When A Parent Suddenly Dies
A rare personal note: Context Collapse #127
My mother, Ruth Kaplan Goldenbroit/Ruchel Bat Tovah, died suddenly on March 17 of a fast-acting, rare leukemia. She was 72 years old and was diagnosed only three days before. Befitting her lifelong love of drama, she managed to pass away on both Purim and St. Patrick’s Day.
So these things go. We were lucky enough that she died at peace, in no pain and surrounded by family in her hospital room. It’s up to the living to pick up the pieces.
She saw her doctor in November and her blood panels were completely fine. She started complaining of gum pain last month and saw multiple dentists, none of whom suspected cancer. My sister, brother-in-law and stepfather all managed to take her to a doctor against her will several weeks ago. She was so weak there that it quickly turned into a trip to her local hospital, and from there to the cancer and hematology specialists at Manhattan’s Weill Cornell. They gave her case 110% and I’m so happy for the care her doctors and nurses gave her.
Honestly, I haven’t had time to process any of this yet. When she was first hospitalized my worst case scenario was tooth loss or emergency dental surgery, and my worst-worst scenario was her being on a fast track to a nursing home. Everything catapulted quickly into Cancerland, and… here we are.
Ironically enough for someone who makes his living from writing and storytelling, I’ve always hated talking about my family and writing about my family, although others have. (Thanks Hillel Kuttler for writing this article about my maternal grandparents for Tablet.) Writing about my family and myself always just seemed too damned personal, and not for public consumption. But again… here we are.
My mom was born in Israel in 1949, barely a year after the country declared independence, to Polish-Jewish Holocaust survivor parents. The shadow of the Holocaust and the traumas her parents went through were everpresent in her life. She moved with her family as a young girl to the United States, where she landed in Brooklyn. Hebrew was her native language but she spoke English fluently with a pitch-perfect Brooklyn accent.
Her life afterwards wasn’t easy. My family went through some pretty severe financial and health problems when I was growing up. She did the best she could with the cards she was dealt.
For the past 30 years, she struggled with severe rheumtoid arthritis and other health issues, and her world was increasingly limited to Facebook, the downstairs of her house, and her television. She was a regular for our video chats, which became pretty much daily after her grandson was born. I’m so glad I got to spend that time with her.
Her family and friends were her life. She leaves behind a family and an extended family that loves her and was loved in return. Her funeral was well attended and her burial had the ultimate Mom moment when I pressed the button to lower her casket into the grave and the machine refused to work—requiring several burly cemetery workers to whack the machine with their shovels repeatedly until it turned back on. Even in death, she had her way with not leaving the party too quickly.