YOU AND ME AGAINST THE WORLD

Mother/Son Dance 2005 

Five years ago today, I had the most remarkable experience of my life. It was so remarkable, in fact,  that not a day goes by that I don't think about it. And though I wrote about it, briefly, on the night that it happened, I really didn't share the entire story. Today, five years later, I feel as though I should. I'm not really sure why. Maybe, in the event that something should ever happen to me, I simply want it documented, so that my children will always be able to reference it. Or, maybe I feel that anyone who has ever lost someone that they loved might take some comfort in it. Or, maybe for those that believe that there is nothing more than our life on this Earth, and that nothing comes after it, my sharing of this story will give them something to think about. It's probably a little bit of all of that. And it is time that I write it all down ...

My mother passed away on August 3, 2015. She was only 69 years old. A non-smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer in December of 2013. There was about a year after her diagnosis when she was actually doing really well. Things were looking very positive. But in the early summer of 2015, things turned. The cancer spread. She went to Philadelphia and got the best treatments, and even then, it looked like things might be OK. But, in late July, she wasn't feeling well and was taken to the hospital where we were told that she had developed pneumonia. For older folks, especially cancer patients, pneumonia is particularity dangerous. She was there for two weeks and spent the last 11 days in the ICU. She never came home.

It was, and remains, incredibly heartbreaking. 

The day before my mother was taken to the ICU, I was visiting with her in her regular hospital room. At that time, she was still sitting up and talking and eating, and we were just hopeful that the pneumonia would start to clear up and that she'd be OK. She didn't seem to care for the lunch that she had been served that day, and so I went down to the hospital cafeteria to get her something else. She seemed to enjoy what I'd brought her and it was a nice visit. After a while, I had to get going, as I had a meeting that afternoon. As I was about to leave, I looked at my Mom, who was still upbeat and in good spirits despite having been through a lot in recent weeks and despite having all of these IVs in her arms, and I told her that she was the strongest person I knew. She looked at me and, with no fanfare, said:

"Oh ... I'm just doing what I have to do."

And then she paused for a moment, looked at me, and said:

"And you do what you have to do."

It was the last real conversation I ever had with her.

But those words, "Do what you have to do ," have continued to inspire me every day. And they always will. Take care of yourself. Take care of your family. Take care of your work. Take care of your home. Do what you have to do. Get it done. That was my Mom. And that, hopefully, will always be me.

Once my Mom went into the ICU, there were no more chats. It was a rough ride, especially the last nine days. And, other than leaving to spend some time with my children, I never left the hospital. I was there all day. At night, I slept on the floor in the waiting room. Ironically, I was born in that same hospital and was born with a respiratory problem. I was having trouble breathing and was placed in an incubator. My Mom always told me the story, every year, of what had happened. I was born on September 17. Her birthday was September 26. After I was born, she was not able to be with me like all of the other Moms in the nursery area because I required special treatment. They weren't even sure whether or not I was going to make it, and she told me of how difficult it was, not being able to hold her child, and how she laid there in that hospital bed just praying for me to be OK. Praying for me to just breathe. She was eventually discharged from the hospital without me, which she said was also incredibly difficult. But nine days later, on her birthday, the doctor called and said, "Mary Ann, come and take home your son. He's going to be fine." She always told me that story on her birthday. And she always said it was her favorite birthday.

Now, 40 some years later, I was in that same hospital, praying for my Mom to breathe. Urging her, in my prayers, and in my heart and in my mind, to just breathe. And it was then, during those very difficult nine days, that something happened that led to the most remarkable experience of my life.

My father, my sister and myself all had a very unique and special relationship with my Mom. She loved us all very much, as well as her three grandchildren. And I guess the one thing that made my relationship with her unique was that before she married my Dad, or my stepfather - when I was nine years old - there was a time, for about five or six years, when it was just her and me. It was mid-70s, and she was a single mom, and she was great at it. After she divorced, my father wasn't really ever around, and though it could have been a very difficult time for us, it wasn't. I never felt I was missing anything. We had a good life. We had fun. And I was surrounded by love.

