Sitting on the floor of our dining area, wrapping Maire’s birthday gifts, I listened as Mom talked very loudly on the phone. It was her friend Carol, her oldest friend from her St. Joseph days. Mom’s mother died when she was just 13, she was immediately pulled from St. Paul’s school in Cambridge and transferred to St. Joseph’s in Roxbury, so she could be closer to where they lived. At 13, she had to look after her three younger siblings and her alcoholic father who had a tendency to become delusional and irrational when drunk. “I remember he once took a bunch of furniture and put it outside”she told me. Her aunts had taught her how to make macaroni and cheese and fish chowder after the funeral. I cannot imagine how overwhelmed she must have been. “Come on, Mary, don’t be shy. You can talk to us.” Carol said to Mom on her first day at St. Joseph’s, something Mom has never forgotten.
“You know who’s gone? Pat. Pat’s gone.” Mom yelled at Carol (Carol is hard of hearing). She was discussing the recent passing of her best friend, our Auntie Pat. “I know. I know. Oh God, Carol. Hold on a minute. Hold on.” Mom was getting another call. “STOP TALKING, CAROL!” Mom yelled, trying to get her to stop so she could accept the other call. Finally, she just clicked over, handled the call from CVS, and when she clicked back Carol was still talking. “Well, Carol, I’m sure you’ll get in. You haven’t been that bad.” Mom said. My interest was piqued. Get in? Where? As the conversation bordered about 45 minutes long, Mom didn’t seem to know how to say goodbye. “Well, we’ll talk soon. We’ll SEE each other soon! Ok, ok, Carol. Talk soon! Bye.” When Mom finally hung up, she said “Ugh. That was Carol. She’s calling everyone to let them know she’s dying.” she said, sounding both nonchalant and sad. At Mom’s age, this is what happens. The hits keep coming and don’t stop. I think she’s starting to get a little numb to it all.
As I drove to Whitman to pick up pizza for the party, I felt depressed. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so down until I remembered who I am. I don’t just hear about painful things, I feel and absorb them. Here I was, middle-aged and preparing fifth grade birthday shenanigans and there Mom was, saying goodbye to her friend of 76 years. It doesn’t feel that long ago that my friends and I were slumber partying it up throughout our middle school years, when our Moms were exactly our age now. I can only imagine that these next 40 years will go by just as quickly as the previous ones. That scares me. I see my future and past on a daily basis and, quite frankly, sometimes that’s hard.
Last night’s sleepover went well though I am sure there are a few girls in town who will sleep very well tonight, mine included of course. As the girls hung out upstairs making “candy salad” out of sour gummy worms, Nerd Clusters, Sour Patch Kids and Fritos, I sat downstairs with Mom and watched the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, season 2. The songs and fashions brought Mom way back to her single and newlywed days which led to her talking more about her conversation with Carol earlier that day. “I just can’t get over Carol.” she said. “She’s really preparing to die. Telling me all about how crowded it will be up in heaven and how she hasn’t been that bad and thinks she’ll get right in but you never know.” We laughed at this because what else can you do? I asked Mom to tell me again how they met and how they have remained friends all these years. “We were very close, Dad was an usher in their wedding.” I nodded, remembering these details from the many times I’ve heard the stories before. With that, I felt some of the weight lift and Mom seemed better too. Processing all of these moments with her has been part of what my role here is, through this I have gained appreciation for what it truly means to get old. Sometimes, I want to look away. However, that’s just not who I am. As I age alongside the woman who brought me into this world, I will continue to bear witness to the many nuances of accepting the finality of life. We fall with the hits, rise for the celebrations, and sometimes do both all within hours of one another. This is the house of life in all its glory.