Let me start with an apology for not writing for this blog for a number of weeks. They were the last few weeks of my mothers life.
My mother, Marcelle Swergold (nee Elfenbein) was 93 years old. She was born in Belgium in 1927. In 1939, her father, who was born in Russia, came to the conclusion that the future was dangerous in Europe, especially for Jews. He managed to arrange for his family to immigrate to the US although he had to send the family ahead several months before he too could immigrate due to his holding a Russian passport. (I never knew my grandfather due to his untimely death some 6 weeks prior to my mother’s wedding in 1949. I hope to write more about him in the future; I find his ability to see the coming danger inspiring.) My mother wished to become a nurse and would have made a superb one but her father would not permit it. Instead, several years after marrying at age 22 and having three children, she decided to become an artist. She began by taking classes at the Art Students League of New York. Sculpting became her life-long passion. She was both talented and, for a non-professional, successful. You can see one of her sculptures, on permanent display in the sculpture garden of Yad Vashem, the memorial in Jerusalem to the 6 million Jewish victims of the Nazi Holocaust, here: https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-israel-jerusalem-mount-herzl-yad-vashem-statue-cast-bronze-the-torah-111813734.html By the way, there is a mistake on her Wikipedia page which shows a different sculpture, not one of hers, as the one at Yad Vashem. If anyone knows how to fix this error I would be grateful.
Like all people who lose a parent (my father passed away 10 years ago) I find myself missing my mother and grieving for her loss. In the midst of these feelings my most immediate memories were of my mother during the past several years. As is often the case for people who make it to old age, the last year was not kind to her. Memories of this past year are sad as my mother battled loss of abilities, health, and dignity. I hope that over time her earlier and happier years will come first to mind when I think of her. I remember my mother as a much younger person. I am the youngest of my three siblings so my memories are not of my mother in her twenties but in my earliest memories she is still quite young. I remember her in middle age and in her healthy later years. I remember her in her elderly years and also of all the tribulations associated with the medical care that I provided for her, especially for the condition that we first became aware of 22 years ago and that ultimately caused her decline.
Along with these thoughts, an interesting question occurred to me. Who, and what am I missing? By that question I mean that my mother evolved over the nearly 60 years of my memories of her, both in body and in mind. Our relationship also evolved as I grew to adolescence, adulthood and on. But, when I feel her loss and long for her presence, although I may remember specific events and stories of her life, I do not find myself missing my young mother, my middle age mother, or my old mother. Just my mother. What does this mean, and how can it be? What exactly is the concept of a human who is actually an evolving person in an evolving relationship?
What comes to mind is the explanation about our memories given by Daniel Kahneman in his book Thinking Fast and Slow. Our memories of our lives, which are the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, are not reality. Of course we remember only certain things, and selectively forget others. But, more than that, we build a story that forms an essential part of our self-conception. It is based on our past and our experiences, some true, others faulty, but it is not simply a highlight real of our past. It is, indeed, a story about the past in which we are the principal actors.
Now that my mother has passed, I miss her. However, the person I miss is somewhat of an abstraction, a construct that never really existed, and a relationship that never really was. I miss my story of my mother that encompasses all of her years, and a relationship that spans all of our time together. Although I am secure that took very good care of my mother’s needs, like everyone else I wish I could have done many things better. Nevertheless, what I miss is, to a degree, an idealized version of my mother and our relationship. Even so, I can still feel the strong desire that we had been able to create an ideal relationship and sorrow that the reality did not match the ideal.
A quick note: the photo attached to this post is not one that I took myself.