A eulogy for my mother

I created the video above, including the music, which was shown at my mother’s funeral. I spoke the following words to all the people who came to say goodbye to Mom on April 15. Today is the one-year anniversary of Mom’s head-on collision. I’d like to remember this day with the positives Mom contributed to the world. I hope you can forgive any typos that remain.

No one likes to talk about death. No one likes to think about death. It’s an uncomfortable part of life that we shy away from it. It is difficult to measure. We don’t actually know what happens after. It is not an experience we can have and then report back on. We know, physically what happens to our cells and tissues as they break down post mortem, but it is more than biology. In 2005, Physicist Aaron Freeman spoke to NPR about what happens when the body takes its last breath. In his discussion, he said you want a physicist to speak at your funeral. I am not a physicist. I am a writer, so I hope Aaron can forgive me for modifying his speech today.

In physics, there is a term known as the conservation of energy. Mom’s energy has not died. The first law of thermodynamics says that no energy gets created in the universe and none is destroyed. All of Mom’s energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was my beloved mother remains with us in this world. Amid the energies of the cosmos, Mom gave as good as she got.

All the photons that ever bounced off her face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by her smile, by the touch of her hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by her. All the photons created within her are constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

All our energy gives off heat. Mom’s heat and warmth that flowed through her is still there, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

There is no need for faith because you can measure just like the scientists have, precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable, and consistent across space and time. You can examine the evidence and satisfy yourself that the science is sound and that you can be comforted in knowing Mom’s energy is still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of Mom is gone; she’s just less orderly.

As such when you light a candle, don’t just think of it as an object that brightens a room. The candle represents all life. “We’re all born as molecules in the hearts of a billion stars, molecules that do not understand politics, policies and differences. In a billion years we, foolish molecules forget who we are and where we came from. Desperate acts of ego. We give ourselves names, fight over lines on maps. And pretend our light is better than everyone else’s. The flame reminds us of the piece of those stars that live inside us. A spark that tells us: you should know better. The flame also reminds us that life is precious, as each flame is unique. When it goes out, it’s gone forever. And there will never be another quite like it.”

And I want to tell you about this one particular flame, who has been a part of my life for 54 years. I am under the firm conviction that Mom was never ready to be a young, single mother, thrust into a cruel world who looked down on her and her position in life. She never let that damper her spirit or change who she was. She repeatedly taught me the lesson of “if they’re picking on me, they’re leaving some other poor soul alone.”

She spent her career taking care of people society forgot and likes to pretend doesn’t exist. To her, the residents at the Middletown Psychiatric Center were just as human as anyone else, they only needed a little more help in life.

She never came out and said, you must help others. She continually showed it by her actions. If you needed a ride somewhere or was short on cash to cover your bills, she was there to help. She juggled her schedule and shifted funds to make sure someone else was okay. She was one of the helpers Mister Rogers always talked about. She was there, showing up and pitching in, whenever help was needed.

She helped in small ways and didn’t often talk about the things she did. When soldiers in Afghanistan complained their heads were cold at night, she joined a group who made and donated crocheted beanies to keep them warm. She used to belong to a volunteer group who provided her a bag of groceries in exchange for 20 hours of volunteer work per month. She felt she got the better deal.

When I was five-years-old, I went to afternoon kindergarten. My aunt and sister were both sick with the flu one week, so I was told I had to walk home by myself after school. Mom didn’t tell me until I was in my 30s, but the 6/10 mile walk home took me the better part of an hour. As Mom told me, “You had to stop and pick up a stick. Then, there were little rocks you looked at. When you got to the stream, you wandered over and played in it. You had to pick up everything and examine it before continuing. I wanted to shout at you and tell you to hurry up, but I told you that you could walk home alone.” She stood at the intersection of Hulse Avenue and Corwin Avenue every day to watch and make sure I was okay, but made sure I didn’t see her so I could build some confidence in myself.

When I was 14, we scrimped and saved so that I could participate in my French class’s trip to France and Italy. It was difficult and she would never tell me how much she gave up to make it happen, but she wanted to give me something I never had. The day before I was set to leave, I was hesitant. I would miss two weeks of the soap opera I wanted to watch. We didn’t own a VCR. Mom told me, “Don’t be a dumbass, Irene. It’s just a stupid show. Go and have fun.”

When I returned, there was a notebook sitting on my grandmother’s couch with my name on it. Mom left it before she went to work. Inside was two week’s of handwritten notes from the show. Mom didn’t know the character’s names, but she described them well. There was the “handsome man with beautiful black wavy hair, the handsome man’s wife, and Kelly.” I have no idea why she could remember Kelly’s name, but her descriptions were perfect.

I didn’t ask her to do it. I wasn’t expecting it, but there she was, helping someone. When I was 17, I was suspended from school for three days. A classmate was being racist during PE class to another classmate. My PE class was every other day. For seven weeks, I spoke to this classmate, trying to reason with her. I spoke to the five PE teachers, then the four guidance counselors, then the two assistant principals. No one would do anything. One day, I had enough. Fists flew. I even hit one of the female PE teachers when she tried to break up the fight. A male PE teacher broke up the fight. One of the assistant principals showed up in my computer class next period and took me to his office. He called Mom. The principal informed her what happened and then handed the phone to me.

The first thing Mom said was, “Don’t smile when I talk to you.” Mom always taught me to try to find a peaceful solution to everything. However, if fists need to be used, don’t start a fight, but make sure you end it. “Don’t smile” meant I was not going to be in trouble. She explained there would be consequences at school, but I was not going to be grounded. She knew all the steps I had taken up to that point to avoid conflict. She also told me I had to walk home from school because she could not afford to take time off. I was instructed to “walk straight home and don’t dilly-dally.”

