Memories of an Orphan

                This morning I threw away my watch.  No, this wasn’t some kind of protest for always being on a schedule.  My every day watch stopped working last week.  Even with a new battery, the second hand didn’t move.  It had been sitting on our kitchen table since last Wednesday.  This morning I picked it up and thought about putting it in a drawer.  I then I thought about my Mom.

                I’ve been an orphan for more than two years.  My dad died of complications of lung cancer with I was 28 years old in 1986.  My mom left us in June 2010 from the complications of brain cancer.

                She was diagnosed in mid-February, with stage four lung cancer and died in early June.  I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a good amount of time with her during those 3 ½ months.   Traveling from suburban DC to Michigan monthly, I walked this final journey with her.  Along with my brother, I was at her initial consultation about the treatment that was recommended.  I was there when her hair began to fall out, something that she dreaded.

                I spent time with her and her friends, renewing friendships with women who had been my mom’s support in the years since my father’s death.  I was with her when she met with the minister and the funeral home. And then I was there for the last three days of her life, knowing (or at least hoping) that I would be there is see her transition to her new life.

                The day after her death, I began going through drawers to sort out things to keep, things to share and things that could be pitched.  I didn’t actually intend to spend the day in this manner, but I found it a remarkably healing way to spend the day with her.

                I found newspaper clippings of my uncle’s release from a Vietnam prison, of the 1968 Detroit Tigers World Series win and of the impeachment of President Clinton. Most surprising was the discovery one broken watch after another in drawer after drawer.  I kept them, 9 or 10 in all, to show my brothers and sisters. 

                Two years after my mom’s passing, I don’t know if I remember her every day.  Certainly, I often remember her in prayers for the dead at Mass.  But on this Monday morning, a broken watch gave me the chance to stop the hectic routine and member her good life. A great blessing to begin a new week.