If you ever met my Mom, you probably heard The Story. But you didn’t get the whole story.
Imagine this. You are a woman and married at 18, to a man roughly two years older, recently out of the Marine Corps. He had barely a high school education and an uncertain future, but he was handsome and a bit of a rake, and you were about to start a journey together that would last six decades.
You start having kids at 19, in 1950. First a girl. Then a boy, and a girl … and a boy. And then a run of four more girls. (With two miscarriages sprinkled in for good measure.) By 1960, you are the mother of eight children, from newborn to 10 years old. Somehow, you and your husband had just lived through a blur of a decade of baby bottles and diapers and jobs and half-baked business ventures.
After your eighth child is born, you become pregnant again. That’s just what you did. You carry another child nearly to term, but late in the pregnancy you feel something’s not right. The baby isn’t moving. The doctors confirm your fear, and you give birth to a stillborn baby girl. You return home to the house full of eager big brothers and big sisters ready to add another to their brood, but without a baby. The crib that had been readied got banished to storage, or somewhere else.
At that point, a doctor counsels that your child-bearing days are over, that your body cannot take any more, and that another pregnancy could threaten your life. Though you were heartbroken to have lost that little girl, you follow his advice and have a tubal ligation performed. That’ll do it, you think.
And then, in late 1964, when you start feeling a little off. You tell your husband, “if I didn’t know any better, I would think I am pregnant.” You visit the doctor and a pregnancy test confirms the unthinkable. You are pregnant, again. After having decided on a procedure that would prevent you from ever hearing these words again, you hear them loud and clear: “you’re pregnant.”
Imagine that.
If you’ve heard the abridged version of The Story, you know the punchline: the person on the receiving end of that news was my Mom, and I was the surprising addition to the family. Number 9. And I am typing these words because she made a decision to give me a chance at life.
* * *
My mother died on Memorial Day. She was 90 years old. Her last two weeks or so were spent at home, in her bedroom, under hospice care. A series of chronic medical issues, mini-strokes, falls, and a pandemic that confined her to her apartment for the better part of 15 months sapped what remained of her physical health and her will to live. She was ready to go, and my siblings and I all came to the conclusion that it was time to let her go. She died peacefully, having lived a full life. She is reunited with my father, who died in 2009, and the third oldest of my siblings, Elaine, who died in 2015.
* * *
My Mom spent the last couple decades of her life in Park Ridge, Illinois, first in the condominium she shared with my Dad, and for the last two years in her own apartment in a nice, new assisted living facility that she jokingly called “The Home.”
Though I’ve made the drive from my home to “The Home” many times, last Wednesday’s drive was different. On that particular drive, The Story came rushing to the front of my mind and wouldn’t go away. I’ve heard The Story dozens of times, usually when my Mom had cornered some unsuspecting neighbor or colleague on the occasion of some gathering. The Story was one that my Mom never hesitated to share, no matter the audience or occasion. The Story became her shtick.
And that was okay with me, though I rolled my eyes a lot. Truth be told, throughout my life, The Story never really fazed me. OK, my Mom was done having kids, I snuck through. Thank goodness for medical malpractice. On rare occasions, a sibling might have said, “you were a mistake” or “you weren’t even supposed to be here” – to which my Mom would always say, if she heard, “don’t listen to them, you were a blessing.” I was never fazed because I did not much care how it all came down. It was always good enough for me to be alive, if not anticipated.
* * *
What hit me on that drive last Wednesday was a realization that the frail, dying woman I was about to visit had faced a gigantic decision more than five decades ago, and I owe my very existence to the choice she made at that moment in time. My Mom was baptized and confirmed a Lutheran, but she did not regularly attend church as an adult and no one would peg her a “religious woman.” I am certain that her decision to give birth to me was not compelled by dogma or fear that terminating her pregnancy would lead to her eternal damnation – maybe in part because Lutherans aren’t big on dogma or eternal damnation. But I am equally certain that her decision was supported by a simple, almost quaint faith that God’s will would be done. That is, against evidence and professional counseling, she followed her instincts and gave it up to God. That kind of thought process is the very definition of faith. Despite the prospect that it would all end terribly, or worse – she carried on with a little bit of faith.
