For 67 years I knew the constant love and dedication of the woman who bore me. I depended upon her for my sustenance as an infant and for my protection as a toddler. During my tender years, she shielded me and protected me from the hurt that others might have brought upon me and she defended me when my actions required a benevolent hand.
As I matured, she did what she thought best for me, sometimes it was really what was best for her. But no matter, she was always my lynchpin. Even when she was problematic, she was my problem and I dealt with it. After my father passed away, we became inseparable. It was what many might consider a controlling relationship, but as the years went by, it became obvious that I was needed to help her through life's major and minor travails.
We dined together most nights for more than 25 years, not because she wanted my company, but because she needed a chauffeur and someone to fend for her. She was not capable of ordering for herself, so I did it for the two of us. She was not capable of ordering correctly and steadfastly refused to eat more than half of what was brought to her.
In the past, I would allow her to pass the leftover food to me and it helped me with not having to decide what to eat for lunch the next day. But after Hurricane Katrina and my diaspora from New Orleans for almost two years, I began to keep kosher at my home. Everything she ate out was not allowed inside my home. She would still pack the other half of her meal and would now leave it for whoever was at her home the next day. She never ate leftovers.
In the larger scheme of things, dealing with leftovers or having to eat out every night are not big deals. I dealt with it and kept a brave face as I enabled her. My sister, who lived in Cleveland, began to be more involved with her after her New Year's Eve stroke in 2019. It was not a particularly well-timed medical incident as she was transported against medical orders to a hospital best equipped for gunshot and knife victims and not suited to helping stroke victims. Her doctor did not have admitting or medical privileges there either. She was in the hands of Medical School students for the most part, many of whom were on holiday duty with a scant staff.
Once she came home, her options were very limited. My sister decided she would not live long in a skilled nursing facility, due to her nature. She opted for in-home hospice care instead. Her demeanor became much more agitated and confused. My very presence would cause her blood pressure to rise by several points for no reason. It was very troubling, but I remained aloof. I was there for her if she needed me, even though we no longer ate out any longer.
The last 19 months of her life were a slow and steady decline, punctuated by at least one other stroke. Had Hurricane Ida not deprived her of electricity and air conditioning, she might have survived a few more months and made it to her 90th birthday.
But now she is gone and I am bereft. The pain of her departure from this world still persists to this day, the first anniversary of her passing. Watching the funeral and commitment ceremony for Queen Elizabeth II today recalls within me just how terribly much I miss her.
May her memory be forever a blessing.
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