Memorial day

“I’m tired,” she said. “Mary, I’m tired!” It was her 99th birthday. Of course she was tired, she probably stayed up all night watching Korean soap operas until early morning. She owned a catalog of Korean soap operas, or K-dramas as they are more popularly known. She had hundreds of them, stacks of DVD sets spilling out from under her bed and bookshelves, and lining the floorboards around her bedroom and den. These K-dramas featured the same beautiful Asian actors and actresses portraying a wide variety of roles in every possible genre, from melodrama and romcom, to historical, fantasy, and thrillers. Each epic included fully-developed characters with emotional depth, and unique storytelling, usually including a tortured love story with an unfailing happy ending. The stories swept her away, which made it so hard for her to turn it off at the end of a night. K-dramas were her latest obsession. Mom always had an obsession. 

Before K-dramas, she was obsessed with playing Bridge. She and Dad were both life masters, but in her later decades Bridge was mostly just an enjoyable pastime she shared with many friends. She played the game in various settings, from tournaments at bridge clubs to humble foursomes in friends’ living rooms; as a social activity at community centers to posh gatherings at local country clubs. She loved it all. She planned her life, her activities, not to mention her wardrobe around where she would be playing bridge on any given day. But one by one her partners diminished, a slow rolling decline that started with a friend moving away at the insistence of their kids, to others being placed in senior homes, to illness and dementia, to death after death after death. Eventually, Mom was spending more time on the phone making call after call trying to pull together a foursome, until there were no Bridge partners left to play with. 

She was so grateful to have her soap operas, and she couldn’t understand why some of us just couldn’t relate. She would outwardly express how sorry she felt for us missing out on the immense enjoyment she experienced immersed in these fantastical epic lives. In the same way she desperately wanted me to learn Bridge so I would always have an enjoyable pastime no matter where I was in the world, she would insist that as soon as I retire from work I should spend time watching K-dramas because they were just that good. Fortunately, there were a few people, Uncle Dick, cousin Wendy, her hairdresser Fumiko who shared Mom’s passion for K-dramas and they became her inner circle of DVD swapping and bootlegging. She knew it was a guilty pleasure that only her inner circle related to, so she stopped admitting to us that she was up all night watching her DVDs, never wanting to let on that she was anything but in control of her obsession at all times.  

But on this night, her 99th birthday, she wanted me to know she was tired. But as was often the case, I didn’t hear the why behind her words. “Of course you’re tired Mom, that’s what happens when you stay up all night watching TV.” My brother Paul and I helped her off the couch into her walker chair, and positioned her at the dining table as we started into the festivities. Our family tradition is that whoever’s birthday it is gets to choose the meal of the night. In the past, Mom always chose the most elaborate meals. For her 97th birthday, she chose to have both prime rib from Lawry’s AND lobster. But not fresh, quality lobster from the fish market, she insisted that we pick-up the lobster lover’s duo meals from Red Lobster because she saw an ad on TV. We’d all roll our eyes at Mom’s choices for her special meals, but she never hesitated to ask for exactly what she wanted, always knowing she would get it because she always got exactly what she wanted. 

But for her 99th birthday meal she had no special request. No request for grilled rib eye steaks, or steamed clams, or strawberry short cakes, or chirashi, or fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, or a box of sees candy. So I made a pot of my chicken soup, which was one of her favorites on any given regular day. 

We were all there, Jay, Ian, Spencer, Paul, the kids, Bowie and Sonny. Since the pandemic, it became a tradition that we would all have dinner at least twice a week, which is the one true blessing that grew out of the disruption, so in some ways our birthday celebrations were just another family gathering with our inner circle that included cake and gifts. That night, on Mom’s 99th birthday, we ate soup. After we ate, we turned off all the lights and carried out the tray of red velvet cupcakes that Bowie and I made special for her, while singing Happy Birthday. As we placed the cupcakes with the burning candles in front of her, she clasped her hands as if in prayer, and cried, “thank you, all of you, thank you.” She wiped away her tears, then closed her eyes to contemplate her wish. As she opened her eyes and was just about to blow the candles, Bowie, anxious to get onto the business of eating cupcakes, went ahead and blew them out for her. 