Who really could have blamed her if she had made a different decision? Eight kids at home, all under 15. And then, “you’re pregnant”? Could anyone have blamed her for choosing to be done – forever – with baby bottles and diapers? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the prospect of enduring the crushing disappointment of a second stillborn child? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the tragedy of leaving eight children motherless trying to give birth to a ninth?
My oldest sister – who was 15 when I was born – does not recall any hesitation on my Mom’s part. And knowing my Mom as I did, I doubt that she made a show of the decision. After the initial shock of “you’re pregnant,” she most likely quickly decided to forge ahead with the pregnancy without a second thought. But beneath the surface, she must have been terrified of the prospect of a another stillborn child. In fact, I am told she did absolutely nothing to ready a room for an infant. No crib. No changing table. No diapers. Nothing. She lived in fear of being enveloped again in the darkness of a stillborn, or worse. She could not prepare herself for the joy of a newborn baby against the prospect of that darkness.
Once the news came back from the hospital in July of 1965 that she had given birth to a healthy, 5-pound, 7-ounce baby boy, friends and family scurried about setting up the house for my arrival. The darkness averted, my family prepared to squeeze one more child into the bungalow on Sacramento Avenue. With eight kids packed into two tiny bedrooms, I have no idea where they put me.
* * *
For reasons that now leave me feeling a little selfish, until last Wednesday I really had not thought much about the moment when my Mom was told, “you’re pregnant.” How did she react? Did she cry? Did she laugh? Did she curse the doctor who apparently botched the tubal ligation? I know now that she was terrified that she might carry another child to term, go into labor, leave for the hospital to give birth, and come home empty-handed. I never really, truly appreciated the gravity of the moment. Eight kids at home. A stillborn daughter. Tubal ligation. A high-risk pregnancy. No more diapers. No more bottles. Every kid off to school. Finally, she had started to see light at the end of a tunnel full of babies and toddlers. And then, out of the blue, “you’re pregnant.” Mom did not flinch. She made a decision, endured what must have been an excruciating pregnancy, and brought me into the world.
* * *
My Mom’s last few months (heck, years) have been a roller-coaster ride – for her and for her children. In recent weeks, after her umpteenth fall and hospitalization, she was intermittently in pain, agitated, always tired, mostly sleeping. For brief stretches, she rallied and communicated coherently. About 10 days ago, she noticed I was wearing a golf shirt and asked if I had played. “Yep,” I said. “How’d you do?,” she said weakly. I said, “not so good, but I made a birdie on 18.” With my wife as my witness, my Mom’s face lit up and eyes got wide and she said, “You made a birdie!?! Good.” (Apparently, she understood the rarity of such an event.)
By last Wednesday, she was seemingly nearing the end, and she was resting. No pain. No agitation. Just the labored breathing of a dying woman. At that moment, I closed her bedroom door and we shared a room no more than a mile or two from Lutheran General Hospital, where she brought me into the world. Just the two of us, alone. Though I had thanked her many times for many things, I don’t think I’d ever thanked her – specifically – for making the choice that led to The Story. For soldiering through a high-risk pregnancy. But I did it. I said it out loud, through more tears than I’ve shed in a long, long time. And it felt good.
I cannot be certain that she heard me, but I’ll die believing she did. And I’ll die only because I lived, and I lived only because my Mom decided that I should have that chance. She was willing to face the prospect of darkness – or even death – to give me a chance to see the light of day.
* * *
Rest in peace, Mom. And forever, and finally, thank you.
Paul, what a beautiful tribute.
