On the Birth and Death of Angels, The End
[For those of you with limited short term memories, I will give you just a bit of where we left off last…]
My mother was in Cornell Medical Center in New York (coincidentally, the very same hospital where I had my open heart surgery twenty five years earlier). She was going to be moved to a hospice facility within a day or two and I knew, as the due date approached, my time to see her was limited. My wife accompanied me on that visit and for that I am forever grateful. I know how difficult that must have been, and I wouldn’t have blamed her if she stayed home. But she came, to be by my side, to be with me when it mattered most. Hell, we were in a hospital. If she went into labor, what better place to be?
We spent only about 15 minutes or so with her together. My mother couldn’t really communicate at that point but we both had the sense that she totally understood every word we spoke. But out in the hall, after the visit, I knew that I would never see her again. And I was not done with her.
So I went back in the room, this time alone. I stood by her bedside and gently turned her head so she was facing me. Amazingly, she smiled. I took both her hands in mine and spoke one sentence. “It is because of you, and only you, that I am ready to be a father to my baby girl.” I then kissed her on the forehead, wiped a tear away from her face, and left the room.
When my mother was sick there were good days and there were bad days. I don’t think that’s any different than anyone who has gone through what my family and I went through; it’s to be expected. The bad days, well, they were awful. But the good days, those I will cherish. Sometimes, it wasn’t even a day, but more a good moment.
Like anyone going through very aggressive treatment for cancer my mother’s hair fell out seemingly strand by strand. My father, as those of you who know him are aware, has always been on the folicly challenged side. Well one day he was sitting in a chair in the living room and she passed behind him. She stopped, looked at me with a very devilish look, and proceeded to pull a tuft of hair from her head and gently place it onto the top of his head. This was one of the good moments.
People with brain cancer tend to lose any and all filters they may have had in their previous more healthy life. They say what they want, when they want, and don’t give a shit if anyone’s offended or upset. I don’t know if this is a physiological effect of the treatment and medication, or just a mental decision to say, “Fuck it. I’m saying what I want.” Whatever the reason, my mother was one who removed all the filters. Being pregnant with our first child, and knowing that if my mother died before that child was born, we wanted to come up with name choices that began with the same first letter as my mother’s name. That name was Phyllis. At the risk of offending some of you, there are precious few good names that start with P. But my mother, with the filter off, told me that we shouldn’t worry about that. Do what we want, she said. Pick a nice name that that we and the baby will like. And then she told me, in a very serious tone, to NOT use the name Phyllis if it was a girl. Turns out, she HATED her name. Who knew?
Those fifteen minutes at Cornell Medical Center were the last I would ever spend with my mother. A few days later she was moved to a hospice facility in New Jersey. Already being past our due date, it just wasn’t feasible to go see her. It hurt to not go, but I knew I was doing what was best for my family and that is what my mother would have wanted. I spoke to her daily and, although she couldn’t speak back, I knew she heard every word.
On July 20, 1996 my daughter, Rachel Elizabeth Berr, was born. Her first name, Rachel, is after my mother’s mother, Rose. Her Hebrew name, Tziporah, was my mother’s Hebrew name. No, we didn’t even consider naming her Phyllis.
I called quite a few people that day. When my wife went into labor I called my father and he left my mother to drive up to Connecticut to be with us. Honestly, I think if you asked him, he’d tell you he wasn’t coming for us. He was coming for my mother. But of those I called the only one that really mattered was my mother. I’m not sure she understood what I told her because I was basically sobbing. But I knew she wanted our baby to be a girl, and I knew I had to tell her that it was.
Somehow, one of the nurses in the infant ICU got wind of what was happening with my mother. A few short hours after Rachel entered the world, and after she screamed bloody murder as they stuck her with the IV needle, the nurse came in to the ICU with a Polaroid camera. She took one picture, gave it to my father, and told him to get it to my mother in New Jersey. He did. I will be forever grateful to a nurse whose name I couldn’t remember if you put a gun to my head. It was because of her that my mother got to see her one and only granddaughter.
When we buried my mother less than a week later I put that picture on top of the casket as it lay in the ground. Truth be told, I wish I still had it. More than anything else, that one picture is a symbol for me of what is right in the world. That there are people who care, no matter how fleeting your time with them is. People who not only do the right thing when it matters, but who have the ability to think of strangers as they would their own family. Although the picture may very well be where it rightfully belongs, I would have liked to have it as a reminder of the basic goodness of a kind and generous person.
When Rachel was seven years old, I sat on the edge of her bed, and told her this story. I don’t know why I thought seven was the right age, in fact, I’m not sure it was. But I did it. It was the first time my daughter saw me cry. But it was a good cry. I got the sense that she understood that and that she also understood what my mother meant to me. I also felt that she completely grasped what she meant to me in the context of my mother’s death. In what was probably the darkest time of my entire life, I had this light, this huge ray of sunshine that was my daughter. And I wanted her to know that. To this day, Rachel has a small, framed picture of an angel hanging in her room with the words, “Guardian Angel” on it. Those who live in our house know who that is.
In the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”, George Bailey’s daughter Zuzu says, “Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.” Well I didn’t hear any bells when my mother died. There were no visible wings. There were no harps or trumpets heralding her entrance to heaven. There was just a four day old infant, who bore her name, for me to hold in my arms.
To this day, I can not look at my daughter without thinking of my mother. And until the day that I die, I will be forever grateful for her existence. For it is the death of one angel, and the birth of another, that has allowed me to believe in God. For it is God who give us the strength to get through the tough times, it is God who allows us to see what is good, and it is God who giveth, and taketh away, the angels.
