Thursday, April 13, 2017
The following is a copy of the tribute I read at my mom's funeral:
Thank you for coming.
This will probably be a bit disjointed. I wrote some of it in the airport in Dubai on the way here from Perth yesterday, and some of it this morning.
We see our parents through different lenses as we grow. If you’re lucky — and I think we were pretty lucky to have Ellen as a mother, you have warmth and nurturing as a baby, playfulness as a toddler, and then as an older child and teen, hopefully a sympathetic ear, someone to model yourself after, someone to rebel against, someone who can push your buttons like no one else, and, finally, someone you see as a separate person. I realize I don’t know that much about my mother before I existed, and maybe I should have asked more questions, but it’s been lovely and somewhat enlightening to see messages from people like her cousins, who knew a different side of her and looked up to her and saw her as someone special and fun to be around. I’ve really been enjoying those glimpses and stories.
My mother and I were usually simpatico — she didn’t get a lot of the stuff I was interested in, but there was enough in common that it didn’t really matter. We shared a love of books, despite the fact that she used to tell me to put my book down and go out and play. I know she used to feel guilty if we’d have breakfast together and she didn’t want to put her book down to talk.
I feel sad that I missed time with her because I wasn’t around. I moved to California when I was 25 and she was 50, and then to Australia. That’s almost 27 years of a relationship of once-a-week phone calls, rare visits, and long-distance grandchildren.
The day I learned of Ellen’s death, I stumbled across a funding campaign on the internet for the world’s most comfortable shoes. It made me laugh. She was always shoe shopping, forever on the hunt for shoes that were truly comfortable.
Ellen loved babies and children, and her delight in them may be what made me want them so much. In a recent conversation with my aunt Susan, she told me how much joy my mom took in me and her other children. And her good friend Joyce messaged to say how proud Ellen was of all her children. On the other hand, I clearly remember that during some of our fights in my adolescent years, she would yell at me that she hoped I’d have a daughter just like myself so I’d know what it was like. Don’t worry, mom. I have two.
In the last couple of days we’ve been sharing memories of Ellen, looking through photos, and getting some lovely messages. Trying to come up with an overall summary of someone’s life is hard, but what I come back to is this. Ellen was loved. She enjoyed certain things viscerally and wholeheartedly — sunny days, her children and grandchildren, a delicious slice of melon, a good book. I remember her going around the house singing snatches from musicals, nursery rhymes, or silly songs she made up. When we visited my grandmother in Florida, the people there would look at my mother, my sister, and I and ask if we were all sisters. She thought they were being kind, but now I’m older than she was then and I see the pictures and I can understand why. She always did look very young. Until she didn’t.
Mom had a really rough patch health wise at the end of her life. She had Parkinson’s Disease, and many other ailments, and eventually it was too difficult to manage things on her own. I am so greatful to the people who were here to help, especially Daniel and Amy, Joanna; Raina and Jacob, who performed double-duty as loving grandchildren, making up for mine being so far away; my dad, who was still family and always cared, even though he and Ellen weren’t a couple any more; my uncle Henry, for calling every day; and the people who helped care for mom and keep her comfortable at the end, especially Cindy, whom I never met before but who I know from my sister was so kind and loving and patient. I know it couldn’t have been easy for mom or those around her, because she valued her privacy and independence, and unfortunately illness made those impossible to keep.
But what I will remember most about my mother it is her capacity for loving and kindness, her gentle nature, her delight in simple pleasures, and her sense of silliness and fun.
I think she was a pretty nice person. I know I loved her a lot.