Paul, this is so beautiful and brought me to tears. I never knew The Story, and love this amazing tribute to your mother. Thank you for sharing this! Hugs to your whole family.
Molly
Mark: Kyle was over last night on my front porch for a beer. We talked about your mom’s passing, and he mentioned your blogpost. Today he sent it to me. I’m so glad he did.
Of course–like all your Sidley colleagues–I’ve known you are a terrific writer, but I have not before today realized just how talented you are. I’m reading the book “One Long River of Song”–a compilation of essays by the gifted spiritual writer Brian Doyle. Your essay would fit right in.
Condolences again regarding your mom, but clearly, hers was a life well lived.
John
Thanks, John
simply beautiful Paul! Your mother would be so proud.
Paul, this is a beautiful tribute to your mom and I truly believe she heard you. The Story will live on as will the many memories of your mom. She lived a faith filled life for sure!
Peace!
Deb
Thank you, Deb. I hope you and Greg and the kids are well.
Paul, this is a beautiful tribute to your mom and I truly believe she heard you. The Story will live on as will the many memories of your mom. She lived a faith filled life for sure!
Hugs!
Paul, very well written, i feel like I knew her. My sincere condolences to you and the rest of the family. Jack gallagher
Thank you, Mr. Gallagher
What a wonderful story! It is testimony to the power of faith and family love. May the lifetime of beautiful memories with your sweet mom give you comfort now.
What a beautiful story! It is testimony to the power of faith and family love. May the lifetime of beautiful memories with your sweet mom give you comfort now.
Beautiful ! I loved seeing her with her big smile and beautiful blue eyes at Jewel. She was quite the jokester ! She will be missed, God rest her soul.
That’s a beautiful Story, Paul, wonderful, aching and raw. I’m so sorry you’ve lost her, but what a gift she gave you and your family and friends. I would have loved to have met her.
Beautiful tribute. I’ve met some of your mom’s children. I can attest to the wonderful job she did. Cindy, I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you Paul. You conveyed just how amazing she was very eloquently. We’re 9 blessed children to have had her for all these years.
That’s a beautiful story and great tribute Paul. Sounds like your mom was an amazing woman. Glad she made the decision to have you; the world is a better place as a result.
Paul, as always your gift for words and storytelling are remarkable. I don’t know if I knew all this, and if I did, I’d forgotten so I’m grateful to have read this. Your mom and whole family are a truly special crew, and I couldn’t be more honored to be a part of it now. Beautiful story and even more beautiful and true moral. I’m thankful Virginia made the decision she did, and I’m sure she’s sitting next to Herb dancing, singing, and watching him play the spoons. I won’t be able to make it to her service Friday but pls know that you’ll all be very present in my heart and mind that day.
Thank you very much, David. We know you’ll be well-represented and with us in spirit.
Absolutely beautiful! Thinking of you all this week.
Beautiful post Uncle Paul. No doubt that she told The Story so many times because she was so unbelievably proud to have faced this and succeeded in bringing you to us. One of her dreams come true amidst a few nightmares… And I can only think of how proudly she has looked on you (and us all) throughout our lives.
I’m speechless. Thank you for sharing your story. Your mother was a remarkable mom and you are a phenomenal individual. I’m sure you made your mom very proud … especially for making a birdie. May her memory be eternal.
You always amaze me with your peaceful sensitivity. Thanks for honoring mom.
An elegant and dazzling expression of gratitude and love for mom. Thanks for putting this story into words for all to read.
This was a beautiful read! She sounds like an amazing woman the world was lucky to have.
Oh Paul! What a incredibly beautiful tribute to your mom. Your writing always elicits so much emotion but this one is on another level. She is smiling reading this and maybe now has a whole new crew with whom to share “The Story”!
I’m in tears.
Eloquent tribute to our Mom. May she rest in peace, indeed!! She’s earned it.
A most beautiful tribute to our mom. A job well done may you now rest in peace.