My mother was in Cornell Medical Center in New York (coincidentally, the very same hospital where I had my open heart surgery twenty five years earlier). She was going to be moved to a hospice facility within a day or two and I knew, as the due date approached, my time to see her was limited. My wife accompanied me on that visit and for that I am forever grateful. I know how difficult that must have been, and I wouldn’t have blamed her if she stayed home. But she came, to be by my side, to be with me when it mattered most. Hell, we were in a hospital. If she went into labor, what better place to be?
We spent only about 15 minutes or so with her together. My mother couldn’t really communicate at that point but we both had the sense that she totally understood every word we spoke. But out in the hall, after the visit, I knew that I would never see her again. And I was not done with her.
So I went back in the room, this time alone. I stood by her bedside and gently turned her head so she was facing me. Amazingly, she smiled. I took both her hands in mine and spoke one sentence. “It is because of you, and only you, that I am ready to be a father to my baby girl.” I then kissed her on the forehead, wiped a tear away from her face, and left the room.
When my mother was sick there were good days and there were bad days. I don’t think that’s any different than anyone who has gone through what my family and I went through; it’s to be expected. The bad days, well, they were awful. But the good days, those I will cherish. Sometimes, it wasn’t even a day, but more a good moment.
Like anyone going through very aggressive treatment for cancer my mother’s hair fell out seemingly strand by strand. My father, as those of you who know him are aware, has always been on the folicly challenged side. Well one day he was sitting in a chair in the living room and she passed behind him. She stopped, looked at me with a very devilish look, and proceeded to pull a tuft of hair from her head and gently place it onto the top of his head. This was one of the good moments.
People with brain cancer tend to lose any and all filters they may have had in their previous more healthy life. They say what they want, when they want, and don’t give a shit if anyone’s offended or upset. I don’t know if this is a physiological effect of the treatment and medication, or just a mental decision to say, “Fuck it. I’m saying what I want.” Whatever the reason, my mother was one who removed all the filters. Being pregnant with our first child, and knowing that if my mother died before that child was born, we wanted to come up with name choices that began with the same first letter as my mother’s name. That name was Phyllis. At the risk of offending some of you, there are precious few good names that start with P. But my mother, with the filter off, told me that we shouldn’t worry about that. Do what we want, she said. Pick a nice name that that we and the baby will like. And then she told me, in a very serious tone, to NOT use the name Phyllis if it was a girl. Turns out, she HATED her name. Who knew?
Those fifteen minutes at Cornell Medical Center were the last I would ever spend with my mother. A few days later she was moved to a hospice facility in New Jersey. Already being past our due date, it just wasn’t feasible to go see her. It hurt to not go, but I knew I was doing what was best for my family and that is what my mother would have wanted. I spoke to her daily and, although she couldn’t speak back, I knew she heard every word.
On July 20, 1996 my daughter, Rachel Elizabeth Berr, was born. Her first name, Rachel, is after my mother’s mother, Rose. Her Hebrew name, Tziporah, was my mother’s Hebrew name. No, we didn’t even consider naming her Phyllis.
I called quite a few people that day. When my wife went into labor I called my father and he left my mother to drive up to Connecticut to be with us. Honestly, I think if you asked him, he’d tell you he wasn’t coming for us. He was coming for my mother. But of those I called the only one that really mattered was my mother. I’m not sure she understood what I told her because I was basically sobbing. But I knew she wanted our baby to be a girl, and I knew I had to tell her that it was.
Somehow, one of the nurses in the infant ICU got wind of what was happening with my mother. A few short hours after Rachel entered the world, and after she screamed bloody murder as they stuck her with the IV needle, the nurse came in to the ICU with a Polaroid camera. She took one picture, gave it to my father, and told him to get it to my mother in New Jersey. He did. I will be forever grateful to a nurse whose name I couldn’t remember if you put a gun to my head. It was because of her that my mother got to see her one and only granddaughter.
When we buried my mother less than a week later I put that picture on top of the casket as it lay in the ground. Truth be told, I wish I still had it. More than anything else, that one picture is a symbol for me of what is right in the world. That there are people who care, no matter how fleeting your time with them is. People who not only do the right thing when it matters, but who have the ability to think of strangers as they would their own family. Although the picture may very well be where it rightfully belongs, I would have liked to have it as a reminder of the basic goodness of a kind and generous person.
When Rachel was seven years old, I sat on the edge of her bed, and told her this story. I don’t know why I thought seven was the right age, in fact, I’m not sure it was. But I did it. It was the first time my daughter saw me cry. But it was a good cry. I got the sense that she understood that and that she also understood what my mother meant to me. I also felt that she completely grasped what she meant to me in the context of my mother’s death. In what was probably the darkest time of my entire life, I had this light, this huge ray of sunshine that was my daughter. And I wanted her to know that. To this day, Rachel has a small, framed picture of an angel hanging in her room with the words, “Guardian Angel” on it. Those who live in our house know who that is.
In the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”, George Bailey’s daughter Zuzu says, “Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.” Well I didn’t hear any bells when my mother died. There were no visible wings. There were no harps or trumpets heralding her entrance to heaven. There was just a four day old infant, who bore her name, for me to hold in my arms.
To this day, I can not look at my daughter without thinking of my mother. And until the day that I die, I will be forever grateful for her existence. For it is the death of one angel, and the birth of another, that has allowed me to believe in God. For it is God who give us the strength to get through the tough times, it is God who allows us to see what is good, and it is God who giveth, and taketh away, the angels.
Comments
And, it certainly seems like naming your daughter also gave you and her a forever connection to your mom.