A tribute and temporary Goodbye to my Mom Carolyn Russo.
Alternative Title: Carolyn and Joseph, an enduring love story.
I still can barely say these words out loud because that makes it more real.
Sunday morning, very early in the morning on Mother’s Day 2017, around 3:35 am, the brightest, most beautiful and vibrant blue eyes I have ever seen fluttered and closed for the final time on this earth. I lost my Momma. My beautiful, hilariously funny, zany, dramatic, kind, selfless, loving and consummately spiritual mother left this earth to join many beloved family members and friends in Heaven.
I don’t expect most anyone to read this in entirety or even at all. I told my dad I would help him write something about my mom for the paper… and I couldn’t help but get carried away. But not being Rockefellers, it isn’t going in the paper.
So now it is written to honor my sweet mother and so her friends and family may celebrate my story of her.We all have Carol stories and all are different. I celebrate the amazing lifetime commitment she and my dad made to one another, to her family and to their faith.
This is not particularly organized. I started to spill my thoughts in the few spare moments I’ve had this week, just writing what comes to mind and probably writing too much.
These are my memories, and as memories can be, I might not recall everything as it was, so forgive me please.
Carolyn Mary Vogel Russo
Carolyn Mary Vogel Russo passed peacefully and quietly as she had hoped, at home in her own living room. She was surrounded by her four dedicated children – her “bunnies” or her “chickens” as she called us - Mary, Suzan, Daniel, Catherine - and devoted husband Joseph - of 59 plus years. They had hoped to make it to 60!
It’s all in the family
We are just a regular people, albeit all very different. We all love one another with a deep abiding devotion. We also drive each other nuts sometimes. That’s family.
Some people might poke fun at the closeness of certain families and the incessant phone calls/communication amongst each other.
Ours isthattype. I celebrate it.Wearethe “Kissing Russo Family”. And when we can’t kiss in person, we call, and call, and call.
Mom and Dad are the most dedicated couple, parents, grandparents and great grandparents I know.If I am even half the parent or wife to my children and husband, I am proud.
Barbie and Italian
When Mom was a teen she had the body of a Barbie doll (very tall with long skinny legs, very thin body all over but very busty).
She had the face to match:Beautiful, fair and smooth skin with indecently high cheek bones, bright blue eyes, lush dark hair and gorgeous white teeth.
I remember when I was first conscious of body image and weight – early adolescence.
I was truly shocked at the realization that Mom spent a great deal of time trying togain weight.Most of the other mothers I knew seemed to be trying to lose weight, and even some of my friends at ages 10 and 11 were doing so.
My Dad, four months her junior, loved every inch of her, inside and out, from the time they met at 15.
As she grew older and sicker she became less tall and not at all thin (but shewasstill busty!). But he still told her every day – and I frequently heard this - she was more and more beautiful each passing moment.I know he not only meant it, he truly loved her more and more every day, inside and out.
Yesterday I was looking for some papers and found a large pile of love notes Dad wrote her just this year. There are hundreds more like it from years’ past scattered in nooks and crannies all over their house. A book in the making…
She too left many amazing diaries for us telling us about her life, but mostly about the man she loved who could “Do anything”.
I only recently learned she loved sports as a child! How did I not know this?
Dad devotedly took care of his bride for the last 63 years, and for that I am in awe and grateful.
In the last few years, without question or complaint, he took care of her most every need, especially as she grew weaker. Cooking (and well!), cleaning, shopping, medicine, doctors, bathing, bills, driving, house alterations, you name it… She, alternatively, felt terrible about it and wanted to do more to help.She constantly worried abouthishealth during this part of their journey. For his part, he just wanted to keep her safe.
A love like theirs doesn’t come along every day.
The Secret
They both have always told me the secrets to a successful union: “Communication” “Write lots of love letters, even when in the same house.”“Never go to bed angry.” ”Always Kiss one another goodnight,evenif angry”. “Hold hands when you argue”. “Pray Together”.
