This Eve of Parting
It’s rare that words fail me, but I couldn’t find them five years ago. What is there to say about something as horrific and traumatizing as finding your mother murdered?
I didn’t have it in me to write her obituary, let alone deliver a eulogy. She was good at that. She was good at a lot of things. She was good. This is my way of finally making that right. I’ve memorialized her in other pieces of writing, but not like this. Had circumstances been different, I would have delivered an address something like this. Sometimes, you have to press on through something difficult because of the importance to others. She was a model of self-sacrifice. But also of strength. I’ve never known a stronger or braver person. My mother was my hero.
I felt I let her down in that regard. The best I was able to muster was to get her favorite priest to give her funeral mass. And to pick out her favorite songs like “On Eagles Wings” and readings. I picked Ecclesiastes 3:1-11 because it fit the occasion and also because of my love for “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is A Season). Father Rick was the priest at the church she attended. My mother volunteered at the Perpetual Adoration Chapel. Father Rick's shift overlapped with hers, and they became close through that and the free clinic. She was a giving person and an attorney and a nurse. Decades after she left nursing, she maintained her license and used her knowledge on her medical malpractice cases. Appropriately, the church was named for Saint (Sir) Thomas More, who, in addition to being an attorney, shares a birthday with her oldest son, me.
Her memory lives on through the lives she touched in her work as an attorney and as a nurse.
During the early days of the AIDs epidemic, she did not shy away from treating her patients afflicted by it like some of her colleagues. She showed the same care and compassion to them as to all her patients. She also knew how to stand up for herself. When given an outrageous demand by her superior, she told them, “You don’t pay me enough to eat shit.” I’ve used that as a guiding principle for knowing when it is time to leave a job.
Once, when she was working in the ER, a cop came in with a minor issue and wanted it treated immediately. She clapped sarcastically at him, and when she left her shift, she found all four tires on her car slashed.
Once, while riding the subway home from a long shift, she put her tired feet up on the seat of a nearly empty Subway car. A cop walking through the car banged his nightstick on the seat to get her to put her feet down. She had no love lost for the NYPD or cops in general.
As an attorney, she stood on the side of those wronged by medical professionals or those plagued by health problems after a car crash. She was giving of her time and talents whether serving as a judge in mock trials, mentoring younger attorneys, or doing pro-bono work.
She helped out her nail technicians with a legal matter, and as a thank you, they took her out for Thai food. They warned her of the spice, but she assured them that she could handle it; she was a fiery Calabrese on her dad’s side. They were among the people who attended her showing, as did the custodian who cleaned her office.
She treated everyone with the same respect, whether they were a judge or a minimum wage employee. Where ever she went, she made friends
When we passed people standing on meridians with signs asking for help, she would always give them some money. Her attitude was that if they were being deceitful, that was on them; she was doing the right thing, and her conscience was clear.
She was so well-liked that even opposing counsel came to her funeral mass, not a common occurrence.
She was the strongest person I knew. When my dad walked out on her and divorced her, she went back to school. First to learn how to use a computer and then for law school. She had considered a return to nursing but decided that she wanted something with hours that would allow her to see my brother and me while paying enough to support us.
She raised two young boys hundreds of miles away from her family while going to law school. She also ensured we could take part in recreational activities like sports and, later, when she was working as an attorney, band and theater.
She is my model for how I treat people. She would often make small gestures of kindness that showed she remembered something about you: your interests, favorite foods. She paid attention and remembered and in her actions showed you that she loved you. If she was out at a restaurant, she might bring something home for you. I think that was something she learned from her mother.
When I was living with her in Brooklyn during my grad school days, I talked to her about Proust — Grandma had studied French in school — and I mentioned how the taste of a madeleine dipped in tea triggered memories of days gone by. The next time she went shopping, she brought home a box of madeleines.
Mom remembered things about you and your interests. She once told me that knowing who Hans Moleman was was a low point in her life.
When they began painting a mural of Reggie Miller on her former office building, we both immediately thought of the other and called each other.
