her. " Not no, " she said, " Know "
Sunday, 2 more days before I leave for home. I am trying to hold on to each moment with my mother, to savor each look, every word. She has company today, an older couple who were friends of my parents from before I was born. My aunt, who brought me here to see my mom, is with them, too. I stay in another room to avoid confusing her, but I am strangely concerned about her well being.
I hear them talking to her and although they are kind and gentle, I am disturbed by all their questions and the expectations of answers. I shrink every time I hear a " Do you remember....? " or " Who's this....? " when a photograph is placed in front of her. Somehow, I have a feeling this reinforces her helplessness and reminds her how lost she's become.
I want to protect her, shield her from anything that could hurt her, but I know I am decades too late. I have done my share of damage and so many incidents come flooding through my memories that I am heartbroken. Disregard, apathy, indifference, disrespect; so many images flash before me that I am stunned that this was me, my doing, my actions, my history with this woman who I've just discovered, just learned how important she was, is, forever will be. This goes far beyond remorse, regret and shame and although I know my mother has forgiven me, I'm not sure I can ever forgive myself or ever learn to accept those thing I did, or even worse, those things I didn't do.
Her company has left and I go into her room to visit her. Again, she remembers me and seems happy to see me. I can't believe how lucky I've been, how receptive she's been to me. She seems tired, mildly agitated, distracted and I realized I haven't heard her laugh, not once since I've been here. Her caretaker is Russian and I recalled a Russian swear word I had learned. I leaned over and said the word to her, smiling. Kakashka - roughly translated to shit head. " Kakashka, " she repeated back, and started to laugh. Her caretaker heard us and reprimanded me. " That's not a nice word, " she told me, " It means this, " she said, pointing to my Mom's colostomy bag. That made Mom laugh even harder. " Kakashka, " she said again.
When things quieted down, I told her I was leaving in two days and that I would miss her, how amazing it was to get to see her again. When I was looking into her eyes and hers into mine, I told her to try to remember what this feels like, to have someone always there in your heart, that no matter what, she would never be alone. She didn't answer, but she still held on to my gaze. I started to cry and turned away. She said " No! ", and I turned back to her. " Sorry, Mom, " I told her. " Not no, " she said, " Know "
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