Saying goodbye to Mom

I said goodbye to my mom this month. I was not ready to. Like others who have lost a parent, I was not ready to say so long.

Most of us, I think it's safe to say, try not to think about such moments. We put off pending unpleasantries like we put off appointments or even our own mortality. We believe parents will live forever.

Mary Heldt, who died last Friday at 90, lived a good life. Though she did not live to be 100, one of her biggest goals, she did live long enough to make a lasting impression on countless others.

My niece Mary called her namesake a matriarch, a teacher, a calming presence, a saint. She was right on every count. Mom was many things to many people, but most of all, she was just a good friend.

I will remember her for many things. She was an organist, a baseball fan, and a fabulous cook. She could whip up tasty dinners from the simplest ingredients and satisfy every palate. She was an avid reader and correspondent, who, in her prime, wrote a hundred letters, by hand, each Christmas.

She was also a selfless caregiver, who in the 1970s babysat as many as seven kids, the children of working mothers, while raising six of her own. She was patient, grounded, and giving.

Though I have many memories of my mom, one will always stand out. I remember it like it was fifty minutes ago and not fifty years. I was eight at the time — and in 1970, that meant something. I was old enough to lobby for a gerbil and young enough to get my way.

Mom set just one rule: "Chopper" had to stay in his cage. She did not want a fidgety rodent with beady eyes running around the house and hiding in strange places. I observed the rule for a while. I observed it until I tired of watching Chopper run on his wheel like a fitness fanatic. I released him, on short paroles, and let him explore my room.

And so it went. For three weeks, I entertained him, and he entertained me. I bonded with a furry creature. I enjoyed him too. I did so until I saw him shake and wobble in a frightening way. I feared the worst when he barely moved one morning. I knew the worst when I came home from school and saw Mom standing at the door.

She did not say a word at first. She just guided her inconsolable son through a grieving process that lasted nearly an hour. She wrapped Chopper in a tissue, put him in a small box, and accompanied me to our landscaped backyard, where we buried him with dignity.

Some parents, of course, would not give a rodent a second thought, much less something amounting to a funeral. They would dispose of the animal and offer their child a hug or words of encouragement.

But not my mother. She went further that day. She demonstrated that all life, no matter how small, is worthy of respect. She provided me with a lesson I've never forgotten and try my best to share.

I'm grateful for that lesson, Mom. I'm grateful for sixty years. I'm grateful I got to speak with you three days before you died. For now, that will have to do. I love you, Mom. I miss you. Until we meet again.