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A Mother's LifeBy Rick Horowitz
There was a certain modesty to it, my mother dying just when she did -- only four hours after Terri Schiavo, and two days ahead of the pope. If she had been trying (and she might have been), she could hardly have picked a time when her leaving was more likely to slip by unnoticed. There were no public vigils. No elaborate sendoffs. In fact, she'd only recently agreed to have a funeral service at all; she wasn't sure she merited anything quite that grand. Besides, she didn't want to obligate people to make a fuss over her. She probably wasn't sure anyone would bother to show up. And she certainly didn't think she was worth the fuss. Her friends and her family knew better, which is why they -- we -- filled row after row of the chapel on a recent sun-flooded morning to say goodbye. During her final months, she'd receive notes and cards with kind thoughts and lovely sentiments printed on them, and below those lines, even kinder and lovelier thoughts and sentiments, handwritten. Those were the lines she'd repeat to us -- not bragging, but surprised that she'd made that good an impression on people she so liked and admired. Our only surprise was that she was surprised. We always knew the kind of person she was -- devoted friend, caring wife and mother and sister and daughter and aunt and bubbe. She was a good listener (a major talent in a family -- in a world -- of talkers.) She kept up with the news. She worked for good causes. She had a wicked sense of humor, and a great smile we didn't see nearly often enough -- probably because she worried so much. Sylvia Horowitz was a world-class worrier. She could see the danger in anything. You know how some people see the glass half full, and some see the glass half empty? Mom always saw the glass too close to the edge of the table -- "Careful -- you'll knock it on the floor!" The silverware drawer: "Don't pull it out so far -- it'll fall!" The picture frame on the sewing machine: "Don't play with it -- you'll tip it over!" It's not every full-grown son who can walk his mother to her airport gate, hug all the hugs and kiss all the kisses, turn to leave and hear, "Watch out for that carpet seam!" (Not that I'd tripped over a carpet seam even once in my life. But who's to say it wasn't her influence?) We finally figured it out: In all the world, the thing that worried Mom most was gravity! There's a reason you've never seen a TV show about Jewish mothers in outer space; with weightlessness, what would they have to worry about? "Don't drop that whatchamacallit -- it'll...hover?" "Don't go near the whosis -- you'll...never mind." But gravity wasn't her only worry. So, apparently, was poverty. Even when she had money, she worried about money, as any child of the Depression would. She loved shopping, but she loved her bargains even more. She always wanted to get the best possible price -- and then a couple of bucks less than that, just because. And God save you if you overcharged her! She was relentless. But the same woman who could spend three weeks on the phone tracking down a $12 clerical error could, without batting an eye, write one of her kids a check for several thousands of dollars. Just because. The people she worried about most, of course, were her family. She often said she'd throw herself in front of a train to save us. We didn't doubt it for a minute. She would do anything to protect us, to smooth the bumps -- even the imaginary ones -- from our path. She was the old lady who'd help the boy scout across the street -- even if the kid wasn't sure he wanted to go. She had a full and loving life with my father -- 56 years of marriage, of wonderful times and great memories. And when he died, five years ago, she started another life. She was assigned, as so many women in her situation have been, to the widow's bracket, and suddenly found that the restaurants that had so happily seated her when she was part of a couple, out with other couples, were far less welcoming now -- or why else did the invitations stop coming? She didn't complain. Not too much, anyway. She kept moving forward, with new friends, and new destinations -- Greece and Turkey. Egypt. Chicago. She found new ways to keep in touch with relatives. (My mother on the Internet? Go figure!) She found new achievements to share, and to celebrate. She saw one of her grandsons play ball, saw the other one get bar mitzvahed. She watched one of her granddaughters walk across a stage to accept her college diploma, got to walk down the aisle at the other one's wedding. That was just last October. "One week I was dancing," she said, "and the next week I was dying." Only a slight exaggeration. When she did get sick, though, she didn't complain either. (Not too much, anyway.) She was incredibly grateful for all the cards and calls and visits. Although she did wonder why she'd bought the large bottle of eye drops... She wanted to know her prognosis, what her options were, how much time she had left. She made her plans accordingly. Death didn't scare her, she said. Leaving her checkbook unbalanced? That was something else again. She worried that her financial records might not be in perfect order -- all bills paid, all accounts squared. She worried that her kids might drown in paperwork after she was gone -- gravity again -- so she waded through most of it herself, in advance. To make it easier for us. And still she fretted that she hadn't quite done enough. But of course she had. We all knew she would. And now? Now
she's pulled off her greatest achievement of all: She's slipped the
grasp of gravity forever. She's weightless, she's floating free, in
a place where nothing ever falls.
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Rick Horowitz
