Mantras

The mantra I woke up to this morning was, "If all else fails, start a war!" So Trump is now bombing Iran, even though peaceful discussions were underway which would have, most likely, led to a positive, peaceful conclusion. I find myself needing to turn the page, to look away, to stop focusing on the destruction surrounding us, and look to a better day.

So I'd like to write about the last fifth of life, the years between the 80th birthday and the 100th. That's where I am at 82. I feel those years when I wake up in the morning and my neck and legs feel achy as I hobble into the bathroom. But then the day begins and I look forward to my coffee and raisin toast. And the New York Times games. And Lumosity, to see if my brain has slipped or has gained some traction. And then I decide how I'm going to pay for the air I breathe. It's a belief that each day is a gift and we need to pay for it by contributing something positive to our community and our family. I inherited that mantra from my mother. 

Florence was the first to pay a condolence call, bring bread and salt to a new neighbor, listen when a friend needed to vent. She was a therapist before therapy existed. She intuitively knew how to help people heal when their pain had overwhelmed them. My father used to say, "Your mother saved me." He never told me from what, but I suspected he might have become a lost soul without her. She was 82 when he died.

At 86, my mother reluctantly agreed to a surgery at her doctor's insistence. At first, she rallied. But after a month, her body gave out. Hospitalized, tests provided no reason for the decline. It must be depression, the doctors decided so they put her in the psychiatric wing. Upon admittance, she was asked if she had ever been suicidal. Her answer? "No, but I have been homicidal." Such was her sense of humor which I have happily inherited. 

So that's what I'm thinking about today. How lucky I was to have her for a mother. How she made every day count right up to her last minute. I was there when she took her last breath. I felt her presence in the room. It was 4 in the morning and I could hear her say, "Clean up this room. You girls have left it a mess." We were always, you girls. Lucky girls. 

Ben and Florence, around 1960?