Goodbye Norma Jean
Thoughts on the first anniversary of my mother's death
I wrote the following in response to a post by the wonderful Laurie Stone. The image is a remix of the Sgt. Pepper “in-memoriam” collage for 2022. My mother, Norma Jean Lebedz, is at the center, flanked by Olivia Newton-John and Lt. Uhura (Nichelle Nichols).
I type with tears in my eyes. This Sunday will be the one-year anniversary of my mother's death. She, too, was a vital and gorgeous woman, laid low by a series of strokes.
I was a dutiful son: I moved in and cared for her during her final year -- well, as much as I could. The decay became much more than any one person could handle.
My sister and I were able to get her into a new and decent long-term care facility for the last two weeks of her life (quite a feat - navigating Medicare was no small undertaking, and vultures from shady skilled nursing facilities hustle and exploit mercilessly at such times).
I worked from her bedroom for the final days, which made her happy. I know this because it is the last thing she told me. The final stroke came a few hours after those words -- the previous two took away her mobility and, briefly, her empathy and her speech. She fought hard to regain these abilities, semi-successfully.
The final stroke happened late at night on a Saturday, and contorted her body into a frozen question mark. Her face was a silent stone, fixed in an permanent Edvard Munch scream The private-equity funded hospice service, whose marketing promised 24-7 care, did not send anyone to evaluate her until Monday, when she finally received the palliative meds she so clearly needed.
She couldn't speak, but I assumed she could hear, so I sat alongside her and kibbitzed during Jeopardy and British detective shows on PBS, just like we did in healthier times. She died a few hours later.
I have known a lot of death as a Gen X gay man from NYC. But nothing prepared me for the challenges of watching the literal avatar of feminine strength, beauty, and wisdom fade away.
The only detail that felt unfamiliar was the one about feet: My mother's were spectacularly perfect until the day she died. Her toenails were always perfectly painted, and she favored open-toed shoes to show them off. Those shoes remain in the over-the-door rack in her bedroom to this day - it's hard to give away things that touched and defined her.
I eagerly await the next installation of your novel/novella/whatever this becomes. Thank you, Laurie!
A lovely tribute.