A Letter to the Most Wonderful Woman I've Ever Known

For those of you who knew her and those of you who didn't, some insight into what made my mom so amazing.

Dear Mom,

Well today’s a weird day. Today is the day I am giving your eulogy. I know that many people often have timelines for their lives. By age 25, they’ll be engaged, by age 27 married, and by 30 happily living in the suburbs with a dog and a baby on the way.

First of all, let me thank you for making both Chris and me feel like we never had deadlines like those to meet. That said, if I did make a timeline for my life, I never would have said, "Hmmm…age 24…mom’s funeral,” but like I said, Mom, today is a weird day.

Today is a day we’re gathered to mourn losing you (and I know you wouldn’t want us to be here mourning, but like it or not we are, because we miss you. A lot.) However, today is also a wonderful day for us to celebrate the amazing woman you are.

Now, I can already hear you scoffing—saying that other people are amazing, downplaying how wonderful you are, but Mom, you are quite brilliant. I remember learning in 3^rd grade how to write a persuasive essay. So, allow me please to persuade you, to convince you of your amazingness.

First, you have the most amazing heart. There was never a time when Chris, Dad, or I ever wanted for anything with you. You somehow managed to do everything and make it look easy. From PTA to swim meets to taking care of the dogs, you had us convinced that being a mom was the easiest job ever.

You also had a penchant for striking up conversations with strangers…and while this often made Chris or me cringe when we went into Sunset, wondering how long it would take us to get groceries with the number of people you might meet and instantly become best friends with, this was not only a skill of yours but also a blessing for others. When you spoke to a person, you made her feel like she was the only one in the room. You gave that person your full attention, and you always remembered all the details about what she said. This skill, this ability to connect with someone on such a personal level made you loved and valued by so many people, because you made every person you spoke with feel loved and valued as well.

Thank you for teaching all of us how to show those around us how important they are to us. We never miss an opportunity to say I love you or to tell the people we love how much they mean to us.

It was not just your heart that set you apart from everyone else, however, Mom. My goodness did you have a way with words. You always knew what to say. We all know you could talk for hours on end…but in those hours, you always had the right words to say. The words to comfort someone, the words to make us smile, the words to make us realize perhaps we made a mistake and actually were in the wrong. As Dad said just the other night at dinner, while we may have occasionally been bold enough to argue with you, we instantly wished otherwise since your way with words made us realize that yes you were right, and we were wrong.

Your words guided us when we were confused and comforted us when we were down, and like I said, you always knew just what to say. The infamous story I always tell goes all the way back to when I was in 6^th grade. It seems like it was just yesterday that I came home from school and told you that someone was mean to me. I cried a little, you gave me a hug, and then you simply said: “Life is tough, Alex. People aren’t always going to be nice to you. Suck it up.” I of course cried harder, thinking I had the meanest mom ever…but man, Mom, you were right. I certainly didn’t know that in just 3 years you would start to forget my name or that in 6 years I’d be rocking a scarf and a scar in the cancer center, but over the past 11 years, those words have guided me through some pretty tough times. Life is tough, but I find myself constantly reminding myself: Suck it up. Life could be worse. As such I’ve been called an eternal optimist, a label I proudly accept, because I know when I smile when times are tough, when I take on challenges that to others seem way too difficult, I’m doing it with strength I get from you.

Which brings me to the final way I’ll attempt to convince you of your amazingness. You may have noticed that I keep switching tenses, from past to present to past and then back to present again. Rest assured, Mom, Loyola taught me well, so this is not a mistake on my part. Instead, I keep going back and forth, because here we are, Mom. We’re at your funeral. In some ways, this implies I need to speak about the woman you “were”. The woman you used to be. Your amazingness though is not just in the woman you were. You are amazing, because even though you may not physically be present with us anymore, you will always be present in our hearts and everything we do. 

I wish you could see the patience Dad learned from you. Yes, the same man you married who admittedly does still get a little huffy when we are driving behind someone even older than he is in southwest Florida, has learned to be patient with himself as he loses someone he loves more than life itself. He often says he just tries to do what you would have wanted him to, and so as you live in him, know that he has become one of the most compassionate, thoughtful, and devoted fathers and friends ever.

Mom, Chris embodies your courage to follow your heart in a way that is just spectacular. He sings opera in Germany, and I know it hasn’t been easy, but he has been sticking it out for quite a few years and, from what I hear, doing pretty well. You are without a doubt present in his heart, his courage to move new places and do something other people might be too scared to do, and I hope today you can hear his voice singing a prayer for you.

Then, Mom, there is your sister, Ciocia (for those of you hearing me read this letter, you probably know her as Mary). She reminds me of you every time I speak to her. She loves her family immensely and keeps us all connected, just as you did when you were here.

Finally, Mom, there is me. Every day, whether I realize it or not, you guide me. You taught me patience, compassion, and confidence, even when singing, because yes, I got your voice, and I still sing every day in front of 26 kindergarteners.

Gosh, Mom. 60 years. I think we all could argue that you deserved more years here, and we all wish we had more time with you. However, who are we to argue or to be depressed when we were blessed just by knowing you? I had 15 years with you when you were healthy. 15. Sometimes it seems like too few, but then I remember: Life is tough. Life would have been much tougher on all of us if we didn’t have you. You make us who we are today, you give us the strength to make it through losing you, and you will always be here with us. We will miss you terribly, but we promise to suck it up, to keep moving forward knowing that while we miss you, you will always be in our hearts, and that you have given us more in your 60 years than most people give to others in 100. We love you.

Love,

Alex