EB
We called her the ‘Energizer Bunny’ because she defied so many illnesses during the span of her lifetime. She kept bouncing back, a frenetic optimistic bundle of energy even when very ill.Indeed,the brutal physicality of the human condition foisted upon her never seemed to inspire negativity.
Never Quit!
Over her 78 years she outlivedmanyof her physicians.Time-and-time again they said it was time to throw in the towel, dating back to when she was 26-years-old and lost a kidney to Peritonitis.
During that time, she was mostly unconscious and in the ICU for about 21 days.She just wasn’t ready to leave my dad with four babies under 5-years-old, so she fought and fought. Always thin, she returned home almost skeletal.
But she made it!
There is a whole book dedicated to research on my mom’s illnesses by the late Dr. Gerard Eastman. It sits somewhere in Huntington Hospital, NY, the very same hospital my siblings and I were all born in as well as my daughter.
Over Mom’s lifetime, especially in recent years, some people would comment, often with an accusatory tone: “She is so sickallof the time.” Like it was her fault, or she wanted it that way.It was incensing!
She certainly never asked to be sick, and for a sickly person she had more energy and spunk than some of the healthiest people I know.
Two days before she left us she said she was looking forward to the next trip she and Dad would soon take in their Pleasure Way (RV).
She was stubborn her whole life, you will see.
Three is not enough Doctor!
Following complications with the birth of her third child (my brother Daniel), her obstetrician told her not to have any more children or she wouldn’t survive it.
So, when she became pregnant with her fourth child (Me, the miracle child!), the doc said he resigned and told her to find another 'baby catcher' as he “didn’t want her life on his hands”.
Thatwasmorethan a few decades ago, and she did more than survive.
She LIVED.
Mom never lost her sense of humor or hope to get well. As of last Friday, as earlier mentioned, she still discussed plans for traveling the world for many more zany adventures with Dad. She also wanted to witness and share her unwavering faith, a gift she often shared with her children and anyone else who would listen.
She was never afraid to be a “Fool for Christ” as my dad says, yet she loved people of all faiths, ethnicities, sexual orientation and opinions.
I am not saying she wouldn’t try to convert you, but whether she succeeded or not, she loved, unconditionally, as she said, “Allof God’s Creatures.”
Every second has been worth it Mom!
The last few months have been especially difficult, but our family members dropped everything as often as possible so we were able to spend as much time as possible at her side. It was a gift for us.
I personally feel as if I have been an absent, anxious, angry and moody mother, wife and friend because I was so focused on my Mom, even when I wasn’t with her.
For that I apologize to those I might have ignored, most especially my children and husband.But I will never regret the time I spent with my one and only mother, which still wasn’t enough.
Reality Stinks…
What I have learned in the last few days: The chasm between wanting to see someone relieved of suffering and them trulygoneis infinitely endless and infinitely empty.
Indeed, already, in the first hour she was gone I realized how much I would give to just phone her just one more time. I would tell her thatonefunny thing only she would get, or to ask her about one of Grandma Vogel’s recipes, to ask for a prayer for a friend, or just to vent.
To do it all over again, I would never ever lose patience like I sometimes did, or say I had to go because I had to take care of some inconsequential detail.
I regret every hurt I put upon her, and I know there were many, and often. In contrast, I cannot recall one time my sweet mother hurt me in any way. I may have gotten some of the details in this story wrong, but this part is not selective memory. It is truth.
If I ever had one complaint about my mom, it’s that she worried over me too much. Truthfully, I oftengaveher cause to worry, taking risks I shouldn’t and just doing crazy things. Her worrying is a testimony of her love, so really, a compliment.
She loved to Travel
Myfunniest travel memory of my mom was during a ‘girls’ trip’ to Paris, France.
She had become separated from my two sisters and I and my then two-year-old daughter Anastasia at a Metro (subway) entrance.
Not speaking a morsel of French or knowing her environs, she did not want to lose me, as I had once studied in Paris.
