My Biggest Fan....

Eulogy for my mother who passed in late August 2016

My biggest fan died two weeks ago.

Ok… so I may be guilty of aping the opening line to Camus’ The Stranger, but one should expect this from a person whose background and heritage is immersed in literature, poetry, and the arts.

I owe a large part of that heritage to my mother. My biggest fan.

Jean Conroy was a remarkable woman.

She worked hard for everything she earned. She was artistic (took piano lessons downtown at the art institute building in Chicago brought music into our home in such a way that is indelible), She was caring (head RN for years at Alexian Brothers Medical Center), She was fearless (she in her youth owned a Mustang, took a tour of the Grand Canyon on the back of a donkey, escaped a poisonous relationship, and eventually seduced an imminent man of the cloth).

It’s also because of my mother that every time I put my son to bed, I take a moment to contemplate the rocking chair he has in his room. A rocking chair inherited from my wife’s side of the family. That chair holds a linage of memories. Memories of my own children and I sitting on it reading stories, calming, soothing… memories of my wife feeding both of my children while gently rocking to a rhythm akin to her own heartbeat.

My memories of my early childhood are fuzzy.  The memories that are points of light that manage to pierce the the murky veil of time are memories that involve my mother. She used to rock me in the rocking chair next to the telephone desk in our family room regularly. Even when I got older, she would sense my anguish or frustration or deep sadness (yes, even at 5) and she would lead me there. Hold me to her chest and sing to me.

“You are my Sunshine” brings me back to her smell, her movement, her warmth.

Every. Single. Time.  Now that tune conjures a rock in my throat and a  heavy heart.

Admittedly, she would have rocked me well into my 20’s if given the chance. Yet, I think the moment when I dyed my hair black, donned a set of combat boots and fishnets, and started reading Nietzsche my Freshman year in high school, she safely assumed that the rocking days were officially over.

Rocking chairs are symbolic of her unconditional love. A mother’s love. One that I am lucky to bear witness to in my own home. The kind of fearless and endless devotion to her children intrinsic in the best of women. The best of mothers.

My mother was selfless. I can’t recall a moment in my childhood and even my adulthood that she acted selfishly out her own needs and desires. Erin and I came first. Without question.Without fail.

My sister and I had phenomenal and memorable holidays and birthdays because of her generosity. It is largely because of my mother’s sacrifices my sister and I have grown into the people we are today. One of her more favorite sayings, even at the nursing home when the dementia took hold, was “This is my son Sean. He is a teacher. Two RNs begat two teachers”.  

When I was a teen I said things to her that I wish I could take back. Yet, in a sense, I’m glad those moments happened. She and I adapted to the war that was being waged inside and outside of my hormone infested body and we grew to accept a new dynamic in our relationship. Love expressed through poking fun at one another (ok. My poking fun at her for any manner of silly quirk she had and her nearly oppressive desire to be there for me). Everything from overcooked beef (BURN IT), pizza with “light” sauce, the correct pronunciation of Jim Harbaugh, and especially her penchant for giving her children and husband plaques for any and all occasion.

Her´s wasn’t an easy transition, but she accepted her fate as the target of my jokes, and essentially began to long for them when I went away to college.

That?

That is strength.

  

My biggest fan died two weeks ago.

She encouraged my mohawks, combat boots worn to school dances, and inappropriate outbursts at home and at mass. This woman cut my steaks and chops for me well into my tweens. My sister and father often looked on with disappointment and disbelief twisting their faces often chiding me that ¨good luck finding a girl to date you when she has to cut your steak up into bite-sized pieces.” The derision was based in fact.

I wouldn't find another woman patient enough to deal with all of my nonsense.

She spoiled me on women. I came to the realization early that there would be no one who will love me like she did. And there would be no one I would love like her.

What I think of most about her decline was the fact that despite her getting enveloped and eventually consumed by confusion and incoherence, was that her heart remained strong right up until her last breath. When looking into eyes that weren't her own for months leading to her departure, she always came back to me when I told her that I loved her. She used every ounce of strength in her fragile frame to become lucid, smile, squeeze my hand to tell me, ¨I love you too¨.

Her heart pounded on. Strong. Steady. Even when she faced the realization that she was dying. Her heart refused to quit.

I have said my goodbyes for weeks. Told her all of what I felt I had to or needed to. There is nothing to fill the void left by her and my father. The only solace I have is to live, succeed, and grow in their honor and vainly believe that they will continue to be proud of me despite having parted.

She is and will continue to be missed.

Thank you for the sacrifices you made for me

Thank you for allowing me to find myself

Thank you, mom, for being my biggest fan