She did what she had to do.

Me and my Mom, circa 1975, when it was just us.

At the time, there was a popular song on the radio called “You and Me Against The World.” It was sung by Helen Reddy and it was about a single mom and her young child, and whenever it came on the radio when we were in the car, my Mom would sing it to me, as the lyrics were very reflective of the life we were living. It wasn't, however, one of those songs that had an extended shelf-life. It was a hit single in 1974, but it wasn't one of those songs that remained a radio staple for decades to come. It was a beautiful song, it had its time, and it faded away.

I, however, never forgot it. I always kept the memory of my Mom singing it to me, and 30 some years later, I surprised her and had it played at my wedding reception as our mother/son dance. A few years later, long before she got sick, I took some photos of her and I together, many from when I was a young boy - when it was just the two of us - and set them to the song as a Mother's Day gift. We didn't speak of it often, and, again, it was not a song that ever came on the radio, but it was our song. And, during those last nine days that she was in the ICU, I could not get it out of my head. One line in particular seemed to be running through my mind, 24/7, especially as I spent all of those hours at the hospital.

“And when one of us in gone, and one of us is left to carry on, then the memories will have to do, our memories alone will get us through. Think about the days of me and you, you and me against the world.”

Every time it happened, I tried to push it away. I did not want to hear that song at that time. "Nobody," I thought, "is going anywhere." But it didn't stop. When I was home, I heard that line in my head. When I was in the car, it was there. As I walked the corridors of the hospital, I heard it.  Even as I slept on the hospital floor, the song went through my head all night long.

On the morning of August 3, 2015, my mother passed away.  I was with her. When I walked into the room, I immediately saw that some things would not have been to her liking and I instructed the nurse to change them. I made sure everything in the room was just right, the way she would have wanted it to be. I told her that it was OK to let go. I told her that I would be OK, and that we would all be OK, and I told her go to the light. I told her to go see Nanny and Grandpa, and her father, who passed away when she was only three years old, and all of her cousins - Aunt Nancy and Aunt Mary Ann - who were there waiting for her.

Her passing, unlike the previous nine days, was easy and gentle. But I was heartbroken.

As we prepared for her services, my sister and I decided that we would each give a eulogy. I had never done that before, nor had she, but we both spoke in public for a living, we are both writers, and so, in theory, it was something that we both should have been comfortable doing. But this would be nothing like anything that we'd ever done before, and it would be very difficult. Still, we both agreed that we should definitely say a few words at our mother's service, and as I began to write down my thoughts, I realized that it was very important to not just talk about my own sense of loss, but of how my Mom's passing was being felt by everyone. Again, she had a unique and special relationship with all of us, and I wanted to talk about that. And that's what I did. But when it came time to say a few words about my own relationship with her, I did mention those few years back in the '70s, when it was just her and me against the world. I even made mention of the song. How could I not? It was a part of our special bond, and it had been going through my head for the past 10 days.

At her viewing, a friend mentioned to me that my Mom was still with me and that I should look for the signs. I am a spiritual person and a person of faith and I do believe in such things, but I really didn’t want to do that just yet. I had not turned on the radio or TV all week, and I wasn’t about to go looking for some heart-shaped cloud, fishing for some contrived symbolism. I said that if I ever got something like that from her - and I didn’t care how many years it took - I did not want something subtle, or something that I might somehow manufacture in my own mind as a gesture from her. I said I wanted to be walloped right over the head. In my mind, I knew what it might be, but I didn't even really bother to entertain the idea because it seemed so impossible. 

