Eulogy for Nani

For those who do not know me, my name is Rob Marvin, and I am happy to count myself as one of Virginia’s friends ~ and quite possibly, her favorite.

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It’s my hope that Monday, October 17, 2011 will be remembered as the day when a loving family and many friends gathered in defiance of convention to celebrate Mother’s Day … at the time and place of their choosing … in God’s house … at His table … and later, at the cemetery on hallowed ground.

I will personally never forget this incarnation of Mother’s Day when we came together to honor the enduring love of a mother and grandmother, and for others, the life of a friend and neighbor, Virginia.

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As I sat to think about what I would say today, one image of Virginia was foremost in my mind:  She was seated at the head of a large table surrounded by family and friends offering up an insanely large amount of food.

How had I come to sit at this table?

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It must have been difficult for Virginia to sit idle, watching as her three children bore the responsibility of caring for their ailing father over two and one-half years as he languished in a nursing home. 

And while she could do nothing to ease their burden, she was surely proud to see her children acting on the example she had passed along to them over many years: 

Family is everything.

During this time, our families were living parallel lives within the same nursing home; three doors down a common hall from Dominic, our Mother was living out her final days.  And, as with Virginia’s children, we had long ago learned the importance of family in our lives.
When my twin brother, Jim, recently asked Charlie why it was that Virginia had taken to the two of us, his reply was simple:  “Mom didn’t say much but she watched people and took in everything.  She watched you care for your Mother and for my Dad.”

As months became years, all of us, the children of Virginia and Dorothy, were bound by a shared affection for our beloved parents as we did the only thing we knew how to do:  we cared for them.

The love of family is the tie that binds all of us.  Virginia respected this in her children … and in my twin brother and me in turn.

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Since being diagnosed with an incurable brain malignancy little more than four weeks ago, no one left Virginia’s side without being impressed by the living contradiction embodied by this first-generation Italian-American.  Increasingly frail and weakened ~ she remained strong in spirit; eyes hampered by age ~ her vision remained crystal clear; and, in a world of increasingly dizzying complexity ~ she projected herself as a selfless woman of quiet practicality and grace.

When the time came for the physicians, nurses, social workers and family to make plans for her future, it was clear there would be little allowance made for debate: 

Virginia was going home; to her home of 54 years where she raised her children and their children, to the kitchen where so much food was made and shared, and to the familiarity and comfort of her own bed.

Always the Mother, even at 83, Lucille, Joe and Charlie were still children in her eyes ~ even as they navigate through middle age.  It is as if her motherly eyes wouldn’t allow her to see the children grown ~ as if adulthood was the singular province of a mother.

Perhaps it is. 

Or, at least, so it seemed, until the morning of October 12^th ~ when, with Charlie, his dog Lulu as well as a trusted friend and caregiver, Anita, at her side, Virginia slipped quietly into that long, good night.

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Having lost their father only five short months ago, Virginia’s children are now learning, as did my twin-brother and I this past January, that the death of a mother is unique ~ it seems to affect us in ways far different from when our father’s die.

I believe it marks an irrevocable severance with the past ~ as if cutting the umbilical cord that binds our affections, making us grounded in the world.

And, unlike with our father’s, we are intimately and inextricably linked to our mother’s ~ as flesh of their flesh, and blood of their blood.

Yes.  Their childhood died along with Virginia this past week; but, like her, they are to be born again.

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His holiness, the late Pope Paul VI once remarked as to the relationship between Mother’s and their children when he observed,

“Every mother is like Moses.  She does not enter the promise land but prepares a world she will not see.”

Virginia bore two healthy sons and one daughter, and nearly lived to celebrate her 84^th birthday ~ which is tomorrow.  She lived her life preparing Lucille, Joe and Charlie as well as her four grandchildren for an earthly land of promise she will no longer see ~ at least not from THIS vantage point.

But, her Lord assures us that she is now in the heavenly Promised Land alongside her beloved family who had gone on before her.

It is the contradiction of our humanity, the resurrection, and our place in it.

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I will end this Mother’s Day card of sorts, in prayerful reverence of Virginia, my mother, Dorothy, and for all those mentioned silently within your hearts:

“The love of a mother is a veil … of a softer light … between the heart and our Heavenly Father.”

