Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom: 101 Stories of Gratitude, Love, and Good Times

What My Mother Gave Me Before She Died

God could not be everywhere, so he created mothers.

~Jewish Proverb

She’s the kind of woman who would say, Ucch, what a depressing funeral. And so the obvious thing to say is that I want to celebrate my mom. But what I really want to do is share my mom. Not the person who was here the past few months, but the woman who was here the past sixty-three years.

My mother fought to have me. She tried for three years to get pregnant. And I think that struggle always left her feeling thankful for what she had. It is, to this moment, the only rational way to explain the never-ending love she gave to me.

As I entered grade school, my father, who breathes baseball, signed me up for Little League. I lasted one year. But it wasn’t until a few months ago that I finally found out just who saved me from year two. Stewie, don’t make him play if he doesn’t want to play. Even back then, she knew me. And for all of childhood, she nurtured me, growing my little artsy side and always making sure that I could find my own adventure. And she fed it with one of the greatest seeds of imagination: Television.

This will sound silly and trite, but in my mother’s honor, I’m not apologizing for it. One of my clearest memories of childhood is sitting at the side of my mom’s bed—the side that faced the TV—and watching show after show with her. To be clear, TV wasn’t something that watched me—she didn’t put it on just so she could go do something else. My mother watched with me. Or rather, I watched with her. Old movies like Auntie Mame, and modern classics like Taxi, Soap, MASH and, of course, our favorite for every Wednesday night, Dynasty. (Please, what else are you gonna do with a son who doesn’t play baseball?) Some mothers and sons never find anything they can truly share. But my mom always treated me like an adult, always let me stay up late to watch the good stuff, and in those moments, she did one of the best things any parent can do: She shared what she loved with me.

When I was thirteen, my mom faced the worst tragedy of her life—the death of her father. My Poppy. Poppy would do anything for my mother, and when he died, I remember being at his funeral. My mom was screaming and yelling wildly because the funeral home had neglected to shave him and she wanted him to look just right. It was a ferocity she saved for people messing with her family—something I had never seen before and would never see again. And I know she put that one in me, too.

When I think of my mom—more than anything else—I think of the pure, immeasurable, almost crazy love she had for me. I remember the first time I gave her The Tenth Justice. It was my first published novel, my first time ever putting real work out for anyone to see. I was terrified when she said she’d finished it. And then she looked right at me and said, "Bradley, I know I’m your mother, but I have to be honest with you. This book... is the greatest book of all time!"

When someone was recounting the story to me a few days ago, he called my mother the queen of hyperbole. But as I think about it, he had it wrong. Hyperbole is a deliberate exaggeration. My mother never used hyperbole. My mother actually believed it. In her eyes, I really did write the greatest book of all time.

A few years ago, I went to the headquarters of Borders Books up in Ann Arbor. And when I was there the main buyer for Borders said to me, Guess where your books sell more than anywhere else? Straight sales, not even per capita. So of course I said, New York. That’s eight million New Yorkers in one city.

No.

Washington, DC? I write about DC.

No.

Chicago, the flagship superstore?

No.

The number one place my books sell was the Boca Raton Borders, two miles from the furniture store where my mother worked. That means my mother single-handedly beat eight million New Yorkers. Messing with the power of a Jewish mother is one thing, but never ever mess with the power that was Teri Meltzer.

Of course, what made my mom my mom was the fact that that love—that love that burned in her brighter than fifty suns—was there even when times were bad. When The First Counsel was published, USA Today gave me a ruthless review. It was the kind of review that just felt like a public humiliation. The headline was: Make First Your Last. But when my mother saw it, she said to me, Don’t worry. No one reads that paper anyway. It’s the number one paper in the entire country!

And when the second novel had bombed and I was wracked with fear, I’ll never forget my mom on the phone—she said to me, I’d love you if you were a garbage man. And to this day, EVERY day that I sit down to write these books, I say those words to myself—I’d love you if you were a garbage man. I don’t care where she is—my mother is always there for me.

Let me be clear: All our strength, confidence, any success my sister and I have been blessed enough to receive, those were all watered and nurtured by the strength of the love that my mother showered on us. When I found out the last book had hit the top spot on the bestseller list, the first person I called was my mother. And of course my mom started crying hysterically. She was so proud. And when I heard her crying, I of course started crying. And in the midst of this tear-fest, I said to her, Where are you now? And through her sobs, she said to me, I’m at Marshall’s.

Of course she’s at Marshall’s, still trying to buy irregular socks for two dollars. It was my mother’s greatest lesson: Never, ever, ever, ever change for anyone. And her second greatest lesson: That Marshall’s just may be the greatest store on Earth.

In the end, my mother died the same way she lived. She laughed and smiled and enjoyed everything she could get from life, most of all, her grandchildren. They were the second great love of her life. When each of my children was born, my mother said to me, Now you’ll understand how I love you.

She was right. And it was the first time I got to see life through my mom’s eyes.

I don’t miss particular moments with my mother. I can always remember those moments. What I miss is my mother, and her reactions, and how she never hesitated to tell you whom she hated or what she thought, and most of all, how she loved me and my family with more love than one person should be able to muster.

