What I Said At My Mom’s Funeral
My mom, Linda, died this past November after a long battle with Alzheimer’s Disease.
I was 16 weeks pregnant with my second child on the day of her funeral. I crept my way to the podium after my sister finished her reading. I took a quick breath.
Here’s what I said:
She loved salad with dried cranberries, gorgonzola, pistachio nuts, and grapes. Before combining these ingredients, she’d rub the bottom of the big wooden bowl with a halved clove of garlic. She loved the New York Times in the morning along with coffee, frothed milk, and sugar. She used to wake me up early at Grandma’s house on Cape Cod, and we’d get donuts and go to the beach in our pajamas and look at the waves and talk. She loved fancily-decorated houses: women who had their lives together fascinated her. In high school, my summer camp friends and I came in late at night one night, and she was in her blue bathrobe with her feet up on the table, drinking a Bud Light out of a can and eating half a bagel with nothing on it.
She loved Costco.
She loved her children and her husband. She flirted with him.
She loved great stories and was the best audience. She wanted to really talk about something at dinner. When we were younger she used to make chocolate chip cookies before our baths, and we’d play bingo and yell and cheer. It was raucous. As were “Artichoke Nights” when all eyes were on the person eating the very best part of the artichoke — the heart, smothered in butter and lemon juice. We’d cheer them on and she’d say, “OHHHH isn’t it so GOOD? Close your eyes!” She loved apple picking, great music, and dancing at weddings.
She loved feminists.
She. Loved. Fireworks.
She loved the ocean. If it wasn’t winter, we all had to go in. “Oh, it’s gonna feel so good!” she’d say. “It’s gonna be cold at first, but then it’s gonna feel so good!” She loved storms. She’d howl and rage at them from our front porch. “COME ON!” she’d jump and point at the lightning, waiting for the crash of thunder. Then BOOM it would land, and she’d roar back: “GO GO GO!”
She was sensitive. Honest. Sometimes conservative. Sometimes sad. Overworked and stressed most of the time, but determined always. She rarely finished projects: they lay all over the house in half process. There was so much she didn’t finish.
When my two-year-old son, Gus, and I got to the hospice facility just minutes after she died, she appeared to be asleep in the bed in front of us. Gus asked, “Where’d Nana go?” At first I quickly said, “Nana died, do you want some grapes?” Which was a mother-of-the-year moment. But the next time he asked, a few minutes later, I said, “Nana got sick a long time ago.”
Gus said, “Why?“
I’ve always looked forward to this stage of parenting: when the child asks why. But this one silenced me. I don’t have a good answer. I actually remember my mother herself asking me this, sitting at the kitchen island a few years ago, talking about her symptoms one day. She raised up both hands, looked up, and just said, “WHY?” And at the time she didn’t have the words, but I know what she meant: “I live in a beautiful house, I’m at the top of my career, I have the most wonderful friends, the happiest marriage, I am a mother of three vibrant, gorgeous kids, I even have grandchildren — I’ve always wanted grandchildren. Why is this ending this way? Why is this happening to me?”
And I remember saying, “I don’t know.”
There’s a reason I didn’t write the book about my mother. My sister is far better equipped in her wiring to write a poignant, optimistic, and necessary book like Where the Light Gets In. I always joke that If I had written a book about my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease it would have been called Where the Light Don’t Shine, because I’m angry about what happened to my mom. It’s tragic. I don’t find joy in it.
She got a bum deal. We got a bum deal.
I am the mother of a two-year-old and, actually, circle of life — I’m four months pregnant with my second child. Which, between you, me, and the altar, was as much of a surprise to my husband Neal and me as it was to you just now. We’ve had a hard year. Health problems and moving and a miscarriage and unemployment have left both of us craving stability. But then… Surprise. New life. Now we’re doubling down. And I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed. I’m sensitive.
My mom never knew me as a mother, but one thing she consistently said to me years ago during our long talks when I was upset or worried was, “You’re overthinking this. You need to go for a run. Just GO. You’ll feel so much better.”
She was right. She’s still right. Get out of your head, Ashley. Remind yourself of your body’s strength, and it’ll go on to remind you of your inner strength. That is my compass as a mother.
This is what she taught me: Go. Keep swimming. Watch with awe the storm of flying cheerios and tantrums, sleep deprivation and getting thrown up on. Roar back at the thunder just as hard. Bite into an apple you just picked off a tree and close your eyes and groan. Over-buy berries from Costco when they’re on sale. Treasure the heart of an artichoke. The heart of an anything.
Always dance at a wedding.
Even if you might not finish a project: try for it, even if it leaves a mess and stays on the dining room table for three months. Or six. Or… a year.
In September, I worked as an actress on an HBO television series called Girls which was shooting an episode in Montauk — close to where my parents used to vacation when they first got married. I’d worked on the show all week and had spent all day that day in a bikini next to a naked Lena Dunham, who created and stars on the show. My last night in Montauk we were wrapped for the day and had gathered on the beach, eating s’mores by a bonfire and people were playing guitar. It was so idyllic, so beautiful, but I had to go — I have a child.
But the night was warm and breezy and the company kind, smart, and relaxed. I looked at the ocean and realized I had to go in it. I turned to the girl next to me, a costume designer, and said, “I have to get in the water.” And then I said, “…Naked.” She said, “Really? Now?” And I said, “Now.” I got up, took off all my clothes as I walked to the water, and ran, completely naked, into the waves. Right before my head went under the water I said aloud, “Hi, Mom.”
These moments of daring. Of go for it. Of wow, this is beautiful, let’s go towards it. This is delicious, let’s have seconds. This makes me mad, let’s yell and cry about it. This is uncomfortable, let’s plunge in headfirst. This life we live is a hurricane, let’s roar back at it.
These moments are where I find her. I wear her wedding ring now, a Tiffany ring she wore for her 49 years of marriage to my Dad, to bring her spirit with me on my adventures. I’m going to show this ring a really good time, because she taught me how.
A part of me has died. A part of her lives on.