Virginia Ann Cervello is now fully in the light of our Heavenly Father by the redemption freely given by His Son.

And, through the promise of the resurrection, I speak for many when I pray for the day when we will no longer simply be our Mother’s sons or daughters, but united as children of God.

Sweet dreams, Virginia.

Mother's Day

Below I have posted a link to the video shot this morning at the Jameson Family gravesite where Mother is now buried.

The music heard throughout is a recording of the bagpipe introit "Amazing  Grace" performed at Mother's Memorial Service in January and again at her Committal Service in late April.

The Gerber daisies sitting atop her grave are but a few of the artificial flowers which were eventually suspended from the ceiling directly over Mother's nursing home bed when she was no longer able to walk and, thus, to work in her gardens.  She truly loved these flowers ~ artificial or not.

The beautiful flowers surrounding the central family marker were planted by our sister in the days leading up to Mother's Committal Service.  After scrubbing each of the family markers clean, our sister wanted nothing less than to make certain another beautiful garden ~ of sorts ~ awaited Mother at her final resting place alongside four generations of her family.

The gardener made assurances the flowers would survive but a week; Sister was prepared for this eventuality.

No one could have been more surprised, however, to arrive at Mother's burial site to discover that her pansies had not only survived ~  they are thriving!

I don't know how anyone could have doubted this outcome;

Surely, Mother had a hand in all of this!

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

We love and miss you ... to the moon and back!

Should you go first and we remain

to walk the road alone,

we'll live in memory's Garden Mom,

with the happy days we've known.

In Spring we'll wait for roses red,

when faded, the lilacs blue.

In early Fall when brown leaves fall

we'll catch a glimpse of you.

We'll hear your voice, we'll see your smile,

though blindly we may grope,

The memory of your helping hand

will buoy us with hope.

Should you go first and we remain,

one thing we'll have you do:

Walk slowly down that long long path,

for someday we'll follow you.

We want to know each step you take,

so we may take the same.

For someday down that lonely road

you'll hear us calling your name.

(Borrowed from "Should You Go First" ~ A Rowsell)

http://youtu.be/ikxfo3qGNTw

Eighteen Hours

I ran through the snowdrifts as fast as my legs would allow.

The interregnum of the prior nine days had been all but too much to bear; the days apart weighed heavily on me.

But I abandoned all the heartache as I plowed through fresh snow blanketing an invisible but well-known path.

Rounding a bend, I made out the silhouette of my twin brother standing under an arcade beyond the head of the trail; he, too, had been anxiously awaiting my return.

“That’s really nice of him to welcome me back!” was my only thought.

But just as we began a short walk along the colonnade to the entrance of the nursing home, my brother stopped, turned abruptly to me and then said,

“Mom is not doing well … she’s not doing well at all.”

A veil of denial immediately enveloped me as I struggled to catch my breath and my legs buckled under the sheer weight of his words.

It was as if I had been punched in the stomach.

It was as if I had been driving a speeding car and then forced to come to a complete stop and reverse directions in the same instant.

Life – as I knew it – was about to be altered irrevocably.

My brain immediately became awash in the panoply of human emotions as well as thoughts too disparate to grasp. But in the midst of all the mental chaos, an eight word sentence – a fateful harbinger spoken to a trusted friend nine days earlier – took hold, repeating itself in an endless loop time and again within my head; it would continue for the next eighteen hours … and beyond.

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“Everyone dies.”

I learned this lesson as a child. All of us do. But to a child, death is merely an abstraction; in the mind of a child, we are all immortal.

Over the years as Mother’s health declined, I will also admit to occasionally fantasizing about how I would react when Death finally came for her.

I don’t believe there is anything strange about this. How many among us has not contemplated such thoughts? Consciously or not, do not the exigencies of Life force each of us to become mentally prepared for nearly all eventualities?

But even with the benefit of nearly five years of introspective preparation for Mother’s death, my brother’s words that morning as we walked along the colonade, forced me to face – head on – an unwelcomed revision of the ill-understood lesson from my callow youth,

There is no good way to prepare;

Mother’s die, too.

