Rose Cohen, my adoptive mother, departed this earth last Thursday at 3:10 pm.
My sister, Sandy, who had been her best friend and loving executor/health care proxy for the last several years, was there, as was her husband and son. I was also at her bedside. I am glad that she was not alone.
Rose Cohen and I did not have a good relationship for many years. There were a lot of reasons for it and most of those don’t matter at this point.
What is important, at least to me, is that we were on good terms at the end of her life. I’m glad for this, I would not have wanted to become a cliche, the person who waited too long to resolve old business.
My sister invited my participation in making last arrangements, and I am grateful to be involved. She is sincerely glad for the help after months of decision-making, negotiations, paperwork and unrelenting attention to the details of end-of-life care, like doing personal laundry, staying in touch with concerned friends and relatives, keeping medical and custodial staff on their toes, even feeding her mother when necessary.
Sandy, her husband Steve, son Mike and I managed yesterday in a 3-hour period to make plans for the visiting hours, memorial observance, casket, flowers, burial and post-funeral buffet luncheon. We were amazed at our productivity, facilitated by an experienced, savvy funeral director and his staff. They took care of the legalities of transport and licensing, the obituary (including the online version which appeared today), the hairdresser and coordination with the cemetery.
Burials are expensive; all told, this one will be almost $9,000. It’s about what we expected, but none of us have that kind of cash, and we figure to settle up later once her house is sold.
At least we were prepared in other ways. The medical staff involved in her case told us last summer that she wouldn’t see the new year, and last week, we were advised that it would be days or even hours.
They weren’t being alarmist; they were right, but still, it comes as a shock that she’s gone: as frail as she was, I still figured she’d outlast all of us, at least that she’d outlast me. I was wrong.
I often said that when she was gone, there would be no one left who could hurt me. About that I was right. Many, many people have been cruel to me, but she had the ability to “push my buttons” in a way that no one else could.
I don’t blame her for that, years of reflection have allowed me to put our unhappy moments into perspective: her deprived childhood, the general ignorance until very recently about the trauma of adoption, the fact that she was over-medicated for most of my childhood and young adulthood.
I no longer see her as a malevolent figure but rather someone who did the best she could, overcoming difficulties in her own life that are impossible for me to imagine.
In her best moments, she was my friend and confidante, sympathetic when I called just to vent. Even in our blackest times, she never forgot my birthday and Christmas.
She left a legacy that I honor and respect: frugality; a European sense of style, thoughtfulness and propriety; a living example of what it means to be a contributing member of a community.
I will miss her.