I’m one of the only people I know who has two mommies. My first mother (not necessarily in that order) is my adopted mother, A”H, who passed away in 1997. I’ve been saying Yizkor for her since that time. My second mother is my biological mother, A”H, whom I had never met. She passed away last year, two weeks before I was reunited with my birth family. I’ve also been saying Yizkor for her since last Yom Kippur.
I was thinking about how unusual my situation is as I stood murmuring the Yizkor prayer with my congregation on the last day of Pesach. As I said the names of my two mothers, I thought about their strengths and weaknesses (concerning my biological mother, my musings were based upon second hand information). I thought about how I couldn’t have been given life nor stayed alive were it not for the partnership between these two women who never knew each other. Although they didn’t necessarily view it this way, they collaborated to make a person.
Below is a post I wrote in 2007 that memorialized my adopted mother on her 10th yahrtzeit. Later this year will be her 17th yahrtzeit and my biological mother’s 1st yahrtzeit.
Princess Diana’s Yahrtzeit
I remember walking into the hospital room. I wasn’t sure if she would be awake or not. The past few days she had been in and out of consciousness. Although the room was dark, the hospital TV atop its ceiling mount flickered light across my mother’s sunken features. She didn’t turn her head until I came up to her bed.
She smiled when she saw me, her cheekbones stretching the thin skin into a shiny mask. The death mask, I remembered the phrase. She smelled different, like antiseptic or iodine. She had needles and tubes coming out of her arms and was attached to a heart monitor. She gave me her hand and I squeezed it, careful not to disturb the oxygen monitor on her finger, which reminded me of the thimble she used to wear when sewing clothes for me as a child.
“Did you see the news?” she asked. “It’s awful. Princess Diana was killed in a car crash.”
“I heard about it.” I said, turning my head toward the flickering TV set which was set to mute. My mother couldn’t hear without her hearing aides. I supposed the nurses had them as she couldn’t sleep with them in her ears. She could, however, read the tickers along the bottom of the TV screen, describing the awful car crash in Paris which killed the Princess and her wealthy boyfriend, Dodi Fayed. She could make out what I was saying if I stood close enough for her to read my lips.
On the screen was a dark Paris tunnel strewn with broken glass and crushed metal. The view switched to daytime in London, people crying and bringing bouquets to Buckingham Palace. They showed the gates piled high with flowers, cards, and banners.
“Do you want me to turn it off now?” I asked, both because she might be tired again and also because it was a depressing scene.
“Yes.” she said.
As I held her cool hand, I made chit chat about my day at work, about taking the baby to the park that morning, about Mr. Frumhouse and his hectic schedule. I told her about how I was feeling and how I had to drink one Slurpee on the way to work each day to ward off the nausea of morning sickness.
I kissed her goodbye, her skin like fragile paper beneath my lips. I told her I would be back tomorrow, as long as my in-laws could watch the baby. Before I left, I washed my hands. I stifled the urge to hold my breath until I reached the outer corridor of the ICU, knowing that it wouldn’t protect me from any illness. I was paranoid about going to hospitals with sick people while pregnant, but there wasn’t a choice in this matter.
Ten days later, the time came to mourn my own mother. Interesting how popular culture can affect your own life. I remember the english date of my mother’s passing, but rely on the yearly reminders from the funeral home as to when her hebrew yahrtzeit falls out. However, right before I get the mailed notice, there are usually media tributes remembering the death of Princess Diana. Although the Princess did many charitable works, to me, her passing is forever linked to the memory of my own mother’s deathbed. There were no bouquets and throngs of mourners at my mother’s funeral and shiva. There was a small crowd who paid their respects to a quiet woman who lived her life for her family and with a royal dignity. This year is her 10th yahrtzeit.
