Where Do We Find Our Courage? Love

During the more challenging times in our life, we need to seek out the best ways to deal and cope, and so the question is, “From what source does this strength or courage that we need come?” This is something about which I have been thinking a lot. It seems to come, in part, from our own stories of what we have experienced personally and survived, but it also comes from the stories and legacies of the people in our lives, past and present.

The stories that I remember the most, that made quite an impression on me, were those of my mother, who would have turned 95 today. She was not a touchy-feely kind of mom, and we did not always get along, as she was quite a force to be reckoned with, and could hold a grudge longer than anyone I have ever known, but what makes me smile is that we never gave up on each other, and we were never estranged. Because of this, I am to this day able to access our wonderful midnight chats, which would last for hours. My mother would make up a batch of her famous Manhattans, and we would sip and snack as I listened to her most amazing stories, told to me so often that I would often have to interrupt her, lest she leave out an important part or not “recall” it correctly.

She was a young woman during World War II, and witnessed so much. She told of having to find cover when occasional bombs would fall near the field where she and her family were working. She always told this story, like a kid would, with fear to be sure, but also with a fair amount of just plain innocent fascination.  She also told of hiding, feeding, and caring for a German soldier who had defected and was able to leave when it was safe. This was made even more remarkable when I was 10 and was actually able to see the area of the barn where he was kept.

On another occasion, a group of German soldiers were on route to Pieve di Campi, and with them came horrific accounts of violence waged on women in particular. Since her family was so big, they lived in two separate houses right across from each other. My 17 year old mother happened to be alone with one of her sisters and her baby brother when she saw them approaching. She quickly tore her clothing, as well as that of her sister, and rubbed soot from the fire all over them, and blackened out a few teeth, making themselves look very undesirable. She then picked up her baby brother, and pricked him with a pin, causing him to cry. Between their slovenly and disgusting appearance and the wailing child, the ploy worked, and they left.

Then there was the infamous story of my birth, which she would tell, in great detail each year. How absolutely frightening to be alone in a secluded farmhouse far away from other neighbors with two small children and in labor. Her rendition was fraught with anxiety, but she always seemed to insert some humor as well. The details are emblazoned in my mind – my brother being sick with a fever – directing my older sister out to the well for water to boil while awaiting her mother and midwife who were to arrive the following morning. She was in labor all night long, and delivered me quickly the next day, painfully climbing up a very narrow staircase to the bedroom, and out I “fell” as she put it, weighing in at an astonishing 6 kilos – (or so she said.) This, we always argued about, since I was convinced that she had made a mistake or was exaggerating. In any case, after the telling of the story, it was mutually agreed that the birthday gifts should go to her – not me.

After my birth, we moved in with my mother’s parents, and for 4 ½ years she was separated from my father who had migrated to California the month I was born. There he was sponsored by his brothers who had arrived earlier, and where he was working hard, trying to save enough money to give us a better life. The separation was not to have lasted that long, but it did, and I can only imagine the amount of courage it took to deal with taking care of us and missing him so very much.

The day finally arrived when she left her birth family and all that she had ever known to travel with 3 small children on a ship, (aptly named Il Cristofaro Colombo,) for two weeks, and then on a train as she immigrated to California to be reunited with her husband.

Soon after our arrival and moving into our new house, my father suffered a nervous breakdown, for which he was hospitalized for several weeks. Though there was some family support, my mother, newly arrived and not speaking a word of English, let alone not being in possession of a driver’s license, persevered, continuing to clean many of my father’s janitorial jobs, on foot, early in the morning with my sister in tow. I do remember it being a frightening time, but I also recall how matter -of -fact she was in keeping things going.

I was always amazed at how not knowing English never presented itself as a problem. She could communicate with just about anyone, regardless of the language. Though she eventually attended ESL classes in the evening, she managed to acquire a job, a driver’s license, and U.S. Citizenship in a short order of time.

Her courage was quite evident as she battled colon cancer for four years. I know she must have felt fear, but she was so straightforward about dealing with it, that there was more laughter than tears. I loved the monthly treks to UCSF for her first round of chemotherapy during a clinical trial. She was an immediate hit with all the doctors and nurses, for whom she brought gifts of food and her needlepoint projects. I will always appreciate these times for we talked so much going and coming in the car, as well as during the treatments themselves.

One round of chemo did yield all the typical, unpleasant results, such as hair loss. My mom was more fascinated than afraid. As a matter of fact, when her hair was falling out, she loved to show everyone just how easily it came out by pulling out handfuls of it for all to see. Then, when she was completely bald, she was simply amazed, not upset. When she showed me we had a good laugh because I told her how much she looked like her hairless father, but prettier. Her hair did grow back, and she was again overjoyed because she finally got the curly hair she always wanted.

It was a true honor to have been by her side when she took her last breath at home. She had been in a coma for a few days, and I had planted myself nearby, talking to her, replaying the stories of our lives, keeping her as comfortable as I could. Her courage and resourcefulness were present all the way to the end when she somehow dislodged her dentures, causing them to knock against her bottom teeth, the sound of which made me move closer to readjust the dentures. The moment I bent down to do so, she snapped her mouth shut, and I noticed her shallow breathing. She was saying goodbye. Leaning over her, I caressed her face, now devoid of any pain and so peaceful, kissed her, letting her know that she could now go. As I gazed down at her, I did most definitely feel the sadness, but I also felt the innocent fascination that comes from witnessing something so amazing – so mysterious-so beautiful, like a child would, and then I smiled because that’s how my mother lived her life.

Both my parents were true mentors in all sense of the word. Through all the ups and downs of my family, what I’m fortunate to be left with is the amazing legacy of how they navigated their lives in spite of, and also because of the obstacles and hurdles put before them.

I feel privileged to have a treasure trove of numerous other people in my life whose tales of courage and perseverance have also inspired and encouraged me, my source of “strength and courage,” if you will, but today I celebrate my most remarkable mom on her birthday, as I keep her stories and legacy close at hand as a beacon of light.