On July 31st, 2013, breast cancer claimed my Mother one day before the fourth anniversary of my father’s death (also due to cancer). In one week, her house will be sold, and there will be few touchstones left of the rich lives that my parents lived.
I know that this is the circle of life, and no one gets out alive – not without suffering or death, but I am struck by how quickly we will be left grasping at the little that is left of our parents on the material plane. I also know that I am an adult who is quite capable of taking care of myself, and yet the concept that I am an adult orphan grips me. I don’t NEED them, but I will never stop wanting them. I will never stop missing them. And there is an irony so deep and disturbing in that the people I want to talk to the most about the pain of it all are those who cannot pick up the phone any longer. I can’t begin to explain the agony of picking up the phone (with a frequency too absurd to note ) only to realize that no one will answer (and soon the outgoing voicemail will be gone.)
This is banal, I know. I was lucky to have wonderful parents for as long as I had them. They were shockingly not perfect, but they were good and they loved deeply, and I miss them both all the time.
A friend recently commented, “What are our parents but home?” And I have lost mine. I have lost my anchor and my compass, and I feel like I’m free-falling down the rabbit hole.
As the closing of the house approaches, as does Halloween (one of my mother’s great joys… ), I am grateful that I had so much to lose and yet still lost.
And so, I offer this eulogy that I have offered twice to her friends and family in memorial, as a way to shout to the universe that this woman was loved. And I miss her.
MARIE EVELYN CARROL JAMISON’S EULOGY:
Instructions from my mother on the eulogy: “People think I’m a nice person. DON’T blow it! “
My mother was a nice person: A really sweet lady. In many ways, she was a throwback to a simpler time. She didn’t swear. She didn’t drink. She had perfect grammar. She wrote in cursive. She sent letters and cards. And her life was anchored in her love for her family and her faith in God.
But she was also a painfully shy person, so as I looked around the church during her Charlotte memorial and saw the pews filled with the friends that she had made in the 4 years since my dad passed away, (and as I look around this church today, ) – I think, “GO, MOM!” “YOU DID IT.” In the last few years, she joined a MOVING ON GROUP, SPIRITED SENIORS, 3 BRIDGE CLUBS, a book club, & volunteered with Hospice. She had so much fun… SO. MUCH. FUN. My mom had a SOCIAL CALENDAR, and she loved it. And she got to whip some of her new friends at bridge… which (for the record) she relished… . 😉
Though my mom was shy, her friendships were lifelong. Some of her closest friends were her oldest friends. She deeply cherished those relationships and marveled how her “old” friends had been her pillars of strength during her greatest time of need. She was quiet and reserved but steadfast in her affections, and her friendships meant the world to her.
“Mrs.J, Marie, Marieev, MaryEvelyn, Sug”: These are the names that my mother answered to. Her father and my father called her ‘SUG’ – for sugar, partially because she was sweet but also, I think … because she had an epic sweet tooth. She absolutely adored candy, chocolate, and any & all desserts. At the end of a meal, she would proclaim she was stuffed and couldn’t eat another bite but would never turn down ice cream for dessert because, according to her, “it slid right down…”
She had her nicknames… But her real name, the name which she treasured, was “Mom” or “Mommy.” That is who she was to her core. My mom was: “A. MOM.”. She raised seven children. She was class mother for our grammar school classes from the time the oldest kid started school until the youngest finished. She helped us with endless homework assignments, costumes, papers & class projects. She came to all our games, meets, and plays. She made dinner for nine people for years!!! (Lots of casseroles.) She cleaned, did the laundry, and she worked. My mother worked for my father’s investment firm for over 20 years. She used the money she earned to buy gifts for her kids- not because we didn’t have money but so we could have all the various extras that can enrich a child’s life. When I was accepted to a very expensive arts program for college, my father wanted me to go to a less expensive state school instead. My mother volunteered to give me her entire yearly salary to pay for it. I didn’t accept because I didn’t want her to sacrifice so much for me. But she offered in earnest. That is who my mother was. That is how she chose to spend her life.
Even as she lay dying, her biggest concern was for us: would we be ok? Was everything taken care of? What had she forgotten? All she ever wanted to do was take care of her children. And her greatest regret in the end was that she had to leave us. She told us, “I wish I could be here for you. “ She wanted to be able to help us through her death.
But then…. of course, she had instructions: “Be nice to each other and take care of each other. Go to Church.” Instructions from my mother….
Now, don’t get me wrong, my mom was sweet, but she was tough. There are many stories of her chasing (some of my more mischievous) siblings around the house with a wooden spoon. And she could sniff out a lie better than film noir detective. There was no fooling my mother. (Maybe that is why she loved Agatha Christie books so much….) And my mom was a quintessential mama bear. If you threatened her cubs, she would NOT back down – not to the principal of the school (be it a nun or a priest) or neighborhood kids who meant her’s harm. AND… She survived 11 surgeries, including 7 caesarian sections. SEVEN. She lived with back pain for the last 30 years & while it slowed her down, it never stopped her. And she refused to take more than a little Advil for pain. My mom? TOUGH.
And she was tough on the court. Marie Jamison was an athlete: She won a state championship with her high school basketball team. She played volleyball in college and continued to play both volleyball and softball as an adult. She also was an incredible bowler with a perfect game to her name. And she coached Livingston Little League softball for both my sister and me…. And it drove her crazy that our male coaches just assumed (because she was a woman) that she didn’t know what she was talking about. Boy, did she show them what’s what. My mom was a great coach.
