Famous Last Words



I still legitimately need a bib when I eat ice cream.



As the last few posts have been fairly deep, I thought I’d liven up my Mother’s memory by demonstrating her comedic aptitude. This is the side of her that I loved best, and that I remember and miss most.

From the moment I could tell a knock-knock joke, my Mother stressed the importance of a good sense of humor. According to Mom, it wasn’t enough to just be funny and make others laugh. She taught me that it was just as important to be able to laugh at myself. That is a skill that is difficult to hone, because laughing at me means that I accept my quirks and my foibles. Let’s be honest: That is no easy feat for anyone.

Mom was the stealth bomber of humor in our house. She was smooth and quick with her witty comments and barbs, and no one ever saw them coming. My brother has inherited that awesome trait, making him one of the funniest people I know.

When my Mother was initially diagnosed with Cancer, her first instinct was to make us laugh even though she had just been told she was very sick. She always put us first, our well-being and our feelings. The doctor had finished telling our family that my Mother was essentially dying and that he would do his best to help her beat the illness. In the silence of the room, and without missing a beat, she quipped: “Well, it’s a good thing I got my flu shot” followed in quick succession with “Smoke em’ if you’ve got em’.”

My Mother’s humor put everyone at ease, no matter the situation. If there was a laugh to be had, my Mom was on it like white on rice. She was just that good.

Following her diagnosis, I tried to visit my family in Montreal once, if not twice a month. While I was there, I would often do a bit of laundry so that I wouldn’t have to do it when I got home. Often in a hurry, I would sometimes leave random articles of clothing behind.

On one memorable occasion, I left a pair of my underpants in the dryer. Much to my dismay and utter embarrassment, they were underwear that would fall under the category of Total Parental Humiliation Panties. Don’t judge. Everyone owns a pair they just don’t admit it publicly on a blog.

What made them embarrassing was that on the front of them was printed Band Camp, and across the ass was printed Flute Soloist. In a modest size 72 font, naturally.

I never asked about the missing underwear, mostly out of embarrassment and partly out of denial. Thankfully, my Mother never mentioned my forgotten frilly underthings. I hoped she would just put them aside for my next visit, and that would be the end of it.

Clearly, I was wrong. The Master of Practical Jokes had other plans.

On a scheduled visit to the Jewish General Hospital for Brachytherapy (a form of radiotherapy where a radiation source is placed inside or next to the area requiring treatment), my Mother waited for the doctor and technician to get her prepared for the radiation session. She had Endometrial Cancer, and as such would be required to wear a hospital gown, and remove all undergarments.

When the doctor came in to examine her, he was greeted by a smile, a smirk, and a pair of sexy black underwear that said Band Camp across the front. My Mother had worn my underwear to her radiation appointment.

She said it was because they were black and wouldn’t show any blood stains (she often suffered leakage and spotting from the Cancer), but I think it is safe to say she did it for the laughs.

She was the talk of the Radiation department that day: The funny little lady with the crazy underwear.

Whenever I tell this story, I feel like I want to laugh and cry at the same time. She suffered so much, but she still just wanted to make people laugh every single day. Sometimes we laugh off the things that hurt or scare us, and I know that on her worst days that’s exactly what she was doing.

My Mom always told me that one cannot get through a Cancer diagnosis without a sense of humor, and that her survival depended on her ability to keep laughing despite the disease. I believe her: Her initial diagnosis came with a measured 6-8 months to live, and she lived for 19 months. She laughed until she couldn’t anymore.

Right before she died, she asked to be put into a drug-induced coma. The pain had become too severe, and she was ready to let go. After days of peaceful sleep and shallow breathing, she suddenly woke up. She opened her eyes and said to my Dad: “I’m hungry.”

Like a man on a mission, he instructed me to get some ice cream from the freezer and ran to the nurse’s station in a panic, concerned that she would be in pain upon waking from the coma. I rushed to the kitchenette, grabbed an ice cream cup, and tried to feed my Mother a tiny spoonful. Alone in her room, I gingerly touched the spoon to her lips. To my surprise, she tenderly grasped my wrist, and pushed it away.

And then she quietly whispered her final words to me.

You always think that your loved one’s last words will be as dramatic as they are in the movies….perhaps something along the lines of “The money is hidden under the stairs” or “You have a ½ sister living in Outer Mongolia.”

Not so with my Mother. What’s important for you to know is that she had not actually awoken from the coma. After she closed her eyes again, the doctors told us that sometimes patients open their eyes and speak, but are in fact still out of it.

This means that my Mother was even funny while still in a drug-induced slumber.

So to close this post, I offer you my Mom’s final words to me:

“Where the hell did your father GO? Put. The. Ice Cream. AWAY.”

God, I miss her.