Honoring my mother Mary Jo Bechtel on the eve of her passing

My family and I are nearing the apex of a year of sustained grief. My dear mom, Mary Jo Bechtel, is preparing to rejoin her Heavenly Father, and my own, after a year bravely battling cancer.

A year ago, after a few weeks of increasing light headedness and disorientation, my mom had a fall. An ambulance trip to the ER found a large brain tumor, which, while successfully removed, turned out to be Stage 4 *uterine* cancer which had spread to the brain. No bueno.

The intervening 12 months have been a blur of blessings and bitter pills. The privilege to live with you as your caretaker in August, followed by a hospitalization due to steroid & blood sugar complications in September.

In October, we celebrated your belated birthday ahead of starting radiation and chemo, but then, a setback: A surprise stroke and a severe pulmonary embolism. “I’ve never removed so many clots from a patient who *lived*” said the 50 something surgeon who’d certainly seen his share.

You lived with us in November, and then back to your home in Evergreen in December. Progress. Until an aborted hysterectomy attempt in January showed us that the cancer had progressed beyond the point of surgical intervention. Bravely, you soldiered on, completing your targeted radiation treatments. You rang that victory bell at the cancer center and gave those fellow patients hope, even if ours was slowly fading away.

Another March hospitalization (your 5th) found you electing to turn the corner from curative to palliative care. Focusing on quality of life over quantity. In April, we found you a sweet little apartment in a charming senior community here in Naperville, knowing that it wasn’t quite home, but it was indeed where your heart was: Barb, Brady, Belle, Bennett and I able to visit every couple of days. A summer of Tacos. TV. Band concerts. Ice Creams. Together.

Today, you’ve received the Anointing of the Sick, given your Confession, and received your Holy Communion. You’re ready, as you told Uncle Tommy, to “meet the big guy”.

For a year, now, I’ve feared these next few days. But today, through tears and typos, I’m increasingly filled with peace: Holding your hand as you’re resting, and knowing that soon, you’ll be truly at rest.

I love you ma.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Addendum:

A little over 5 years ago, my best friend Kevin died suddenly and unexpectedly. As a means of managing that grief, I wrote 30 essays in 30 days, each on the topic of #gratitude. I covered off on friends, schools, jobs, and of course, family.

I’m sure I’ll write much more on mom once my heart allows, but for now, here’s what I wrote back on November 17, 2017. Re-reading it today made me smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day 17 (of 30) I’m thankful for my mom, Mary Jo Bechtel

I first met Mary Jo Bechtel on Sunday, May 9, 1976. It was, coincidentally, Mother’s Day.

She’ll tell you that because I was born C-Section, I have a perfectly round head, which will come in handy *when* I go bald, which is matrilineal, you know. Come to think of it, my ma will tell you just about anything, because my ma is a riot. A natural-born storyteller with an incomparable humor all her own.

Ma doesn’t drink. Except when she does, in which case she’ll take a bloody mary. She claims alcohol has “no effect on her. None.” To her credit, I’ve only seen her tipsy once, at my friend Kevin’s wedding in 2002, three months after my dad had past.

“These Rum Island Lost Teas are gooood! Do you want a sip of mine? No? Good!” she said.

Ma flatly denies the episode.

Ma used to smoke too, but she gave that up in 1997 when I moved to London. I’d like to think that’s a coincidence, but I’m pretty sure she needed the full 4,000 miles separation from me to get into the right head-space.

Mom’s only remaining vice, as far as I can tell, is buying exercise equipment off of QVC. Then again, who am I to judge? You never know when you might need a spare StairMaster or two.

Mom is not opinionated, but she has interesting opinions. Her favorite author is Stephen King, and her favorite hobby, as far as I can gather, is to watch his books’ film adaptations, only to roundly reject them because “that’s *definitely* not how it happened in the book.” She’s *still* bitter about Shelly Duvall’s Wendy Torrance in The Shining. “She’s Olive Oyl for God’s sake!”

I’m encouraging mom to start a website called “What the hell were they thinking?” wherein she critiques adapted screenplays.

