Waiting for the Unveiling
January 5, 2022
My mother died of pneumonia in August 2019, a few weeks shy of her 90th birthday. She died in Florida and was intubated in the last week of her life. Prior to the COVID era where so many died alone or said good-bye over IPADs, my mother was surrounded by her family and was able to write some words of comfort and love before her last breath. We all held her hand and kissed her, grateful for a bit of closure. We held a Jewish funeral in the same funeral home where we mourned my father 13 years earlier. We grieved together with beautiful eulogies given by friends and relatives. Her casket was placed with my father’s in a Jewish mausoleum. My father’s name was engraved with room for hers right beside his. We sat shiva at her younger brother’s home and continued shiva at our home in New Jersey.
Several months later, COVID struck. We thought about how awful it would have been for my mother, how vulnerable she would have been, and how grateful we were to be at her bedside when she was hospitalized and passed away.
After two and a half years, we have yet to conduct her unveiling.
I used to speak to my mother daily. She was the big ‘reactor’ in my life. Always passionate about the news, politics and the world of entertainment, she was most interested in anything having to do with her grandchildren. Her responses were always appropriately shocked, angry, thrilled and tickled. Typically, her reactions matched mine because we thought so much alike. She knew each grandchild as an individual and celebrated every achievement, making sure she was present for big moments. She was also our shoulder when anyone struggled. Before she died, I anticipated my life after losing her, realizing no one would fill my need for validation as she did.
I could visualize her horror about the January uprising. She would have been glued to the television. We shared numerous phone calls about the latest actors who passed away, along with her disbelief that she outlived them.
I can only imagine how she would have experienced a pandemic which she had never lived through. She would have worried about all of us, but have lived in fear of her breathing issues due to scoliosis, which impacted her lungs. Newly settled in an assisted living facility near my brother, she would have been devastated that no one could visit. Yet she would have mastered FaceTime, enabling her to see our faces.
I miss her terribly. So do my brothers, their wives and her six grandchildren. Just the other day, my son called me tearful, wishing he could call her.
We put off her unveiling, knowing that the world is not safe for travel, and sure that my mother would be horrified if we put ourselves at risk. Along came the Delta variant and the world looked no better. When infections seemed to abate, we planned for a January 2022 gathering. Now, Omicron is with us. Our flights were canceled. Again, I am disappointed, but, as my brother says, “Mom’s not going anywhere.”
I’m struggling. The unveiling is a beautiful Jewish ritual. Conducted within a year of death, close friends and family join for prayer, remembrance and a meal. Because months have gone by, the mood is lighter than the sadness of the funeral. A sense of closure and completion of the mourning process is facilitated by seeing the engraved name and dates of birth and death.
My mother used to regularly accompany a close childhood friend to the mausoleum. Their husbands died within months of each other and were entombed on shelves in the same row. They prayed or spoke privately to their spouses, and then went for bagels, a comforting Sunday morning ritual. Several months after my mom’s death, this friend died too. Now they are all entombed near each other.
I long for the unveiling. I know I will never see my mother again, but I want to be closer to her and see her grave, which also holds my dad. I miss being with my whole family, half of whom live in Florida. COVID has caused so many to die alone, to conduct restricted funerals and shiva by Zoom. Mourners lose the comfort provided by personal visits. Despite the development of vaccines, COVID feels like an endless plague. As a psychologist and as a friend, I have seen the devastation this virus has wrought and continues to bring to every part of our lives.
We wonder when travel will be safer. Since her death, her great granddaughter who was named for her was born, had her baby naming and celebrated her first birthday. My brother, the new grandfather, imagines my mother’s joy and delight in watching her develop. He shares videos with us all the time. In April, my son, her youngest grandson, will be married. My mother met his fiancé and adored her. Her absence will be felt. Fortunately, we will face more celebrations, despite an unrelenting virus. But we have had too many losses, and my mother’s unveiling, a precious ritual, is long overdue.