the eulogy
three decades later and never too late
Everywhere I go, there is another motherless daughter. I wish we all wore t-shirts that said so, it would make it a bit easier for me to find you. While everyone says it is a club none of us wanted to join, I want to know you all. After all, who could understand this kind of loss, but you?
My mother Ellen died in 1993. She was here one day, and gone the next. She took the day off and went to Sandy Hook, a beautiful public beach in central southern New Jersey, and suffered a deadly brain aneurysm in her sun chair.
It has taken me years to appreciate that she did in fact die in what was her favorite place on earth. Mom was one with the sun, sand and sea. She seemed to sport a year-round tan, always a glowy olive that deepened from May through September, but never faded away. Even in the depths of winter.
We arranged for her organs to be donated (she made this wish known to us when my Grandmother Mona died of emphysema) the clothes she would wear in the casket we had to go choose at the funeral home. We collected her make up case, so that the funeral director could be sure she looked like herself. In the fog of decision making, we decided she did not need hose or heels wherever she was going, and had it been up to us, would have put her in one of her signature Polo crew neck cotton sweaters, cropped Audrey Hepburn like jeans and Sam & Libby ballet flats.
Neither my sister or myself thought we could speak at the funeral, a eulogy I am grief stricken and guilt ridden to have not shared that day. I have since written it, and hope like hell she knows I would have if I could have.
If you have been reading along here (and thank you to those who are here for the ride and your generous feedback) you know that they found early-stage liver cancer when her organs were reviewed for donation. They went on to cancer research.
At different stages and ages along this three decades long search for a why, I never quite find the answers, but always new realizations. How even all of these years later, you can write the eulogy and read it aloud to everyone on your 50th birthday to honor the years she had here on earth.
I would have said yes. I would have holed up in my childhood bedroom, legs up the wall and notebook on my lap. The writing would have come so easily. There were so many stories about my Mom that could have been shared.
Sure, we sat in the Rabbi’s office and told him the words we wished for him to say. The words I didn’t think I could brave on the heels of losing her so suddenly. Who the fuck goes to the beach to take a much-deserved day off and dies of an aneurism?
Here. And gone. Like some kind of fairy in a shit’s gone way wrong, Disney film.
It was too much. Everyone convinced me it was ok. But the gravity of never being able to go back and do it, never crossed my mind.
Would I be sorry later? Well, now I know the answer is most certainly and undeniably, yes. It breaks me to this moment.
I would have stood bravely, tears and words mingling like the salty brine of her beloved ocean. I would tell them all about Ellen Jane. My hero. My mentor. My Jersey girl. How she always held your hand, even as a grown up. In the city. In the mall. How she would pulse three little pumps into your hand. Secret code for, ”I love you”.
I would tell everyone how when she got divorced, she and her best friend got their real estate license and job shared. They literally created it. One worked. One with us kids. They made a village. And a support system. And made us proud. The local paper touted them as The Dynamic Duo.
She went on to fundraise for those with no homes. A women’s center for those being abused. Big fundraisers at The Count Basie Theater. With The Four Seasons singing.
She loved finding the right homes for people. One of her super powers. Referrals her kryptonite. She was a local legend. Her open house lemonade and Malomars, epic.
Her prowess at Scrabble was historic. Her vocabulary was gorgeous. And inspiring. I once used “facetious” in a second-grade paper and was called out on it. Mom went to school and did her Norma Rae version of “don’t fuck with my girl” and facetious always and forever will remind me never to be small.
I would have regaled them with camp memories. How she taught Danna and I Wico songs as wee ones. About The Old Pine. We were the most seasoned Wico Girls upon our arrival as tiny alum.
She loved so deeply and fiercely. She was witty and bright and strong. She was hurt when life disappointed her. And told us. She was a badass Scorpio who adored the beach, and boardwalk, Santa Rosa plums, the Windmill, Carvel, and her family. And her laugh could cure ailing souls.
I would remind them all that she loved a bargain and taught us how to discount shop like it was an Olympic sport. She was always well dressed.
When she was proud of you, it was all there was.
She was the most effortlessly beautiful person I had ever seen. Kids from school gathered round our kitchen table to get her advice. Boys to get a peek. She was the cool mom for sure. She was so progressive. And she was ours.
I would promise to care for Danna forever and always.
I would rewrite that day in 1993 in a hundred different ways. But alas.
If you seek help with grief support, find me here. There is a free gift waiting for you. x, B.