Sylvia Steinhardt: September 2, 1922 - January 17, 2013

Mom & me, 1960

Just after 3 pm, on Thursday, January 17th, my mother, Sylvia Steinhardt, took her last breath on this earth.

In spite of her numbers "looking good," and her seeming stability, there had been a subtle shift: she was no longer truly present in the hospital room. She had been drifting all morning, not really speaking to me, but rather mumbling dream answers to questions only she could hear.

She would not open her eyes, and when she did they fluttered for a moment then clamped shut again.

After having spent nights in her room (or sofa surfing with nearby friends) when she was clearly in immanent danger, I had just begun returning home to sleep. On Thursday I had come early and was planning to leave early, too (in time to pick Ethan up from school) but some instinct, ineffable, tugged at the fringes of my mind, telling me to stay.

And thus it was that at three in the afternoon, when her heart could no longer keep up, I was there...

Oh, my mother...

Your eyes popped wide open. My face was right before you, but you were not seeing me. You felt your heart unwind.

I cried out, a sob torn from my chest, cast wildly about the room for someone to do something for just one beat of my own heart, then remembered there was nothing to be done, but bearing witness.

I turned back to you, held your hand tight as your grip went lax, eyes slammed shut, then sunk further inwards. I placed my right palm upon your forehead, but all the heat that had been there, bright your thoughts, your spirit, had already flashed away.

Your breathing slowed, caught, hitched, came as an afterthought.

You were leaving me. You were nearly gone.

I had told you it was okay to go, had whispered in your ear that I knew how tired you were, how in need of rest and cessation of pain, of peace. Had given you my permission to go.

I wanted to take it all back, to beg you to stay.

But it was too late.

The visible pulse jumping in your neck quieted, and quieted again.

Your last breath was so small, barely a breath at all.

And you were free.

***

Mom...

from beautiful little girl...

Mom as a five year old flower girl at an Aunt's wedding, 1928

to beautiful old lady...

Mom, Thanksgiving 2012

you were always a class act, my dear darling mother, your own unique self.

Know that you live on now and forever in me and my sons.

Thank you for everything, Mom.

And rest in peace.

Letting Go

Ethan's shadow on the wall of Mom's old apartment

There is so very, very much that I have to let go of these days... people, places, things; and also notions, ideas, old certainties worn out and surely ready for discarding.

The thought that my mother may live to 100, aging gracefully.  Gone.

The notion, put forth by some of his Early Intervention therapists that my autistic son Jacob would rapidly make up his developmental delays, easily integrating back into the mainstream by kindergarten, surely no later than 2nd grade? Long, long gone. Along with the notion of him ever leading a fully independent non-scaffolded life. Would take a miracle, that one.

I have let my body go, and my health, and this isn't ok for all the reasons you may imagine. I need to do something to turn this around soon. When I have the time. (So some time in 2015, perhaps?)

I have let go of my boys having a normal sibling relationship. (Not that I have any idea what that might be, anyway.)

And today?

I let go of my mother's last true home. Because a nursing facility, while euphemistically called a "home" is anything but. My mother now sleeps on scratchy hospital sheets, in a bed not really her own, her few meager possessions perched on and in some generic institutional furniture.

The big moving day with the truck and the guys was yesterday. Today I went back to do the final clean-up, sifting through what I was leaving to see what needed keeping after all.

Dad had been found on a shelf, up high in the back of the hall closet. I had to bring him home myself, did not want to pack him into a box entrusted to movers. Ashes are heavy. Did you know that?

I had to bring Ethan with me, the need to keep him separate from Jacob apparent from the constant unacceptable decibel levels whenever they were together.

So I couldn't even fall apart properly, with sobs and wallowing; had to give a quiet goodbye. One last wave to the room. Light out. Keys turned in.

Four boxes and five shopping bags in the trunk of a taxi later; move out complete.

So, all done with another thing I have let go: the last place my parents moved into together.
 

My mother's favorite chair, not taken.

Goodbye, Carnegie East House.

You were a good home to my mother, my father, assisting their living well.

(Sniffle, sniffle, stifled sob)