So, as the second Sunday in May approaches, my thoughts and dreams tend to drift away a bit from disaster loans, Delta Dental, and even that formidable bump in the road disguised as dessert with a growing bonfire of candles.
And I think it’s timely, spiritual, and even poetic that someone who brought me into the world, took on the Olympian role of providing me a conscience (with no paid time-off), shared a love of the movies, and the gift of unconditional love; gets to have her day forever, celebrated within a week of our historical debut as a Mom-Son team.
My mom loved little kids, family, Elvis Presley, the Rolling Stones, and Frank Sinatra. There are societies, I hope I never visit, that would sentence me to hard time and harder labor for being so clueless as to not copy the genius of Mom’s Enchiladas and Ravioli.
Even though Mom was first generation Sicilian and, for good reason, directed some short-term wrath my way; she did not hold grudges…and negotiations were always signed off with a hug and a kiss.
To this day, when I meet a new patient, I always share that I see them as family or more accurately famiglia. I add, “And now that you’re family, I will do my very best because 98% of my relatives are Sicilian; they’re bent on revenge and never forget.” Well, my mom wasn’t into revenge, but she never forgot.
As a kid, I’d have a long list of chores to do around the yard and house. During the summer, I’d stay up late enough to see the Tonight Show and Carson’s monologue. About 11:15 I’d be drifting off to sleep only to hear, “Jack, did you finish weeding the rose bed?” I never did get away with dodging the rose bed, the thorns, the wasps, and the bees; best I could manage was an 8-hour stay of rose bed solitary confinement.
Mom was 5-feet tall and a 98-pounder; she was the youngest of a huge family including the five girls and four boys who made it to Los Angeles by way of New Orleans. I never met Uncle Giacomo (my namesake); he died in the 1920s 3-days after a shootout with Black Hand extortionists. Giacomo killed the two gangsters on the spot (I would’ve slipped them both an extra $20.)
Mom was mentally tough; her mother died when Mom was only 10-years old. We lost my sister as an infant before I was born and my brother at age 30. We were there on a Saturday night in March when Dad died of a heart attack.
For the 23-years that followed, I never missed kissing Mom goodnight. I really didn’t begin traveling while Mom was still a touch away. We celebrated every Sunday with a dinner and a movie. We teamed up to face Mom’s relentless diabetes challenge and the equally relentless journey through U.S. health care. And no matter the discomfort or awkwardness imposed by medical tests and treatment, Mom withstood it all with unwavering dignity...and a smile.
My dad and brother and I had slowly started bringing Mom around as a sports fan. When it was just the two of us, Mom was all about the Trojans, Giants, and Celtics. We watched the games together and Mom would get fired up enough to debate our Dodger fans neighbors. Dad and Jay would’ve been proud.
On watching The Last Dance and Michael Jordan over the past few Sundays, I was taken back to the day we secured Monterey Park cable TV for the first time. Mom didn’t want anyone punching holes in the wall for cable and USC Football; my sales conversation went on unproductively for months. Then one day, I finally experienced a moment of clarity…and casually mentioned the Bulls would be televised three times within the week. Next day, we had Jordan and cable.
Mom never did a single thing in her life for which she had to feel ashamed; her strength of character took her through every challenge. Mom’s ability to give love was returned by anyone crossing her path. Mom never had to discover who she really was and never saw the value in sarcasm; she married the only man she ever loved and knew she would the first time she saw him.
Mom never showed her disappointment in me although there were numerous opportunities.
Mother’s Day is on Sunday and I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been.