I watched a Netfix series this week. “Surviving Death” a documentary questioning, “Is there life after death?” Is there a “different” consciousness, presence once we pass on? Pretty compelling evidence that, yes there is. Made me “feel” … reach for the most important person in my life … no longer here. My mom.

Picture yours as I continue this …

 My mother was beautiful. Her portrait hangs in our dining room. Retrieved by Nancy among things to be trashed by mom when she decluttered her home in Philadelphia years ago. So like mom to not see her beauty in this elegant piece. Thankfully, Nancy saved it.

 A Philadelphia society debutante, mom was feted in newspapers, magazines as the model of a rising socialite. She was photographed on a sailboat, strolling, or just standing there. The clippings were saved. All the “coming out” celebrations … receptions for young ladies in Philly society were blowouts. Lots of partying, all fueled with alcohol. Probably where mom’s drinking first started. It lasted for forty years. The first forty of my life. Blurred my connection with or mom, fully knowing her. I would later understand why.

She chose to marry Pace, a handsome Penn graduate. Great athlete. But from the “other side of the tracks” …  of “lesser stock.” To the chagrin of my grandparents. Dad went into the Navy. He was in the Philippines when it happened. My two-year-old brother, Ricky tragically drowned in a pond on my grandparents’ property. I was but a few months old when this happened. Had mom taken her eye off him? Was she careless while enjoying a second afternoon cocktail? Ricky had just crawled away. He was gone.

Took dad a few days to return home. Obviously devastated. Don’t think he ever learned what really happened. A void, a wound that would impact mom and dad’s relationship … up until they left us. Both at age 90.

Ricky’s death defined so much of my life that followed. Think my parent’s grief made an imprint on me even at my tender age. My mother was reserved. Introverted. Elegant. I remember driving with her in Wayne … our hometown. A dump truck passed us with three guys in the back headed for work. All three looked at mom in the driver’s seat and whistled energetically in unison. “Mommy, what are those guys looking at?” She proudly replied, “They’re looking at your mother!”

Mom was a real babe.

What I remember most about my relationship with my mother was the unspoken love we shared. With tears in my eyes, I tell you … there are many treasures in life, but a mother’s love surpasses them all. My mom was authentic. Gracious. Intuitive. Usually impaired by her drinking, she was known as a “functional alcoholic.” Open, direct to a fault sometimes. Led dad to call her “Gracie.” Named after the gifted, whiffty comedian Gracie Allen. When mom served as a “gray lady” … assistant at Bryn Mawr hospital, she was in the delivery room as a newborn baby lay naked on its back on the delivery table. Mom blurted out, “Oh, what a beautiful baby. Is it a boy or a girl?” Get it. “Gracie” was Gracie … a lot.

I will always cherish that laugh of hers. I’d work hard to make mom laugh. Was so good at it. Imitating her favorite TV characters. Telling her stories about school. Trying at times to give her a little relief from the issues she and my dad had with each other. Their relationship was, how can I say this? It always felt tumultuous. So, her laughing breathlessly brought out the best in mom. Separated her from her memory of Ricky. Some. Sadly, I don’t think she ever really fully grieved. Never really got over his death. Events pass, but the emotions never die.

 She drank excessively for decades. Dad was victimized. Criticized her constantly. Blamed his career setbacks on her drinking. Threatened to leave. But didn’t. Lived on all the years as a martyr. Had anger issues that certainly preceded his marriage. These intensified over most of my childhood. As the oldest child, I became the “lightning rod” receiving much of the lashing dad let out.

My mother tried to be the bridge between us. This minimized a lot of what damage this might have caused. Her love for me was indescribable.

 All this effected my mentally. I had very low self-esteem as a young boy. Had great difficulty concentrating on my studies in prep school. Made up for it by hitting the books really hard. Got good grades. Amidst the turmoil at home, I needed validation. “Stop fighting! Just love me please.” My mother knew this. And oh, was she there for me? I can’t site all the enumerable ways, but this resonates, comes to me right now.

 There were a few times looking back … I think I was clinically depressed. An injurious event involving dad in my teens; a damaging experience with a first job after college. What I remember most wasn’t my despair at the time. No, I remember the loving touch, caress of my mother’s hand as she softened my sorrow. Mom and I never really touched, hugged much. Think this distance might have been tied to her illness with alcohol. So, her touch during my deep sadness was a gift. Very intensely felt. Maybe our most special moment together. Probably the most poignant reflection of my loving relationship with the most important influential person in my life.

I left Wayne with Nancy and our two girls when I was 36. Wouldn’t return except for holidays or an occasional visit. Things seemed to have calmed at home. Mom and I would always retreat to the kitchen where I would recreate all those hilarious imitations, recall the stories that once again … made mom laugh and laugh some more. Drove her to hysterics.

 Mom lived on after dad died. She had crippling arthritis. Could see the pain in her eyes when I visited. But she never whimpered. Never complained. You see, all those forty years she drank? Were followed by the best example a mother could ever give a son. The strength she displayed to overcome her alcoholism. Lived on for the rest of her life … for thirty-two years … not drinking a drop. Amidst the difficulty, the distance between us, the love we shared? She was the most courageous person I’ve ever known. She was hospitalized for six weeks at age 58 to get the “cure.” She read a page a day from the help book, “One Day at a Time” … and never looked back.

Incredible …

 So … I felt compelled to write this morning after viewing the Netflix series. In truth, I’ve been writing here for two and a half hours. This has felt timeless. Even a little bit “out of body.” As if my mom was sitting beside me as I recalled and wrote about our lives together. Heard her laugh … felt her touch.

Is there life after death? I don’t know. What I do know is that when I write I go to another place. When time disappears … I somehow leave where I am. Don’t know where I go. Just know I go somewhere else. And feel my most special someone, my mother there to meet me.

To love and be loved by one’s mother. The greatest gift.