She took me to my very first NBA game—the Indiana Pacers versus the Chicago Bulls on Nov. 28, 1997. Twenty-five years to the day, I got to see a guy named Andrew beat the Lakers with a buzzer-beating three on the same end of the court as my seats. A perfect ending to an emotionally charged game.
She would watch basketball games with me, offering her own brand of color commentary. She did not care for Charles Barkley because of what he said about the women of San Antonio.
While there were certain subjects I declined to speak to her about due to personal embarrassment, she was easy to talk to and very supportive.
When I struggled to find a job I enjoyed more or was related to my skills, she would reassure me that whatever current role I was in would not be forever and to not be too hard on myself because the world had changed since she was my age and a college degree now held the same weight as a high school diploma did. She was happy to have me living at home and not just because that’s the cultural norm for Italians.
I don’t feel much of a connection to my dad’s side of the family. While there are facets of my English and Norwegian ancestry I connect to, they’re not on the same level as her side of the family.
I take great pride in being Italian and a Hoosier, and she made me both. Despite growing up in Brooklyn, she came to love Indiana and really embraced it, found friends, and built a life for herself and us after my dad blew it apart. She left her family and friends behind in New York to support him and his career. Moving four times for his sake. I remember the times, where she’d say, “Things might not have worked out the way we wanted, but we’re doing okay, right?”
Her first stop was Chicago and she had a rude awakening with regard to the local pizza. She was used to the Neapolitan style in New York, so when she was first served tavern-style, she was perplexed by the way it was sliced. “What the fuck is this? Is this for a doll? I don’t have any fucking kids!” This was of course before I was in the picture.
I also learned how to string expletives together from her properly. She wasn’t one to shy away from blue humor. She loved Chappelle’s Show and Crank Yankers. She liked Andrew Dice Clay and listened to Howard Stern.
She initially hated Arrested Development, but after watching it enough, she came to like it and once surprised me by quoting Lucille Bluth. “I don’t care for GOB.”
She is the source of my sense of humor. Both in terms of what I find funny and developing it in the first place. The first time I recall making jokes was after the divorce. I made fun of my dad to cheer her up.
She could also catch you off guard with her wit. Once, after staying over at a friend’s place without even sending a text, she said, “Did your arms break?” It took me a moment to catch her meaning.
One of her final surprises for me was in her will, which stated that if I launched her remains into space, I would receive nothing. It gave me a laugh at a time when I most needed one. The attorney was puzzled by such an odd stipulation and I explained the circumstances. She hated space for whatever reason, and I would sometimes joke about sending some of her ashes into orbit.
She was incredibly supportive of me, and that may be why I’m a journalist. When I was still very small and going on errands with her, I’d ask a lot of questions, and she patiently answered them.
When friends would come over, she would treat them like one of her own and offer up her home cooking, and ask them about their folks. Some of my friends have said that she felt like more of a mother to them than their own. To know Laura was to know love.
What happened to her was so unfair, and that feeling hasn’t gone away in the five years she’s been gone. Her first and middle names —Laura Rose — are both symbols of triumph. Laura derives from the Latin word for laurel tree. Victors in Rome and Greece were crowned with their leaves. And roses, of course, are given to celebrate the success and achievement of others. She was a born winner.
While cleaning out my room in the home that had become just a house, I found a letter that she had written me for my college orientation at Indiana University. That was part of a care package every student received for their overnight stay. What I remember most from it was her saying that she admired me for not being afraid to take chances. She said she didn’t have the courage to do that.
I found that laughable. She was the bravest person I knew. She raised two young boys hundreds of miles away from her family while going to law school all on her own. And also ensured we could take part in recreational activities like sports and, later, when she was working as an attorney, band and theater. I wish she realized just how brave she was. She might have thought of herself as a Cowardly Lion, but she always found her courage.
When she eulogized her former father-in-law, she alluded to the Wizard of Oz, which we had just watched the night before at this bizarre and freezing hotel in Weiser, Idaho. So, I’ll follow in her footsteps once again: “A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.” In that regard, she has a heart of gold. We should all be so fortunate.
I miss you so much, Mom.
