Remembering Mom

If you've known me for more than a week, you know how close I have been with my beloved mother, Frances. Sadly, she died on June 14 at the age of 98. Actually, 98.67. Mom was proud of each additional month added to her long life. Even at the end of her life, Mom was doing things on her terms. We buried her today.

On June 11, my husband Pete called me from our home in Naples, FL, to tell me Mom was lethargic and had trouble sitting up. He called her doctor, who recommended bringing her to the Emergency Department at one of our local hospitals. Her carbon dioxide level was very high and oxygen level very low. It was too late for me to get a flight that evening and the nurse told Pete Mom only had three hours to live and I would not make it in time. That nurse did not know my mother. Mom said to herself, “I'll show you.”

I arrived at 12:30 p.m. the following day and while Mom couldn't speak, when I bent down to kiss her a few dozen times, she had a huge smile and a twinkle in her eyes that told me she knew I was there. Care at Physicians Regional Hospital is top notch, but they can only treat for pain with the hope of recovery, not end-of-life palliative care. The recommendation was to send Mom to a hospice and the better choice of the two, Avow, was just one mile away and had one available bed. We were told Mom would not survive the transfer. She defied “authority” again and was cared for magnificently by the special people who work at Avow.

Mom finally took her last breath the afternoon of June 14, four months shy of her 99^th birthday. Her passing was relatively quick. When I left her on June 4, I had no idea she would be gone ten days later. I am comforted by our last conversation that day. I always kissed her on the cheek 20, 30, 40 times in rapid succession, which made her giggle. Before I headed to the airport, I told her, “I love you, my mommy.” She responded, “I love you, too, my son.” What more could I ask for when it comes to last words?

Mom had a very difficult early life. She was born Josephine Frances Detmer, though everyone called her Frances. She was the next to last of 11 children, one of whom, her brother Henry, died before Mom was born. She became the youngest when her brother James was killed in WWII. Her father died when she was 5½, leaving her mother to raise ten children just before The Great Depression. Mom didn't talk a lot about those years, other than to say she and her mother often cried themselves to sleep because they didn't have enough food for their family. She won a guinea hen at a movie theater raffle when she was 14. The bird got away from her and she chased it around the stage to catch it. She said they ate it that night for dinner.

Mom's parents emigrated from Poland. They were among the founding families of St. Joseph's Church, a Polish parish now shuttered in the City of Poughkeepsie. She graduated from St. Joseph's School, helped out in the school and rectory, sang in the choir and for community shows, and had her favorite spot in the last pew. Mom and my father, Roland, were married there in 1946, a marriage that lasted 53 years until Dad's death in 1999. All four of her children were altar boys. The Church was an integral part of Mom's life.

Many people considered Mom to be a holy woman. She often got prayer requests because everyone believed Mom had a direct line to God. Two incidents I witnessed first-hand brought that home to me. I was in Philadelphia for a conference and brought Mom with me. One night, in pouring rain, I hailed a cab to take us to a nice restaurant for dinner. The driver, who was Haitian, looked at Mom in his rear-view mirror and took us to our destination without turning on his meter. We arrived and I asked what I owed him. He in turn asked, “Is this your mother?” When I said yes, he replied, “I can't take money from you, she is a holy woman.” I put a $20 bill on his seat anyway, despite his protestations.

Another year, I took Mom to San Francisco, where I was participating in another conference. We were walking back to our hotel from a restaurant and passed a long line of very aggressive panhandlers. When Mom walked by, they stopped, took off their caps, and bowed reverently to her. Everyone who met Mom saw this profound goodness in her, a radiance that was otherworldly.

Mom was known for being a phenomenal cook and baker. Her stuffed cabbage, parsnip stew, shrimp creole, spare ribs and many other dishes were legendary. Mom's from-scratch sauerkraut with shredded pork was so popular, when she whipped some up for bingo at St. Joseph's, the ladies who played always asked, “Did Fran make the sauerkraut tonight?” If she did, they'd say, “Forget the hotdog, just give me a cup of Fran's kraut.” Mom baked apple pies for fundraisers benefitting the Dutchess Interfaith Council. It got to the point where people would call her and ask to come to the house to buy one, for a donation to the Council, so they would not be sold out by the time they got to the annual apple pie festival.

Mom also had a profound sense of social justice. We grew up on the corner of Garden and High Streets, a neighborhood in which our family was the minority. Mom was loved, protected and respected by everyone and never spoke ill of anyone. All were welcome in her home. Mom and I were the only two Caucasians on a bus that took us to a civil rights March on Washington in the early 1980s. Mom never put up with intolerant talk, including alleged “jokes.” After my father died and before Mom moved in with Pete and me, the Rastafarians who lived next door would ask how Mom is doing. They told me not to worry about her because they'd take care of anyone who even thought about doing any harm to her. Another neighbor, Rhonda, once literally threw out a huge guy who tried to enter Mom's house claiming he worked for Central Hudson. She told the perpetrator Mom was her mother and he'd better leave before she took care of him. Another neighbor, Louis, plowed Mom's sidewalk after snowstorms.