Later that night, the night before her funeral, I decided to have a few photographs of my children and my nephew developed, which  I thought I might place with her before she was laid to rest.  It was really just an afterthought. I hadn't even thought of it until around 10 p.m. But I sent a few photos from my home PC to the drugstore to get printed and figured I would just pick them up in the morning, on my way to the funeral home. And I was truly dreading that morning. As we all know, that little bit of time that you have at the funeral home, before you move on to the church, can be very difficult. Because you are fully aware that, in just a few short minutes, you are never going to see that person that you loved so much ever again. At least not in this life.

I was fully aware of that when I got up the next morning - the morning of August 6, 2015. I put on my best suit, tucked my eulogy in my front pocket - the one that mentioned "You and Me Against The World" - and went to say goodbye to my Mom. I did this alone and in total silence. Again, I didn't turn on the TV or the radio. I wanted the silence. I wanted to reflect and prepare for the moments ahead. There was only one quick stop to make before the funeral home - a stop at the store to pick up those photos. I already felt great anxiety about what would soon be happening, yet more than anything, I felt numb. Numb in solitude. Numb in silence. Numb in grief.

 And as soon as I walked into that store, literally as soon as I set foot inside the door ...

"You And Me Against The World" began to play.

I was stunned at first, but after a few seconds, I was not. I was simply moved in a way I had never experienced in my life, and I suppose some of the people in the store may have wondered why some guy in a suit was walking up and down the aisles, crying, saying, “Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much."

Again, it is not a song that is played on the radio at all. Since it had first come out, 40 years prior, I had only heard it a few times. When I told people about what happened, some people said they hadn’t heard it since 1974, or since my wedding reception. I also realized that it was not only an unusual song to hear being played anywhere, but if I’d hit just one more red light on my way to that store, or encountered the slightest delay, I would have missed it. The fact that I heard it on that day, on the way to my mother's funeral, was absolutely remarkable.

Today, five years later, I still remember standing there in that store that morning, looking up at the speakers on the ceiling, and hearing that song. Yes, I was stunned, but yet also, at the same time, I felt incredibly warm and comforted. Just the night before, I told a friend that I didn't care if it took 10 or 20 years, if my Mom ever wanted to send me some sort of sign, I didn't want it to be vague, or open to interpenetration. I wanted her to wallop me right over the head. She did it the very next morning, and it was the one and only sign that I would have accepted.

She knew that.

She did what she had to do. 

When I got to the funeral home, I was walking on air. My sister didn't really like the idea of placing the photos with Mom and I could not care less. No matter. I just tucked them back inside my pocket next to my eulogy. I guess it wasn't really about the photos. It was about getting me somewhere - anywhere - where music was playing. My sister also got a sign two days prior. And it, too, came in the form of music. 

I always thought the day of my mother's funeral would be one of the saddest days of my life, and in many ways, it was. But I was also peaceful and light at heart, and that was because my Mom gave me an incredible gift that morning. And for as long as I live, I will never need any other sign that she is OK.

Obviously, I do believe that people who pass on still go on. If I ever had any doubt, my mother took that doubt away, five years ago today. I do not believe, however, that our loved ones that pass on suddenly find themselves blessed with superpowers. If they did, they'd be able to help us out all the time and we'd never have any problems. But in death, they are closer to God and the Universe, and because of that, I like to think they can pull in a favor every once in a while. Over the years, when I've thought back on what happened to me on the morning of August 6, 2015, I like to think that it went something like this:

Mom in heaven: "It's really wonderful here. It's more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. I think I did OK with my time on Earth. My children are grown and strong, I got to see my grandchildren, and I did what I had what I had to do. This is home now. But my family is missing me. And, as for my son, I know there is only one way for him to truly know that I am OK."

God: "The song, right?"

Mom:  "Yes. Can you help? He's walking around in silence. He won't even turn on the TV or the radio. And no one ever plays that song anyway."

God: "I got this."

Thank you, Mom. And thank you, God, or Universe, or whatever it was that led to what happened to me that day.

I know, for sure, that it's not just me against the world these days.

I know you are still with us.

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VIDEO: YOU AND ME AGAINST THE WORLD:

Mother's Day video