Mom’s Most Enduring Gift: “The Heart Bleeds”

As I dressed for church last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I decided to honor my mother’s memory by wearing some jewelry she’d given me over the years. I rummaged through a collection of small boxes from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop and boutique stores from Amherst and Northampton, near where she and my father had once lived. The garnet earrings she had picked out for my 40th birthday were not the appropriate color for my jacket, and the matching necklace was now too tight around my neck. Instead, I opted for the faux gold Fan Pin (pictured below) with its tiny images of voluptuous women that came with a description”: “To adorn the woman who, like the enchantress Armida, incarnates the passion and pleasure that destroy reason.” (Ha! If only I had read that years earlier when looking for a partner.) I also chose and fastened the pearl “Cleopatra Earrings” to my lobes, remembering how Mom used to conjure up the Egyptian Queen with some of her scarf dance moves.

Oh, how I missed my mother and receiving these beautiful, thoughtful gifts. Not because of what they were but because of the intention behind them: bringing joy to others. She had also selected them at a time when she was still mentally and physically able. (Mom died from complications of Alzheimer’s in 2018.) She loved giving presents and fussed with the gift wrap and bows, wrote instructions for care (“Don’t forget to iron the slip on the wrong side!”), and attached ornaments at Christmastime that still hang on my tree. I knew she’d be distressed if she realized she no longer had the capacity to acknowledge holidays and milestones in her inimitable manner. When the gifts petered out in 2007, the year she was diagnosed with dementia, it was a sign she was slipping away. Or, so I thought.

To my surprise, I witnessed one of her last acts of generosity while she was hospitalized in the psychiatric unit at Holyoke Hospital. I had flown from Finland, my adopted home, to Western Massachusetts to help organize her care with my sisters. During that time, I visited Mom daily, bringing sweet treats from Whole Foods for hospital staff, as was her tradition when visiting my grandmother’s nursing home. As I pulled my rental car into the parking area of the mall, I noticed a familiar man standing on the curb. He looked quite skinny, wore patched blue jeans, and a New York Yankees cap that covered his shaggy brown hair. One hand held a sign that read: “Homeless vet, will work for food. God bless.” An empty coffee cup on the ground encouraged donations. (Photo below, not Bob.)

I slowed down and rummaged through my spare change. My father had served in the Korean War, and I knew my mother was also sympathetic to veteran causes. I then remembered why this particular man looked familiar. Mom had once pointed “Bob” out and told me about his struggles to find work and adequate housing. She’d also helped him find a second-hand suit to wear at job interviews and given him rides to look for work. As a professional social worker, she was a willing listener, and as a recent widow, had time on her hands. While recounting Bob’s travails, Mom’s eyes would mist, and she’d say: “Das Herz blutet.” She’d never forgotten these words (“The heart bleeds”) spoken by “Oma,” her German grandmother, when she’d asked why Oma was feeding hungry strangers on their Queens doorstep during the Depression.

I pulled out a fiver, and as I approached Bob, noticed that the person driving the car ahead of me had reached over and handed him a paper coffee cup, shouting, “Here, take this!” As the driver sped away, I watched Bob’s weathered face fall as he opened it and pulled out a wad of garbage. If my heart wasn’t exactly bleeding, it had sure taken a punch.

 I stopped and rolled down my window. “How rude,” I said to Bob. “What’s wrong with people?”

He looked down at the cup, and quietly said, “I’m used to it.”

I handed him the bill and introduced myself as Gloria’s daughter. His eyes lit up at once.

“Oh, your mother is an angel,” he said. “One of the best.” I agreed. Then he looked inside the car. “Is she here?”

I told him that she’d had a mental breakdown and was staying for the next few weeks at the hospital while doctors put together a treatment plan. He seemed quite concerned.

“Please send Gloria my warmest wishes,” he said. “Better yet, can you come back tomorrow? I’ll be here and would like to give you something for her.” I agreed.

I drove to Whole Foods and picked out an assortment of cookies for the nursing staff and then drove to Holyoke, all the while wondering what Bob was planning.

The next day, he was at his usual curbside spot, as promised. As I waved from the car, he flashed a bright smile and rushed over to hand me a large envelope. “I wanted to buy flowers for your mom, but things are tight.”

“Gloria will be delighted to hear from you,” I said, knowing she would be touched. The timing was perfect, too, as Mom needed a reminder that her life still mattered to so many people.

When I arrived at the hospital, I found Mom alone in her room, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Oh, hello, dearie dear,” she said in a sing-song voice as I approached. “Did you bring that copper-colored lipstick I’d asked for?”

“No, Mom, something better.” I sat down next to her.

“Oh?” Her pale blue eyes widened as I handed her the envelope, which she opened at once. Bob had sent a lovely Hallmark greeting card, adding his best wishes for her speedy recovery, and thanked Mom for all her help. She read the words repeatedly, pointing to them with an index finger.

“It’s from Bob,” she told me, her eyes aglow. “You know the homeless vet I told you about? He remembers me.”

I hugged her close. “Of course, he does, Mom. You’ve made such a difference in his life, helping him with job interviews and rides. And he’s not the only one.” I mentioned others she had helped. “We all want you to get better soon. It’s important you focus on your health now.”

She started to rummage through her purse. “Can you please give him a few dollars from me?” I knew her wallet was empty as it was against hospital rules for patients to keep money there. “It seems I’m out of cash, Linda. Can I borrow some from you?”

Tears surged from my eyes. Here she was at the most vulnerable point in her life, still thinking of others. “Of course, Mom. That’s the least I can do.” I wiped my face on my cotton shirt. “Any more requests?”

“Yes, I feel naked without my lipstick. Can you bring me the copper-colored one? You’ll find it in the bathroom cabinet in the condo.”

I left the hospital with a chuckle and a spring in my step. Given her diagnosis, my mother wasn’t going to get better, and I braced myself for her many health challenges ahead. Despite them, I would forever have these memories to treasure, like those she’d received from her grandmother. Her greatest gift, they helped sustain me during her long illness of eleven years and continue to provide comfort now that she’s gone. Instead of focusing on the hardships of her later years, I recall her effervescence and eagerness to help her family and friends. I think fondly of the friendship between Bob and my mother and how they touched one another at a difficult time in their lives.

When I returned home from church, I put away the jewelry and went through photos of Mom from times long ago. I listened to “Malaguena,” the piano piece she had played at a teenager at Little Carnegie Hall. My husband and I reminisced about her two visits to Finland before her illness. As the day drew to an end, I lay on the bed and imagined her softly whispering in my ear: “Remember, my dear, das Herz blutet.”

With Mom as my inspiration, I always will.

(Photos of me and my mother, Gloria, through the decades)