Mom enjoyed travel. I took her on as many trips as I could. She came to visit me in 1987 while I studied in Rome. It was her first time on an airplane. We made other trips to Italy, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, England, Las Vegas, Hawaii and other places in the U.S. She loved each location, though Rome and Hawaii were her favorites. In London, she was the queen of The Ritz, where staff members all welcomed her by name whenever they saw her and she enjoyed high tea in the Palm Court. In Rome, she hobnobbed with cardinals and bishops and didn't accept pretension from anyone, no matter how high up on the ecclesiastical food chain. She also maintained a quick wit right up until the last weeks of her life. For the past four years, she also loved spending winters at our home in Naples, where she would sit by the pool, watching the multitude of birds flying overhead or landing on the lake behind the house.

In December 2016, Mom suffered a debilitating stroke, which left her paralyzed on her left side, unable to open her eyes or speak. Pete was with her when it happened and his quick action and the amazing work of the EMTs in Naples and the doctors and nurses at Physicians Regional saved her life. Therapists restored her hands and arms to relatively full functioning. Mom was confined to a wheelchair since 2015, but she had a strong will to live. This past April, she underwent double cataract surgery, which improved her quality of life, taking her from 20/200 vision, meaning she was legally blind (though she never told us she couldn't see things) to about 20/40. She even had her own personal therapy dog, the beautiful golden retriever Redwing, whose parents, Chuck and Liz, are our wonderful next door neighbors in Naples.

I am grateful to my brother Gregory and his family for his frequent visits with Mom in Poughkeepsie. He cooked for her, sat and talked with her for hours, and even used his vacation time to stay with Mom when she was still able to walk so Pete and I could get away for time with each other. He called often, sent cards and flowers, and when he was with her, he was never in a hurry to leave.

Pete and I are also grateful to everyone at Physicians Regional Hospital and Avow Hospice, and to Rose Clarke, who, for the last few months, visited twice a week to help Pete with showering Mom. They developed a close relationship in a very short time.

A special thank you goes to my husband Pete, who was Mom's 24/7 caregiver for a decade. He did the same for his mother, Marjorie, for 13 years. Pete's Mom and my Mom were buddies, taking vacations together to Cape Cod and the South Shore of Boston and acting a bit like Thelma and Louise. Mom said she had to remind Marj 95 was the Interstate number, not the speed limit. What a blessing it was to have them both live with us for so many years. When Pete's Mom died on Christmas Eve 2013, he said he would take care of my mom in the same manner in which he took care of his, at home, never in a nursing home. He gave up his career and pretty much every aspect of his life to care for both moms and he loved mine as much as he did his own.

Any caregiver who visited Mom following a hospital stay remarked at how well she was cared for and it was easy to tell she was deeply loved. For the last three years of Mom's life, Pete carried her everywhere: from the bed to the wheelchair, to the bathroom, to the dinner table, to the car, to anywhere else she wanted to go. It took a physical toll on him, with damage to his neck and arms, which we will now be able to address. He bathed Mom, cut her hair, salved her wounds, fed her when necessary. Mom often said to me, “Peter's my angel.” He is, and a saint. He has to be. He's married to me.

While Pete and I are so profoundly sad at the loss of Mom, we are comforted by many wonderful memories of our decades together. Thankfully, today's phone cameras helped us capture many more moments than we would have 30 years ago. Eventually, when we think of Mom, we will laugh more than we cry. How grateful I am to have had Mom in my life for 60 years.

My mother made me the man I am today. She taught me about unconditional love; respect for everyone, regardless of their background; hard work; expressions of appreciation; social justice, especially for those who had less than we did; standing up for your beliefs; and humility. OK, I'm still working on that last one. I am so grateful to this strong, loving, beautiful woman, whom I will miss every day but whose life will inspire me for all my remaining years.

One last thing...Folks invariably ask what they can do in a time like this. One way to perpetuate Mom's memory, if you are so inclined, is to make a donation to the J. Frances Massie Memorial Scholarship at the Culinary Institute of America, 1946 Campus Way, Hyde Park, NY 12538. The CIA established a tribute page to Mom where donations can be made online: www.ciaalumninetwork.com/JFrancesMassieMemorialScholarship.

The Dyson Foundation generously funded this scholarship on Mom's 85^th birthday. It has helped pay the tuition of men and women intent on entering the culinary field, many of whom are non-traditional-age students embarking on a second career. Mom enjoyed meeting those students, attending their graduations and hobnobbing with famous chefs and other leaders in the hospitality industry at the lunches that followed commencement. The scholarship melds Mom's love of people, her desire to help others, and her enjoyment of cooking. Thank you for your generosity.