She once said to me, I’d saw off my own arm for you. Again, not an exaggeration. Just Teri Meltzer being Teri Meltzer.

That love my mom gave me is my strength. It never. Ever. Wavered. It’s like the hum of an airplane engine—it’s there and it never lets up and it never stops—and you get so used to it, it just becomes part of the ride. But you’d know the second it was gone. My mother’s love for us never stopped.

It was a constant.

A foundation.

A law.

It is the pillar that has carried me everywhere and holds me up right now. Her love is a gift that she gave me. And it is the part of her that I hope I carry with me every time my child or grandchild shows me a picture they colored, every time I say thank you to the valet who parks my car, and damn well every time I drive past Marshall’s.

I miss you, Mom. And I thank you. I thank you for teaching me how a parent is supposed to love their child. And I hope you know that, in that and so much else, you live on forever.

~Brad Meltzer

Struggles Are Relative

And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.

~Victoria Secunda

It seems strange to think of Mom right now as I struggle up this hill near the end of a race. I mentally relive being six years old and sobbing in my big sister’s arms, as Mom was loaded into an ambulance. The doctors had thought she had grown progressively weak due to the flu. But tests revealed an exacerbation of multiple sclerosis. Mom’s vision, hearing and ambulation were gone that day and would be gone for months. That night changed my life forever.

My legs grow weary at this point in the race. But the thought of my mother’s delight at every opportunity to walk supports me. My arms pump hard in efforts to propel my fatigued body forward. Mentally, I see her struggle just making it from one room to another. There is a curve in the next pass so I inhale deeply, ready to face the next obstacle that lies ahead. She faces obstacles with every breath she takes.

My breath becomes shallow, my calves tighten. She talks about charley horses and leg spasms from disuse. I gasp with air hunger. Mom often takes a startled breath when her blood oxygen level is low. I close my eyes, frantically trying to search the depths of my body for that last ounce of energy. She would find the energy. Somehow, somewhere, she would find the energy.

A quick glance at the top of the hill revives my hope. The finish line is so close. Another shallow breath comes. She would do this if she could. Then I hear her, somewhere in the distance. She’s always there for me, no matter how she feels. Knowing that the next relay runner needs to run her portion of the 5K, I charge past the finish line. Mom is calling my name. Race completed, I turn about to cheer on the rest of the first heat as they conquer that same hill. Then I look about. At first she can only be heard, but suddenly I see her. There she is, as always, in her chair, cheering me on.

I am struck by the parallels between this race and the obstacles of life. Some obstacles are more difficult than others, but courage helps you face problems head on. Perseverance gets you through to the finish line. Mom taught me that, just by living. For a dozen years she has been living with multiple sclerosis. Our home is a gathering place of wheelchairs, electric scooters, Lofstrand crutches and colorful canes. For years, she lived exclusively from the wheelchair, being carted around by her three children and loving husband. As a registered nurse, she made good judgment calls on medications, physical therapy and procuring a meticulous medical staff. There is no cure for MS but many treatments. Through research, experience and faith, she does whatever she is capable of to keep her body healthy. Whereas twelve years ago she had periods of blindness, paralysis and hearing loss, today my mother can walk unaided for up to a half hour at a time.

Through MRIs she has discovered that although MS lesions are still present on her brain and spinal cord, their signal is less intense. A balance of mind, body and spirit seems to have turned off the erratic firings in her brain. She is enjoying her life and reminding me to enjoy mine, too. During middle and high school’s typical teenage angst, I used my mother’s example to approach life one day at a time and to maintain focus on what was important.

My mother taught me the joy of completing a task, no matter how trivial it may seem. She showed me that large goals are often achieved by many small tasks and a mighty grateful heart. Mom showed me individual success is great and the thrill of accomplishment in working for others is terrific. Teamwork means so much more when there is the pride of helping one another. My mom has shown me that so much more is learned by trial and error, little failures and mundane tasks than immediate, easy successes.

As a cross-country runner, I imagine my mother beside me at every race, struggling with every step, fatigued and weakened but never giving up. Together, we recognize the best way to conquer the challenge; we run it at full force and give it everything we have. The task may be difficult, but the success at the end makes the whole journey worthwhile. Together we are victors, not victims.

~Desiree Diana Amadeo

A Lasting Lesson

As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.

~Clarence Darrow

It was vacation time—two years before lung cancer would take Dad and twelve years before Mom would succumb to a different form of the same disease. But that was all yet to be. For now, we were all together—and all excited.

Mom, Dad, my two sisters and I were going on a trip. Vacations were rare in our family. We had love, caring, togetherness, and all the other intangibles that make a family name worth bearing. What we didn’t have was money. We didn’t have a car; meals in restaurants were an extremely rare treat. But at the age of six, I spent little time pondering such matters. My sisters, aged nine and eleven at the time, and I had food, good clothes to wear, and a safe and comfortable place to live. We also had the very best of parents.

It was a time of happy anticipation. My mother’s parents had moved down to Florida and we were invited to visit. And while I was most excited about the train ride, I would leave that trip having learned a profound lesson from my mother that would stay with me forever.