THE DAY HER WALL CRACKED

THE DAY HER WALL CRACKED

There was no holding back

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Mom was always the stronger of my parents. Dad, well, dad was an old softie. Kind of like a big, soft, cuddly teddy bear. With the exception of my wedding, I never saw him cry but, he was free with his hugs and encouragements. He also never found a way to hide any disappointment he felt when one of his children did something of which he didn’t approve.

Mom and dad encouraged us to stand up for the things in which we believed. Both encouraged us to do our best in everything, yet when we needed comfort, it was to dad we turned.

Why? Isn’t that what a mother is for? My mom was different. You see, while my grandparents loved their children, each was raised without affection. No hugging, no kissing, no pats on the back for something well done. Mom and her siblings weren’t ignored, just emotionally deprived. In defense of my grandparents, that’s how they were raised. It seemed to be the way things were done in Europe at that time.

I often wondered why, since dad’s parents were also immigrants, he wasn’t like his brothers. His siblings were like my parents – unemotional. Dad seemed to be the only exception. His heart was on his sleeve.

Don’t misunderstand me. It doesn’t matter where a person is from. It could have been their era. Perhaps it was the place of birth. I’ll probably never know because their behavior, as far as we were concerned, was normal. We never questioned it.

When my mom’s mother passed away, I’d just turned eighteen. Throughout the funeral week, yes back then we had a funeral week, mom would grab my hand and whisper, “Please don’t let me cry. If you see me start, squeeze my hand.” Mom was terrified of crying in public. She’d say, “I have to be strong.” She thought outward signs of emotions were signs of weakness.

As a child, my brother was prone to fainting spells. Until he began puberty, he’d faint almost daily. If he somehow bumped his elbow into a wall, down he’d go! During our childhood, certain vaccines were mandatory With each inoculation, my brother had to lie down to receive the injection. Back then, there weren’t many ways to test for an illness such as what affected my brother and yet, the day he turned thirteen, the fainting spells stopped! Just like that! Gone. I can’t even imagine the relief my mom felt. Her prayers were answered.

Of course, while I never had an illness like that, I was a natural-born klutz. I went to retrieve my bicycle from our apartment house cellar and like a kid, jumped down each step – until the last one. I jumped a bit too high, not knowing there was a small ring-shaped screw sticking out from the top of the doorjamb. You guessed it! I smacked my head into it, splitting the skin. Yikes! I bled – profusely.

Another time, I was playing jump-rope with my friends and tripped over the rope. Yep, smacked my head on the nearby neighbor’s fence. Two stiches for that one!

Another child to make mom worry. And yet I survived.

While mom tended to our illness and injuries, we never saw her shed a tear. We noticed the worry in her eyes, but that’s as far as her emotions allowed her to go.

In June of 1986, mom called me. I was at work. “Dad’s in the hospital. He had a stroke. Can you drive in this weekend?” Mom would never aske me to take a day off work. “Mom, I’ll be right there.”

When I arrived at mom’s house, she was sitting at her kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. She was ready for me to drive her to the hospital but to look at her, you’d think I was taking her to the market! She adored my dad. Adored him from the day she first saw him when they were both fourteen years old. But to look at her, you’d never know it.

Seven years later, he was diagnosed with cancer. Mom called again. “The doctor said your dad has less than a year.” He lived only six weeks. And again, during his funeral week, mom grabbed my hand, “Don’t let me cry. I need to be strong. Please, don’t let me cry.”

Mom held on superbly. While the sadness was written all over her face, if she cried at all, it was done in the privacy of her bedroom. No one ever saw her shed a tear.

Until September of 1995.

My brother passed away. Her baby boy! Her first-born child.

Frankie developed cancer. He never told anyone. He knew there was no cure and never wanted his family or friends grieve with him. “Time enough for that when I’m gone,” he told his doctor.

We were at his side in the hospital where we finally learned of his illness and his demand for secrecy. After his passing, we were told that the liver cancer was very likely a direct result of agent orange from his time spent in Viet Nam during the war.

Mom stood stone still, shedding not one tear.

Then it was at his funeral, when mom’s wall, not just cracked, it blew to smithereens.

All these years later, I can still hear her screaming, “My boy! My boy!” as she tightly grabbed his flag-draped coffin before collapsing on the ground.

After the funeral, mom never cried again. Less than a year later, she was diagnosed with the beginning of dementia. While I’m sure the doctors will say I’m wrong, I strong believe the death of my mother’s only son had much to do with her mind beginning the process of finally putting all her worries and sadness behind her. She wouldn’t remember any of it.

Mom finally joined my dad, the love of her life and her only son in October of 2016.

They’re all together again and I know Mom will never cry again.