My Hero Is Gone

Apologies to those who actually look forward to my daily blog (both of you!) I have been “off-line” for a few days since the death of my beloved mother, Anita Grant Moore.

She was my hero.

Born and raised in Washington, D.C., she lived her entire life in and around our nation’s capitol. She grew up during the Depression, but if you asked her, it was an extremely happy childhood. The youngest of seven children born to Michael and Anastasia Grant, some of my mother’s siblings were so much older that my mom became an aunt at the tender age of 11!

After graduating from St. Patrick’s High School, she took a job at a Washington lobbying firm—where she met my father. Marriage and children followed-and Mom left the business world to become a homemaker.

Like so many of her generation, she might today be ridiculed for not having a “career”. But to her, having a family WAS her career. Taking care of us became the sole focus of her life, to the exclusion of many things that she declined to do or have for herself---because of us.

She was a wonderful mother to my sister Claire and I.

Always smiling, always ready for a laugh, Mom had a terrific sense of humor—and was quick to make herself the butt of the joke in order to elicit the same reaction from all around her.

A fantastic cook, she had a special love of all holidays, especially Halloween (where the costumes she would don would break you up) and Christmas, where the treats would be piled high-and the house decorated, as my father would say to “within an inch of its life”.

She passed on that fun spirit to us—and I think that Claire and I each inherited her sense of humor. My Dad could also be brutally funny, but in our family, he was the “serious” one and Mom was the comic relief.

I won’t bore you with the hundreds of family trips, special occasions, birthdays, holidays and excursions. What’s important to note is that through it all, Mom never failed to show her love and affection for her kids, her grandkids (who of course could do no wrong), her family and friends. There was no denying that “Neeters” (one of her more prominent nicknames) was there for you.

She cared—and it showed.

Life marches on-and things change. After my father began to fail and his Parkinson’s disease began to become noticeable, we convinced Mom and Dad that they should sell the house we grew up in and lived in for more than 40 years.

It was off to Leisure World in Silver Spring, Maryland—a place even my Mom called “Seizure World” or “Geezer World”---a black humor reference to the average age of the community’s population. After the initial adjustment period, it was clear that this was a good move. No more mowing the lawn, getting ripped off by unscrupulous contractors and climbing up and down stairs.

All this time, my father became more and more difficult to take care of---but Mom suffered silently—and kept the details of her daily struggles a secret from my sister and myself. Refusing to hire a maid or caregiver, she always minimized her assessment of the duties that befell her every day.

Then, five years ago, everything changed.

On Sunday, November 28, 2004, while getting ready for church, my mother suffered a severe stroke, collapsing on the kitchen floor. My father, barely able to walk unassisted by this time, nearly crawled to a neighbor’s apartment down the hall to summon help. I had just arrived back in Portland with my family after visiting D.C. for Thanksgiving. Without a doubt, the most devastating phone call of my life from my sobbing sister told me that life would never be the same. Both of us are convinced that the strain of taking care of Dad finally took its toll.

Mom’s stroke left her completely paralyzed on her right side-and unable to speak. From healthy, active and vibrant to completely incapacitated in the blink of an eye.

Now, my sister and I needed to find around-the-clock care for both Mom and Dad. We were fortunate to find a top-notch facility near my sister in Springfield, Virginia.

My mother’s woes were far from over, however. Eventually, her right leg had to be amputated, she was dropped a couple of times in the nursing home (needing hospitalization) and then she (and we) suffered the loss of Dad in 2007.

After a relatively short period of what could only be described as depression following the initial stroke, she came to some sort of peace that radiated from her entire being. Even during her period of sadness, she was careful to keep those emotions hidden from Claire and I whenever we would visit.

Despite her body’s attack on itself, she was FULLY aware of everything that went on around her and she was able to understand everything said to her. Her frustration (and ours) was that this once funny and interesting person was largely unable to communicate with us.

She could summon up certain words and phrases like “thank you” and “I love you”—and we cherished these expressions from her.

She was unfailingly polite and grateful to the caregivers at Renaissance Gardens at Greenspring-all of them loved her dearly.

For years, I have asked God the unanswerable question” “WHY HER?” She was so loving and giving-from her family responsibilities to her countless hours of volunteer work at the Christ Child Society. Why would He make her suffer so?

Had she been taken quickly, all of us would have been deprived of her loving presence, but she would have been spared years of agony, indignities and profound sadness and loneliness.

So…why?

Maybe there was a plan, a reason for all that she went through.

Maybe she was there to teach US how to accept whatever came our way with grace and dignity—and a grateful smile.

As much as Mom taught me in those first 46 years of my life, it is perhaps in the last 5 years that she taught me the most----all of it without being able to say a word.

At the funeral on Friday, Mom was eulogized by our dear cousin Beth Callanan, who also did a magnificent job remembering my father nearly three years ago. At the conclusion of her remarkable observations about Mom, she called upon all of us in the congregation to remember Mom’s fun-loving spirit and abandon our inhibitions in order to bring a smile to others.

She then pulled out a pair of those funny nose-and-glasses contraptions and put them on, declaring, “Craze (another one of my mother’s nicknames), this is for you!”

If we didn’t get the point, dozens of pairs of these funny and goofy glasses were passed out at the reception following the Mass. I thought the priest might also pass out, but he didn’t. Mom would have LOVED IT.

When leaving her after every visit during the last five years, I would always say “You’re my hero”. She, of course, would smile and say the word “hero” back to me.

My hero is gone.

But she has gone------to a better place.

I love you Mom.