Melinda Murtaugh
I’m marking a first birthday this month. It’s not exactly a celebration, and I need to explain the “first” part. But it is, indeed, a first birthday.
My mom, you see, died last November. She was 82 and hit with a cancer — “of unknown origin” — that grew especially aggressive the last two months of her life. As Mom assessed her battle, she told my sister and me, “My body is playing a mean trick on me.” Mom had a Ph.D. in history and crossed the Atlantic Ocean several times, once for a year in Torino, Italy, as my father pursued his own doctorate. But she could be gracefully eloquent with the description of something as glorious as the Pieta or something as sinister as cancer. “Mean trick” said it all.
So I turn 57 this month, but it’s my first birthday without my mom to help make it happy. As big a day as March 4, 1969, may have been for me, it was at least as big for Melinda Murtaugh, as she became a parent that day. I’ve long considered this oddity of birthday celebrations: Isn’t every single one also a “Mother’s Day”? They remember the moment, after all, better than the prize arrival in the delivery room.
What do we make of birthdays after our parents are gone? Outliving them is the way of nature, the first hope every mother and father has for a newborn. But what do we do with the gratitude felt on a birthday, when our prime benefactors are now memories? I’m a rookie at this endeavor, so forgive my attempts at answering. But I have thoughts.
Each of my daughters was able to travel thousands of miles for some treasured time with Mom. One of them was holding her left hand when Mom died; Liz was holding her right. A few minutes later, Mom’s Echo device played her favorite Beatles tune, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” If AI has reached the point where it can hit that kind of moment so perfectly, sign me up.
I was blessed to spend the last three weeks of my mom’s life with her in Seattle, where she moved from Vermont in 2021 to be near my sister Liz’s family. My boss and colleagues allowed me to contribute what I could across the miles for our December magazine, knowing the contributions would be minimal, and with a distracted heart. The challenge of this time with Mom, of course, is that each day got worse. The opposite of a typical visit with someone ill or ailing. But terminal cancer is the opposite of a lot of things.
Not knowing how many weeks or days she had — but knowing she was dying — Mom wasted no time wondering about this variable. Virtually every day, she whispered to Liz and me, “I treasure these moments.” (Among the areas Mom’s cancer attacked were her vocal cords.) There were no more daily chores for her to manage, very little correspondence she could handle, so it was living the best she could, for every hour she could. She’d actually complain a bit after a lengthy nap, feeling she’d missed out on visiting time. A silly notion for someone whose body was tiring, but an expression of her appreciation for the moments.
I got to watch the World Series with Mom. The Dodgers’ hero in Game 7 was their catcher, Will Smith. It just so happens my maternal grandmother’s name was Will Smith. (Yes, a boy’s name. She went by her middle name, Cooper.) Mom smiled the morning after Los Angeles won its championship, as she liked my connecting baseball to her mother. Because she knew there are few things I love more than baseball or my maternal grandmother. They went together well.
Each of my daughters was able to travel thousands of miles for some treasured time with Mom. One of them was holding her left hand when Mom died; Liz was holding her right. A few minutes later, Mom’s Echo device played her favorite Beatles tune, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” If AI has reached the point where it can hit that kind of moment so perfectly, sign me up.
These are the “birthday presents.” Each treasured moment I enjoyed with my mom for almost 57 years. How lucky am I? I think of that scene Sally Field nailed in Steel Magnolias, though inverted: This beautiful woman brought me into the world, and I was able to be with her when she left it. How many candles on a cake is that worth?
I’ll relish however many birthdays I have remaining, in large part because Mom will be with me for each one. Same goes for this year’s World Series and the next Beatles song I hear. We spend most birthdays feeling like we’re in a spotlight, and that’s as it should be. When we finally realize who turned that spotlight on? That’s when we celebrate our first.