My mother and father were married for just over 50 years when he passed away. They had a very complementary yin/yang relationship. My dad was big, boisterous, fiery, and funny, and my mom was quiet, reserved, gentle & calm. In so many ways, they really were opposites, but they were devoted to each other, their children, their marriage & their faith. They saw each other for exactly who they were, flaws and all, and that didn’t weaken their relationship; it strengthened it. Theirs was a marriage built on respect, acceptance, compromise, and love, and after 50 years of ups and downs, they still really, really liked each other.
My mom enjoyed shopping or “just browsing,” as she called it. Although my father loathed shopping, he loved to be wherever she was, so he would hang around outside the stores while she shopped. When we knew that my mother had very little time left, I said to her, “I just imagine that dad is waiting for you in heaven like he used to at the mall,” and she laughed and did an impersonation of my dad: (arms crossed) “I’ll wait. Take all the time you need…” 😉
My mom was OBSESSED with holidays. I’ve gotten a Valentine’s Day, St Patrick’s Day, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, & Christmas card every year from my mother my entire life. She simply adored all the decorations and the celebrations. Her house was just dreamy during Christmas: she created a joyful, winter wonderland wherever she was. And she loved Halloween, too. She decorated the house and wore Halloween sweaters with skulls and witches. Her greatest disappointment about her most recent home was that no kids came by for candy on Halloween. “Isn’t that crummy?!” she said. It really, truly, bummed her out.
One of her last requests was to see her Christmas tree again before she died. So we decorated her room for Christmas with her tree & lights, and decorations. When she saw it, her beautiful blue eyes lit up with wonder… and she whispered, “Isn’t it beautiful?” She just loved Christmas, but for my mom, the essence of Christmas was home and family.
And she loved God. She loved the Church. She loved being Catholic. She loved the Madonna (NOT “Madonna – dancing around Madonna” – she felt it was important to point out.) I teased her – “NOT like a virgin Madonna?” and she said…. “NO! The Virgin Madonna.” She was devout. Her faith was her rock. God was her best friend. Prayer was her medium. And her peace was born of her faith.
My mother lived her last year of life on her terms. She knew the odds, and she bet on herself. She bet on the quality of her life being more valuable than the quantity. It was a brave, bold choice, and so she prayed to God to give her at least one more good year. And she got it. She really did. She had so much fun.
But there are things I will miss about my mom….
I will miss her epic devotion to GENERAL HOSPITAL. Before Tivo, we weren’t allowed to call the house between 3 & 4 o’clock.
I’ll miss her obsession with bridge. She studied it all the time. And I took special pleasure in knowing how good she was at the gambling, betting, bluffing part of it.
I will miss her old-fashioned sayings like: “Crummy, oh, for Pete’s sake, that’s for the birds, golly, oh my gosh, oh, for heaven’s sake, his too shall pass.”
I will miss her fighting with her computer… she’d get SO mad at it!
I’ll miss her hilarious attempts to text message when all I’d receive would be gibberish.
I’ll miss her deep, baritone singing voice. AND… I’m going to miss that when she sang, she CROONED.
I’ll miss how cute she was with our first dog, Skippy, and her beloved Josie and how she adored them both to the moon and back.
I’ll miss watching my 77-year-old mom put on sparkly fruit-punch-flavored Bonnie Bell lip gloss that is made for preteens (she’s been wearing it for 20 years).
I’m gonna miss her sneeze that could scare the living daylights out of you: AAAAAAAAAcho.
I’m gonna miss how stubborn she was and how she’d say “whatever” whenever you’d try to reason with her – particularly to take it easy or take care of herself.
I will miss her compulsion for cleaning and keeping things neat and in order. This woman loved a clean house and did housework her whole life.
I will miss seeing her at the beach, frolicking in the water or looking for seashells.
I’m going to miss her NJ accent and one of her favorite expressions, “ I CAN’T STAND IT.”
I will miss her differentiation between taking a nap and “resting her eyes.” According to my mom, she never napped.
I’m going to miss her smile and how her crystal-clear, blue-grey eyes would light up and dance when she laughed.
I’m going to miss the challenge of finding her a movie that she would like—without sex, violence, or British accents.
I’m gonna miss how she would have half the conversation in her head and start talking to you as if you had ANY idea of what she was talking about.
I’m gonna miss watching her balance her checkbook to the PENNY.
I’m gonna miss her holiday sweaters and her holiday spirit.
I will miss her infamous answer to any question asking how she liked something: “IT WAS FINE.”
I’m gonna miss her saying “HEEEY ELISABETH” when I’d call or just “Hey” – if she couldn’t read the Caller ID and was trying to figure out which daughter it was…
I’m gonna miss her: so, so, much.
I have so many instructions from my mother. And she LITERALLY left us PRINTED INSTRUCTIONS on how to live our lives, to read, after she passed away. But the most profound instruction she left us was her living example: the indelible memory of his beautiful, sweet, kind woman who lived for and loved her family, friends, and God with her whole being.
The day after my father died, after my mother had mopped the whole house (before 6am in the morning, mind you), we looked at each other with tears in our eyes, so bereft at the thought of living our lives without my dad and she said, “Good for him. Sucks for us.”
I say, “Exactly.” Good for you, Mom. Sucks for us.
– Elisabeth Jamison
– Delivered Aug 10, 2013
– St. Raphael Parish, Livingston NJ