You’ve gotten the picture by now that Mary Jo Bechtel is a funny lady, but those of you who’ve witnessed her doting comments on my Facebook posts could have already told you that:

Mary Jo Bechtel: “I just *love* this picture of Bennie. He is my dock.” (26 mins)

Mary Jo Bechtel: “doll.” (26 mins)

Mary Jo Bechtel: “What does this stupid thing charge my typing?” (26 mins)

Mary Jo Bechtel: “Left u a message. Call me.” (25 mins)

People often ask me what it was like growing up as an only child. “Was it lonely? Boring?” I nip that sad-sack stuff in the bud. It was amazing *because* I was blessed from day one to have a wonderful, warm, whip-smart mom who poured her entire being into making my childhood great, and shaping me into the man I am today.

Mom: You were, and continue to be, my very first friend. My earliest memory is laying across your lap on the couch, you scratching my back, while we watched Fantasy Island or Love Boat. Then bath time with that mauve head thing that kept water out of my eyes. Then prayers and bedtime. Then up and walking your little buddy to the corner bus stop to start school, and greeting me in the afternoon with a hug and a snack. Helping me through my homework every single day. (At least until we got headlong into improper fractions, at which point you promptly noped out.) And then smelling you cook stuffed peppers (or London broil, or chick ‘n dumplings) while I laid on my stomach on the harvest gold carpeting watching Transformers and GI Joe. And then sitting in my seat at the kitchen table, telling you both all about my day. Dad (to my right) quietly rolling his eyes because I crunched so loudly. You (across from me) rolling yours because dad picked at his food.

Teen me eventually rolling my own eyes because I stupidly began to take for granted how sacred it was to have such a beautiful routine to our small family. (Time travel objective #37: Smack teen me.)

Today, I credit my commitment to being as *present* as possible for Barb and the kids to the example you set.

Dear ma,

I know one of your favorite movies is The Wizard of Oz (also a screenplay adapted from a book. Shh… Don’t ruin it for her!) so…

I’m grateful for your Brains.

Like a certain Scarecrow, you sometimes question that noodle of yours, but (not to blow your cover or anything) you’re *super smart*. When the other kids in the neighborhood were playing with Star Wars guys, or blowing up Hot Wheels with firecrackers, you and I were playing Scrabble in the backyard over pretzels and Kool-aid. Your crossword puzzle game is on point. You were poet laureate of Cub Scout Pack 216 with your parody of ‘We knew you were coming so we baked a cake’.

“Therefore, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Universita Committeeatum E Pluribus Unum, I hereby confer upon you the honorary degree of Th.D. — Dr. of Thinkology.”

I’m grateful for your Courage.

Like a legendary Lion, you sometimes doubt your moxie. I probably haven’t helped, giving you grief for all these years for your choosing not to drive. But when dad passed away, and you hadn’t worked outside the home in 25(!) years, less than a year later, you’re helping with guest services at Advocate Christ Medical Center. And then, when the suits throw your group a curveball, you’re up to the gritty challenge of transporting patients around as part of EPD. 10 years on, you’re leading the volunteer services department at the biggest hospital on the south side.

“Therefore, for meritorious conduct, extraordinary valor, conspicuous bravery against wicked witches, I award you the Triple Cross. You are now a member of the Legion of Courage!”

Finally I’m grateful for your Heart.

You called me up last August and opened with: “So, I know you’re not gonna like this, but…”.

I fully expected that you’d bought a new rowing machine.

MJB: “That’s ridiculous. I already have 2 of those.”

Me: “Ab-roller?”

Rather, you told me that you were taking in your kid brother, in terminal health, on hard financial times, with literally nowhere else to go. I was floored. There were 500 reasons it was a… sub-optimal… idea, but you only cared about the one that mattered: Unconditional Love.

But then again, that’s you all over. Putting Family First.

St. Mary Jo of Evergreen Park, Patron Saint of Unconditional Love.

“Back where I come from there are men who do nothing all day but good deeds. They are called phil….er….. phil…er…er…. good-deed-doers and their hearts are no bigger than yours, but they have one thing you haven’t got! A testimonial! Therefore, in consideration of your kindness, I take pleasure at this time in presenting you with a small token of my esteem and affection. And remember, my sentimental friend, that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”

And to that point: Here’s to you, Mom.

I’ll love you forever /

I’ll love you for always /

As long as I’m living /

My mommy you’ll be.