Mom was known for her long, drawn out moments of silent meditation on her special birthday wish before dramatically blowing out all the candles to usher in another great year of health, good fortune and family. And we would all cheer at the ritual of these moments. But on her 99th birthday, when her 5-year old great-grand daughter took it upon herself to blow out the candles, we all startled for a moment, until Mom sat back in her chair gently and gave a gracious smile.

At the end of most family dinners, the grown ups would play cards or some kind of game, which has been a tradition of the grown-ups in our family since before I was a grown-up. Mom loved games and card games most of all. In addition to bridge, she loved poker, blackjack, gin rummy. She was a competitor, a gambler, cards kept her sharp and edgy, bold and present. The competition often made her aggressive, sometimes even impatient. If someone took too long to decide what move to make, she would blurt out, “Well, you gonna bet or what?” Which would seem highly out of character if you only knew Mom the way she presents herself to the public - poised, proper, in control. But those of us who played cards with her knew you don’t want to make Mom impatient, because she don’t mess around and there’s no humoring her when she’s in it to win it. 

On this night, we played a couple of hands, until she stopped mid game to say she wanted to go home. She and Paul lived just a few miles away, and they always chose to come to our house rather than us going to theirs, mainly because Mom liked to have a reason to get dressed up and someplace to go. Mom was so fortunate to have Paul by her side. He took such good care of her, saw to her many whims and made sure she got her way at all times. He was the only one of us siblings who would just agree and do what Mom wanted, no matter what. I on the other hand was always contrary, questioning, even rebellious most of my life. And John was just impatient, kind, generous, but also impatient. 

As I helped Mom into the car, as we were saying good night, I reminded her that Jay and I were leaving for Pennsylvania the next day. She looked at me surprised, “You’re leaving?” She squeezed my hand and peered at me with desperate eyes, and said, “Hurry back. I need you.” I don’t believe Mom ever said she needed me before. We had one of those relationships where she never wanted to be a burden or impose herself on me, yes she would ask and let it be known what she liked and wanted, knowing she would get her way. But she never used the words, I need you, at least not to me before. 

As they drove away, Mom rolled down her window and shouted “bye-bye, bye-bye, bye-bye” as they drove away. 

I don’t know why I left. I knew she didn’t want me to go, but it was only for a week, and if I stayed what would I be telling myself? How many times in my life did I go ahead and do something Mom asked me not to do? Was I supposed to cancel these plans we made months ago? I told myself it would be just fine. Mom would be just fine.  

We returned a week later, and the family planned to have our regular Sunday night dinner together. Paul called to let us know that Mom preferred we go to her house, which we haven’t done as a family for a very long time, so it would be a treat for the kids. I made a pot of stew, something easy to transport. It was only a week, but the moment I saw her, I knew she was waiting for me for what felt like a very long time, as if she was fighting to make it until I returned. I sat by her side on the couch, she grasped my hand and we sat in silence for what felt like a very long time. Eventually, she leaned her whole body on my shoulder as if to relieve the weight of the world from her burden. 

With the joyful sound of the kids running around the yard, and in and out of the house, Paul and I carried Mom into bed. I held her hand as she laid peaceful in silence. Mom and I have spent most of our time together in silence, we learned long ago that we were better together silent, because we just never allowed ourselves to agree on anything. Our lives were lived through very different lenses and neither of us were willing to walk in each other’s shoes. So rather than challenging, fighting, complaining, we learned to compromise in silence. 

As Mom laid quiet, as her great grand children bounced and shrieked and scuffled in the other rooms, Mom squeezed my hand and asked me in a whisper, “Will it hurt?” Without a single thought of contemplation, question or hesitation I answered, “No, Mom, it won’t hurt.” No, Mom, it won’t hurt. 

She fell asleep. In her own bed. On her own time. It was Memorial Day.