Good Night Ommy Darling

So all of you who knew my mother, whom I called Ommy, will agree that she was quite simply the most selfless, attuned, perceptive and generous person imaginable.  For her, there was no distance between the suffering or the delight of those she cared about and her own emotions.  She cared deeply and profoundly about others, effortlessly making it her life's calling to empathize with and encourage, to support and inspire, her loved ones.

She listened and loved with her whole heart.  Not surprisingly, she found her calling as a psychologist, seeing patients of all ages, but particularly focusing on the inner lives of children.  Many generations of patients were profoundly touched by her emotional acuity and warmth, remembering her over the years with passionate gratitude, or continuing to reach out across the continents at times of need.

And she did not listen just to her patients.  Wherever people met my mother, they would be struck by her deep interest in what they had to say, by her undivided and active listening, by her non-judgmental and astute follow up questions, and by her transformative insights.  Even when I reported second hand to her conversations that I had at college with my friends, she was able to perceive their feelings with depth, understandings that I could then share with them.  And her deeper friendships were transcendent in their authenticity and warmth.

My mother was utterly focused on what is meaningful in life – she had no interest in material possessions, no interest in prestige or popularity.  And it was so easy for her to find joy.  It embarrassed me as a kid when we ate at others to hear my mother routinely exclaim how wonderful and delicious everything was.

I have so many happy memories – going to the park with my mother and Lynne to eat donuts on Jewish holidays, listening to her sing to the bees on Hampstead Heath in London, watching her profoundly mutually supportive and harmonious relationship with my father, feeling her tender arms wrapped around me at moments of nightmare or anxiety, witnessing the same utter love and passion for and dedication to her grandchildren, and seeing the unvarnished and open joy on her face when opening the door to her apartment upon my arrival with sunflowers.

And then came the Alzheimer's.  Early on, when we were discussing her living will, my mom told me that she did not want to continue living at a point when she had stopped contributing.  I was not inclined to fulfil that wish, but as it turns out, there was no point during those many years of Alzheimer's, and including its most advanced stages, when my mom came close to stopping to contribute.  When the disease robbed her of speech, she expressed her love through her eyes and through song.  Even without her words, her beloved caregivers, especially Tess, found support and direction and inspiration in my mom's capacity to listen and convey feedback to them about their lives.  My mom found a way to dance, opened her eyes wide, struggled to form kisses with her lips.  She never once complained, was never angry, was always appreciative.  Even if her whole lifespan had been lived with Alzheimer's, my mom would have been a miracle.

I will close with the lullaby that my mom sang to Lynne and to me each night in our beds, helping to ground us and to celebrate our lives:

Sayonara

Sayonara

Now as our happy day ends

We say goodnight to our family and friends

Sayonara

Goodnight Ommy Darling