My mom died this past December-Two weeks before Christmas.
Approximately thirty-three months after having started chemotherapy.
Nearly three-plus years after she and Dad had learned that the night sweats, re-occurring back pains and the constant tiredness was actually a killer that had taken over her unsuspecting body. My Mom had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.
In the recesses of my mind I hid the fact that my mother was sick. That she was going to die. I purposely pushed aside the doctors' reminders that they weren't sure how long she would be with us – “ten months, ten years." "This happens to other people. It can't be real. A plot line for an episode of ER. Not my mother," I thought.
I recall after she had stopped her chemotherapy, how reassured I felt in seeing her progress. Things seemed wonderful. It was a period of over a year during which Mom was herself again: playing with her cherished two grand daughters, getting her hair done, shopping every Thursday at Stop and Shop. Her spirit - along with her hair and love for life - had returned. She was even arguing with Dad - just like old times.
Give or take a few pounds on her dying body, my mother's return had me fooled. Forgetting that she was living on borrowed time, I tossed aside the "ten-to-ten" sentence the specialists had handed down. I was too frightened to ask when her time would be up. It's my Mom. Hell, after all, she was supposed to live forever. See MY kids get married.
When I last saw her - tubes running in and out of her body, an electronic device spitting out jagged lines that informed us she had only days left - I still couldn't fathom that this was happening to my Mom - that once beautiful twenty-two year old kid who said "I do" to Dad fifty years ago.
She died the next morning on December 9.
Christmas and New Years passed. And although Mom wasn't present for the season that meant so much to her, I tossed it aside, telling myself that she was still in the hospital. During that past year she was hospitalized - on and off from April until about September. I had gotten used to driving into Boston, asking “how's it going, ma" or celebrating another holiday - like Mother's Day - with Mom hospitalized. She - always informing me that things were going fine and she was hoping to get out soon. Me - safe in believing her lie.
It was only until a short while ago, February 9, to be exact, however, when it finally hit me. My Mother was dead. She was no longer there.
It wasn't an epiphany or a glimpse at an old picture that did it. Wasn't even the reminder card from the funeral home that sat on our refrigerator.
It was baked ziti.
Wednesdays usually meant baked ziti at our house. Kate worked on Wednesdays. Left with the task of serving dinner to our two hungry daughters - a dinner that wouldn't include a burger, french fries and a toy - I would make the filling pasta dish that my mother had taught me.
Though she had repeated the recipe, close to a hundred times according to my wife, I never wrote it down. Nor did I commit it to memory. What this translated into was a ritual. Ok, more like an ongoing comic battle of sorts. My mother - on the right (she WAS right) - demanding that I jot down the recipe's few steps. And on the left, me. Teasing and begging her to tell me how to make baked ziti - "just this last time, Mom. Honest. I’ll write it down."
The Wednesday recipe ritual carried on for over four years. Usually in the form of an afternoon telephone call that sounded like this:
ME: "Hi, Mom." (Stated very quickly so she would not have the chance to ask if I was going to ask about the recipe). "I'm uh, making the girls that recipe again. Say, uh, is that 350 ° or 325 ° I'm supposed to bake the ziti in?
MOM: "Paul, didn't you write that down? (Sternly) Now what do you think it is?" It's 325!"
ME: "Oh yeah, 325, I remember." (Very quickly to catch her off guard) How's dad, now do you glob spaghetti sauce on the bottom first, then add the ricotta mix?"
MOM: (Not catching on at first) "Dad's fine. He's...( Angrily) Oh, I told you it's sauce on the bottom! How come you haven't written this down. I’m going to crown you"
Our "Who's On First" routine would go on for about ten minutes. Chuckling, I would end the call, delighted to have continued our ritual. And I would hang up - assured that I'd never have to write down that recipe.
Until last month.
You see, I hadn't made baked ziti since about the early summer. Mom was home and feeling better then, and I prepared my youngest daughter's favorite dinner only after our Abbott and Costello conversation took place. Until then, however, I realized that I hadn't made baked ziti since she fell ill - and never made that dish unless it was preceded by my call.
As I was preparing to make her ziti dish on that chilly February day, I picked up the phone. Then quickly hung up.
I realized that she was no longer there. She was gone. My mother was dead.
And I couldn't quite remember. Was it 325 ° or 350 °?
And I could not ask her.
And I hadn’t written it down.
My mom died this past December - two weeks before Christmas.
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