Spiritual beliefs tell us that, when the body tires and life ends, the soul—the very essence of a person—continues on. My neurofeedback doctor, Dr. Eugene Jennings, said that death is not an ending but just a change. When water evaporates, he told me, we do not say that it is dead, because we know that it still exists in another form—water vapor. Science and the law of conservation of energy even tells us that the death of the body can’t mean the death of the spirit. My mother said that she believed death was like a drop of water returning to the vast, incomprehensible ocean that is God. So why are we mourning? If we believe that my mother simply removed her body like she would a pair of clothes, then we should be delighted that she has moved onto the next stage of her journey. If we cry because we miss her, shouldn’t we take comfort in the fact that we will see her again?
My mother’s death, though untimely—and, as I believe, very unfair—was inspiring. Though all of her writing and interests were focused on other people, it was her own struggle with mortality that touched us to the bottom of our hearts. We saw her as a new person, a warrior striving against impossible odds, and I would be surprised if I was the only one who wished they had as much courage. In her last days my father and I had a good laugh when we realized that, to many people, my mother and his wife had become an icon—“Saint Janet.”
But for all this memorializing, I know that my mother would scold me if she thought her funeral was going to be about mourning her death instead of celebrating her life and what places she may be heading next. After all, funerals are for the living, a way of saying goodbye and letting go. Now is the time we will really crystallize our memories of her, so let’s make these memories count.
My mother was polite to a fault. Her first words were when she stood up in her crib, held out her hand to her father, and proclaimed “Cookie daddy please!” When she had a bigot of a third grade teacher who harassed her and the two other Jewish students in her class, my mother never failed to wish her a nice day and thank her for the lessons. This baffled me when I was younger, but now I realize that without her impeccable tact—even when someone was horrible to her face she tried to “kill them with kindness”—she would not have gotten as far as she did. Anyone who has seen this for themselves knows what I mean, because she would keep a smile on her face and eventually win everyone over. It was just one of my mother’s talents.
Mom was also brilliant. This showed through in many places, especially Dignity (now Sage). She had a natural instinct on how to ferret out the most fascinating stories from people, and she knew exactly how to make it appealing to her audience. Through her music she had learned to turn her interests into something that would draw other people in. She did this with her position as the writing counselor at A Family of Artists, too. At this after school and summer camp full of special-needs children (and a few mainstream kids), she worked miracles. The kids loved her because she was always receptive and caring, as well as clever enough to find something that interested them about reading and writing. There were times I even got jealous because of how much affection was lavished on my mother by other children, but she deserved all of it.
Social situations often brought out the best in her, though, and it really showed when we moved here. Suddenly, my father once told me, she was no longer being introduced as “Peter’s wife” and he was being introduced instead as “Janet’s husband”! My mom was suddenly being much more appreciated for her social graces than she was before. But that was natural, when you think about it. Though she was a fascinating person, my mother was always thinking about others first and had an ear to lend or a shoulder to cry on when anyone needed her. It’s like that question of whether, in a conversation, you listen or wait to talk—Mom truly listened, and always found something interesting in what she learned. That’s how she wrote most of the articles that didn’t grab her enthusiasm; she found something she could become passionate about in the subject and latched onto that. It’s how she wrote such wonderful cover stories for Dignity/Sage, some of them about the people here, now mourning her passing. When I got the rare chance to watch her interview, I learned that my mother had a way of talking that turned her subjects into friends and confidants.
Maybe that was what made my father fall in love with her—other than the fact that she was cute. I’ve talked so much about my experiences with my mother and about what she was like as an editor and a counselor, but her love—something that can best be described by how she was with my father—was what really made her our “Saint Janet”.
My parents were a source of pride. They had been married for twenty-nine years and in love for thirty-two years without any divorcing or cheating, and they were still obviously in love. When I was little my parents would take me shopping and my dad would get me to slip some ruby-red bras under the dressing room door to make her laugh. My parents were always kissing and doing sweet things for each other. The words “I love you” always came easily in their house. When she could speak after her first operation, my mother held my hand and told me she came though it for me. After the second she said the same thing to my father. Both statements were true, and my father and I were both touched when we heard her say it. One of the first things my mom did after her second operation was tell my father she loved him, and wink at me. She loved everyone here. She comforted us when we were down and cheered us on when we were happy.
That’s what made us love my mother, Janet, so much—the fact that she had so much love to give, and gave it unconditionally. To remember my mother should be to celebrate her. Have fun for her. Play music at the reception in her name. Love others as my mother did.