“I will be your mother”. Those were the words that my grandmother heard when she was at her worst, the words that guided her and saved her from falling into darkness. The words that will be forever burned into her mind as a symbol of the deepest love and compassion she ever received.
My grandmother, Loretta, grew up in Brooklyn, New York, with her sister, Francis, and her two loving parents, Dorothy and Arthur. Her mother cherished and cared for her, wishing her goodbye as she headed off to school each day. When my grandmother would walk in the door coming home she could always smell the savory scent of her mother's cooking, wafting through the house, a symbol of her mother's undying love. One day, when Loretta returned home from school, her mother was not there. She found out later that her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and was in the hospital for testing. As time passed, she gradually got better, but suddenly began to convalesce and became extremely sick again. My grandmother, in her disoriented teenage brain, decided that she needed to be prepared for when her mother passed away, and needed to learn how to live without a mother. She wanted to be able to shove her feelings away when they came, to not fall apart when her mother died, so she began to train herself to live independently. Little did she know that independence was not as easy to obtain as she thought, and when the moment came, this death would alter her entire course of life.
One morning, my grandmother was home alone with her mother, and suddenly her
mother began to shake, clenching her heart. She tossed and turned, gasping for breath in her pain. Sirens shrieked around my grandmother, and the flashing blue and red lights were blurred by her tears. She watched doctors surround her mother under the neon glow of the fluorescent lights. Laying on a hospital bed, her mother's eyes slowly slid open. The heart attack had stopped, and my grandmother's mother began to heal. Her breathing steadied, and her bloodshot eyes slowly curled open and closed. After being tested and deemed alright, her mother was sent home. In the evening, though, it began again. It happened so fast that no one could help her. My grandmother watched it happen, frozen in place. She saw her mother die, and could not stop it. Tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, she slowly picked up the phone and listened to it ring. Her father and sister soon crashed through the door, frantically shouting and sobbing. Her father hurried upstairs to the bedroom, his loud footsteps booming on the hardwood ground, and yelled: “zi iz toyt, zi iz toyt!”, which means “she’s dead, she’s dead!” in Yiddish. Everyone was devastated. Dorothy had been such a bright soul, and she was taken
from the earth far too soon.
My grandmother’s father was miserable, but he knew that his children mattered more than his sadness, and he needed to care for them as his wife had. So, he took them downstairs into the living room, sat them down and hugged them. He looked into their eyes, red from crying, held their faces into his hands, and whispered: “I will try my best to be your mother and your father.” At first, hearing those words, my grandmother’s teenage mind did not quite understand them. She believed that she was ready to live without a mother, that she had prepared herself enough and didn’t need her father to do that for her. She could cook, she could clean, and she could wash up, but that was not what motherhood was. A mother is a loving soul, the person that watches over her children, raises them up to soar, and catches them when they fall back down. Eventually, my grandmother began to understand this, to see how much her mother mattered to her, and how irreplaceable she was, and she began to miss her mother more and more.
Looking back, my grandmother is touched by the caring, gentle words her father told her. Her father grew up with nothing. He was a poor immigrant and barely had enough money for food. But this just made him appreciate the world more. It made him generous and loving, and turned him into the man that cared for her. He held her close and comforted her when he was in pain, and wiped away his tears to catch hers. He put his feelings and overwhelming emotions aside to care for and cherish her. These words now touch my grandmother's heart, and she understands how kind her father was to have the generosity to save her when she was in tears, breaking down. In her darkest moments, he shone through as her angel, a glowing savior, and swooped her back up to the skies. The compassionate words that my grandmother was told that day are ones that she has and always will forever remember. “I will be your mother.”
My grandmother, Loretta, grew up in Brooklyn, New York, with her sister, Francis, and her two loving parents, Dorothy and Arthur. Her mother cherished and cared for her, wishing her goodbye as she headed off to school each day. When my grandmother would walk in the door coming home she could always smell the savory scent of her mother's cooking, wafting through the house, a symbol of her mother's undying love. One day, when Loretta returned home from school, her mother was not there. She found out later that her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and was in the hospital for testing. As time passed, she gradually got better, but suddenly began to convalesce and became extremely sick again. My grandmother, in her disoriented teenage brain, decided that she needed to be prepared for when her mother passed away, and needed to learn how to live without a mother. She wanted to be able to shove her feelings away when they came, to not fall apart when her mother died, so she began to train herself to live independently. Little did she know that independence was not as easy to obtain as she thought, and when the moment came, this death would alter her entire course of life.
One morning, my grandmother was home alone with her mother, and suddenly her
mother began to shake, clenching her heart. She tossed and turned, gasping for breath in her pain. Sirens shrieked around my grandmother, and the flashing blue and red lights were blurred by her tears. She watched doctors surround her mother under the neon glow of the fluorescent lights. Laying on a hospital bed, her mother's eyes slowly slid open. The heart attack had stopped, and my grandmother's mother began to heal. Her breathing steadied, and her bloodshot eyes slowly curled open and closed. After being tested and deemed alright, her mother was sent home. In the evening, though, it began again. It happened so fast that no one could help her. My grandmother watched it happen, frozen in place. She saw her mother die, and could not stop it. Tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, she slowly picked up the phone and listened to it ring. Her father and sister soon crashed through the door, frantically shouting and sobbing. Her father hurried upstairs to the bedroom, his loud footsteps booming on the hardwood ground, and yelled: “zi iz toyt, zi iz toyt!”, which means “she’s dead, she’s dead!” in Yiddish. Everyone was devastated. Dorothy had been such a bright soul, and she was taken
from the earth far too soon.
My grandmother’s father was miserable, but he knew that his children mattered more than his sadness, and he needed to care for them as his wife had. So, he took them downstairs into the living room, sat them down and hugged them. He looked into their eyes, red from crying, held their faces into his hands, and whispered: “I will try my best to be your mother and your father.” At first, hearing those words, my grandmother’s teenage mind did not quite understand them. She believed that she was ready to live without a mother, that she had prepared herself enough and didn’t need her father to do that for her. She could cook, she could clean, and she could wash up, but that was not what motherhood was. A mother is a loving soul, the person that watches over her children, raises them up to soar, and catches them when they fall back down. Eventually, my grandmother began to understand this, to see how much her mother mattered to her, and how irreplaceable she was, and she began to miss her mother more and more.
Looking back, my grandmother is touched by the caring, gentle words her father told her. Her father grew up with nothing. He was a poor immigrant and barely had enough money for food. But this just made him appreciate the world more. It made him generous and loving, and turned him into the man that cared for her. He held her close and comforted her when he was in pain, and wiped away his tears to catch hers. He put his feelings and overwhelming emotions aside to care for and cherish her. These words now touch my grandmother's heart, and she understands how kind her father was to have the generosity to save her when she was in tears, breaking down. In her darkest moments, he shone through as her angel, a glowing savior, and swooped her back up to the skies. The compassionate words that my grandmother was told that day are ones that she has and always will forever remember. “I will be your mother.”
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