Vignettes of my mother on her birthday

The blanket Mom made me and Paul.

Today would have been Mom’s 78th birthday. Even though she is gone, there are many things that remind me of her and make me smile.

COMBS
My hair is naturally curly, though most people don’t know it. I hated curly hair most of my life and have always had short hair. The curls are still there and can be seen whenever my hair gets wet. I always struggled to comb my hair and did a lot of “running my fingers through my hair” to get the knots out because brushes are terrible for curls. Mom found a neat purple comb designed just for people with curly hair.

About a decade later, my grandma had a similar comb, but it was much thicker and did the job better. Hers was green. Mom and Gram scoured the stores looking for another green one. They found the comb, but it was orange. I still use both to comb my hair – the purple one for when I get my hair cut and the orange one comes into use about three weeks later.

CROCHETED BLANKET
About 10 years ago, Mom crocheted me and Paul a blanket for our bed. It fit perfectly. It’s a beautiful blanket and my nephew, David, will inherit it when I die. I also have some crocheted pot holders she gave me a couple of years ago. They’re in a drawer now. I don’t want them ruined. When I was little she would crochet outfits for me. I hated them then. I’m glad I have the pictures now.

YOU ALREADY HAVE A GLASS
We were poor and our rental house didn’t have a dishwasher. Gram always said, “I have three dishwashers,” and would then point to myself, my sister, and my aunt. We took turns washing, drying, and putting away the dishes each night after dinner.

I constantly got yelled at for pulling out new cups, forks, spoons, plates, etc. It was always, “rinse out the one you already used.” Yeah, Mom. I never grew out of that. I got a dishwasher of my own and I still use a new one every damn time.

JUST COME HOME AND WE’LL FIGURE IT OUT
After I graduated from college, I took a job with UNL-PD. It was the overnight shift, 11pm to 7am, and it was a fairly easy job with a lot of walking. The sexual harassment was not pleasant. One year and eight months into the job, I filed a complaint. Starting the next day, I could no longer do anything right. I had talked with Mom about it and what was going on. For about five weeks, I cried every night when I got up to get ready for work. She told me to quit.

“But I don’t have a job lined up,” I said. “And you always told me never to quit a job until I had another one waiting.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Quit the damn job.”

So, I did. That night, I didn’t show up for work. My phone rang non-stop for two hours before I pulled the line out of the wall. No one ever came to check on me or to see if I was okay. I washed my uniforms and folded them neatly. The next morning, one year and eleven months after starting the job, I drove to the police station and turned in my uniforms and equipment. It was December 1993. It is the only job I have ever quit without a proper notice.

Five months later, I called her on the phone.

“Mom, I have less than $200 in the bank. I can’t find a job, my car was repossessed, I can’t pay rent anymore, and I am running out of food. I don’t know what to do.”

“Come home,” she said.

I soon found “Old Yellow,” a 1979 yellow station wagon, and purchased it for $125. I packed what was most important to me inside. I wasn’t able to sell the drum set my grandmother bought me and had to give it away. I gave away all my furniture and what little food I had left that would perish before I made the 21-hour drive back to New York. Gas was about $70 one way. Once I left Lincoln, I didn’t eat until I got to my mom’s house.

I stayed, rent-free, at Mom’s for two years. She only ever bitched about the water bill and how I was making it skyrocket.

IT’S NOT MENINGITIS OR A TAPEWORM
When I was eight years old, I spent a week in the hospital. I was eating too much and not gaining any weight. I could sit and eat a pound of spaghetti and five of Mom’s golf ball sized meatballs for dinner only to come back 20 minutes later and eat three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I felt fine. Mom was sure something was wrong.

The doctors in Middletown couldn’t figure out what was wrong, so they sent me to Westchester County Hospital, which has a specialized children’s unit. The doctors in my hometown never asked me questions. The doctor there spoke with Mom and me for three hours. I didn’t understand most of the questions except for the one “how often do you poop?” When he was done asking questions, the doctor told Mom what he thought I had, but they had to conduct the tests anyway. She had been told in Middletown it was either meningitis or a tapeworm, both of which scared her. The doctor in Westchester said, “nah, it ain’t that.”

I was in the hospital for eight days. Mom was with me when I fell asleep and when I woke up. She sat in a chair next to my bed and crocheted. She stayed in the hospital’s version of a Ronald McDonald House on the hospital campus. Also, the cooks at the hospital were trained or training chefs from the Culinary Institute of America, which is not far from my hometown. The food kicked ass.

After a week of testing, I was diagnosed with a spastic colon, which is better known today as irritable bowel syndrome. Essentially, certain foods trigger immense pain and diarrhea. I ate from one end and my body shot it back out the other. Thus, I was always hungry. The diet I learned in 1978 is mostly the same one I follow today, with some adjustments for other food-related problems.

THE JACKET
When I was cleaning out the house two days before Mom’s funeral, I saw a sky blue satin jacket hanging in her closet. I knew what it was before I pulled it off the hanger. My name is written in cursive on the left breast. The back reads, “Middletown Marching Middies Percussion Section.” I graduated high school in 1988. I never knew she kept it.

When she was evicted from her previous home, she and David took what they could before the locks were changed. They lost a lot in that move, but she took my fucking jacket. David has it for safe keeping now. I’ll get it from him the next time I’m in New York.

Over the years, I had my struggles with Mom. She was stubborn, something I learned well. Sometimes we clashed. But, when the chips were down, I always knew she would have my back. She spent decades showing up for me in small ways, without judgment, and accepting me for who I was even if it wasn’t her dream of what she had hoped I would be (lawyer).

Happy birthday, Mom. I wish you could have been here, so I could hug you again.