That attitude of understanding arose again when I was 25 and was arrested. A man tried to hit Mom. I stepped in between them, shoved him a few times, knocked him down, and stomped on his crotch. He had me arrested. The charges were later dropped, but when the state trooper showed up, cuffed me, and put me in the back of the patrol car, Mom walked over and tried to get in with me.

She yanked on the door, but it didn’t open. I couldn’t hear her words to the trooper, but the motion of her hands said, “open the door and let me in.” Yeah, Mom went to the police station with me when I got arrested. She didn’t want me to be alone. I think the trooper only complied because she was insistent and he was bewildered by what was happening.

Mom taught me and her grandson, David, life lessons through her actions. I don’t think she ever said, “you must help others because it’s the right thing to do.” She just did it and we observed. When my husband, Paul, and I moved to Nebraska the first time so he could finish his degree, Mom snuck a frozen turkey into our rented cargo van. I didn’t see it until we were getting gas somewhere in Iowa. When we got to our new apartment and got a phone, I asked her why she did it. “Well, the turkey wanted to see the country, so I gave him a window seat.”

She would often show up at David’s house and say things like, “I need some help with a bag in the car,” or “I have something for you in my car.” That something tended to be enough groceries to fill your fridge and your freezer.

Mom also came out to Nebraska for my college graduation. I had just scored a good deal on toilet paper and had about 100 rolls in my closet. One day, about a week after she had left, I found a $20 bill in the middle of a roll of toilet paper. I knew who put it there. I called her on the phone. She reminded me not to “wipe my ass with money,” but to use it for groceries or whatever else I needed. At the time, my monthly grocery bill was $25. It was a lot of money to me. I found twenties strewn randomly throughout my rolls of toilet paper for months.

Mom also taught me to always find the best deals, use coupons, and stash whatever cash you can, even if it’s only 50 cents, because it all adds up. One time she called me and asked, “Do you have a raincoat?” I did not. She said, “Well, you should go get one because I found $100 in mine.”

Each year, on July 5, Mom would wake me up and sing “Happy Birthday” to me. When I was a teenager, she would sneak into my room ever so quietly and lean in near my ear. Then, she would sing as loud as she could. I was born at 8:19 a.m. Mom calls me at that exact time every year. Except I live two hours behind her. I answer my phone with a groggy “hello” and, bam, I’ve got Happy Birthday in my ear. When she was done, she’d laugh and then tell me, “Happy Birthday, brat.” It was annoying and sweet at the same time. I won’t be getting that call anymore, but I saved the one from last year.

When I told my friend, Hendrik, Mom had passed, he reminded of the time when Mom fed him his first servings of Taco Bell. He is from the Netherlands and she was working a second job as a manager there. He told me last week, “We had the best unhealthy dinner at Taco Bell ever.” Since that summer of 1994, Hendrik has always asked about Mom and how she was doing and Mom often asked how he was doing. Likewise, when my friend, Bas, who is also Dutch, visited, Mom was not happy that he thought Subway was a decent sandwich. She promptly took us all down to Broas’ to get a real sub.

Which brings me to one of Mom’s joys in life – crocheting. She only ever put down her cup of tea so she could keep crocheting. She made a baby blanket for Hendrik and Salma’s son when he was born. She refused to let me pay for it. Mom also paid for me and Paul to go to Hendrik’s wedding in Tanzania. She was so happy to hear he was getting married, but upset to hear we couldn’t afford to go. I was living in Poughkeepsie at the time. About two hours after I got off the phone with her, she was at my front door. She made me call the airline and purchased the tickets. She was right. It was a trip of a lifetime. I don’t know how or where she got the money to make it happen, but she understood even then, that I love to travel and I love to write. If she could make me happy by helping me out, then she would do what was needed to put a smile on my face.

Her crocheting was loved by everyone. I have a blanket that has been on my bed for nearly 20 years. There are countless others that felt the same warmth of her generosity. She gave, never asking for anything in return. Her entire life was in service to humanity and how to make her little corner of the world a little better place. She provided her kindness mostly without others knowing. I suspect I will never know all that she did for others.

One thing Mom did not like was people swearing. David and I know all too well what “that look” is, as well as how it feels to be smacked upside your head for using the F word. She never did hit me over the head with a loaf of French bread though. David holds that honor.

After I got the job writing for the Star-Herald newspaper, I called Mom to give her the news. “You mean you’re finally going to get paid for your writing?” She knew nothing about the area where I lived, but made me send her news articles I wrote, even the boring city council stories. Since she also never threw anything away, I suspect those clippings are still at her house, tucked neatly away somewhere.

When I began winning writing awards at the state and national levels she was happier than me. She knew I didn’t get paid much money at the job, barely above minimum wage as that’s what the industry pays, but I was happy, so she was happy. She also never cared what I did for work in life. She just wanted me to be happy. When I told her of my Associated Press awards, she said, “holy shit, that’s awesome.” I quickly reminded her that sometimes, it’s appropriate to swear.

When I broke the news to Hendrik, he told me he has always remembered her as “a caring and hard-working lady,” and said he was going to miss her. She was the warmth that brightened a room. She kept us warm when we were cold and lifted our spirits when they were down. She gave freely of herself and never pretended to be better than anyone else. Her life was an example of how we can always do better. Her flame reminded us every life is precious. There will never be another person quite like Mom and the world is a little less fucking bright now without her in it.