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While finally making our way into the nursing home, I do remember being conscious of how quickly the excitement of the morning had turned to trepidation and fear while simultaneously being surprised by an unanticipated calm – or numbness – that came over me. It could very well have been denial; I don’t know. After all, Mother had weathered many storms over the past two and one-half years.

As we reached her room, however, the protective instincts evaporated as quickly as they had emerged. Even though I desperately needed to personally “lay eyes” on Mother, I was not at all certain I was prepared to deal with the probability of this harsh new reality.

As I opened her door, I instinctively knew Mother’s current situation was different from all prior scares; she was surrounded by too many people, both expected and unexpected.

“This is not good.” was my only thought.

I quickly made my way through the crush of uncomfortably silent nurses, aides and family members to come face to face with Mom.

I was shocked.

Whereas nine days before I had sat laughing as Mother interacted cogently with two very surprised hospice nurses – both of whom later went on to make a glowing report, the woman in front of me that Thursday morning was nearly unrecognizable; Mother was unresponsive with her mouth agape, laboring under the burden of oxygen deprivation; her oxygen debt was outwardly manifested by the most foreign and hideous of watery rattles imaginable, presumably precipitated by either an oddly rapid onset of pneumonia or a silent but profound cardiac event.

I acknowledged the truth in that first instant – Mother’s life was rapidly coming to an end.

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My recollections of the ensuing eighteen hours are a blur of activity and people moving into and out of Mother’s room.

The “comfort care” medications, Roxanol and Intensol, were administered; hospice nurses came and went according to shifts; a family conference with the hospice chaplain; tears and anguished cries; family members, friends and fellow residents visited; more tears and laughter erupted sporadically as everyone spoke of Mother’s life; dinner was unexpectedly provided by the beloved family members of another resident; hugs – lots of hugs; a young, devoted private duty aide returned twice – on her own time – to continue her dedicated service to a much loved charge; more Roxanol; more Intensol; more tears; more laughter; more tears; more hand holding; silent conversations with Mom; and a hard working nursing home aide, despite completing his shift at 11 pm, who was determined to remain at Mother’s side, caring for her as well as his “second family” until …

Mom received a final dose of Roxanol.

Twenty minutes later, with her daughter, two sons, and a surrogate “family” of friends at her side, Mother was assured by each of us in turn that we would “be alright” – it was “ok” for her to “go.”

She then took one last breath and never relinquished it.

Mother’s long, wonderful life and decade’s long struggle with Parkinson’s disease came to an end with her death just before 4:00 am on Friday, January 14, 2011.

That last breath and her death were not peaceful, at least as far as I was concerned; the reality of both came at me with the force of a tidal wave; I immediately felt myself drowning in the waters of a very deep and painful private sorrow.

In that instant, I was forced to acknowledge that one of two people who had always been integral to my life was now gone – forever.

I will never again hear her laughing through tears as she delivered the punch line of a favorite joke.

I will never again hear her perky morning or afternoon greeting, “Hi, Sweetie!”

I will never again see her beautiful smile.

I will never again receive the gift of her kisses or feel the incredible strength of her tiny hand taking a firm grasp of my own.

I will never again hear her assure me with an, “I love you, Bobby.”

And, I will never again experience the intensity of her eyes locking with mine – as if peering into my soul.

No.

At that moment, her death became all too real; the promised separation could not be undone; her death was absolute.

And just as she was mercifully cut loose from the moorings of a long and blessed life ~ impaired, in the end, by debilitating infirmities ~ a part of me most surely died as well.

But even while no longer whole, I also knew that I would grieve and ultimately recover in a manner best suited for me.

And please forgive me if I ask that no one offer a recipe for grief, complete with certain ingredients and results; I will find my own way given time.

Life has taught me that Death is a mystery and is loathe to provide answers; alternatively, would any certain answer magically render the sting of Mother’s loss and our loneliness less painful?

No.

Unanswerable questions are a part of life.

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To this day, I still am haunted by the eight words spoken nine days earlier to a trusted friend after leaving the nursing home to the abyss of an imposed uncertain return,

“Mother will not be alive when I return.”