So, despite being unwell even then, she summoned her survivalist instinct.With strength summoned by what must have been pure adrenalin, she singlehandedly pried opened thealreadyfirmly closed doors.
Of course, those doorswillopen by sensor, but either she didn’t know or didn’t think about that.
With her arms spread wide and taut with the weight of the open doors now completely open, her face looked as triumphant - but also those pooling blue eyes emanating complete terror - as Atlas with the globe. The French people nearby were staring at this crazy American woman causing such a scene!
Brownouts!
It was an expensive time in Europe as the dollar was extremely weak.
It was also tough to find a hotel room in Paris that would accommodate four women and a toddler, at least without paying a king’s ransom or getting two rooms.
Fortunately, while booking our passage on the ferry from Southampton, our agent managed to find us a lovely (old but large) and affordable hotel in the 15thArrondissement.
It was spacious, clean, cool.They even allowed a baby cot in the room which no one else would permit. It was also on about the 21stfloor with a huge balcony and spectacular views of the city.
What more could you ask for?
The place was a miracle. Manna from heaven.
Or so we thought.
For those who have never visited Paris in July, the beautiful City of Lights can be one of the most suffocatingly hot, crowded places on the planet.
You might as well melt yourself on an aluminum blanket on a Florida beach and you will achieve the same sensation.
Popularitycanbe a curse, and for us, Paris’ allure was a curse.
Indeed, it seems that half the human-race was in Paris that July, sucking up more electricity than the city’s infrastructure could apparently handle.Thus, there were brownouts in our hotel and in many other places of business. Our spacious room, which had A/C and quaint painted closed windows, lost power about 3 am on night number 1.
The 'quaint painted shut windows' suddenly became a nemesis. The chamber quickly felt as furiously hot as an incinerator, so for a while we camped out on the balcony, at least with fresh, albeit also very hot, air. Aside from not being much cooler, it had little protection for an active toddler who excitedly tried to climb the railing with no protective bars. Soon I became terrified I would fall asleep and she would fall over and tumble down 21 floors to the dirty Paris pavement.
So, plan B.
We weren’t the only unfortunate guests who had lost power, or the first to complain.Management was not willing to let us move to a 'still fonctionne' room over others.
Generally, I despise sounding like a litigious obnoxious American, but my daughter’s life could have been at stake. It took some time to convince the front desk thatourmoving was a priority over many others. I guess a toddler maybe falling over an unsafe railing on a balcony finally won our case.
We moved twice in the middle of that long, sleepless night. I still recall trudging up and down those dark hot staircases with our overly packed (of course) suitcases in tow (l’ascenseur ne fonctionne pas).
The next day the hotel told us they were also having some electrical problems.If we chose to “we would have to deal”, with no reduction or refund, balcony worries or not.
No deal.
Itwastough the following day to find a place that had availability, especially big enough for four grown women and a toddler. Nobody cared that the toddler was peanut sized, to them ‘five was five’.
Two rooms weren’t really in the budget, but at that point we were willing. Unfortunately, even that couldn’t be had it seemed, even if we went to a place like the George Cinq, way the hell out of the budget.
Paris was completely overrun with tourists, so Mom gave us the idea to go renegade (she also decided we should not have to pay for toilets in restaurants; that got us in a hell of a lot of trouble. Mom definitely had her rebellious side, and I thank her for the inheritance).
At her urging, after some hours we found an acceptable place that could accommodatefour.
“Four?” I asked.
Her diabolical plan unfolded as this:
My sister Mary and I (who look somewhat alike) would enter and exit at different times so they thought we were the same person. We havemuch different body types, hair color and even skin color, but it remained our only option - or leave Paris. I hadn’t shown them any of my faves yet.
What they proposed is not as easy to do as say a Hampton Inn. For starters, most European lodging takes your passport upon checking into the hotel and only give it back at departure.You eat breakfast there, and the lobbies are often very small.Still, for some reason, Mom’s idea worked. She said God always provides.
We also saved money!
So, we moved our belongings to the hotel in the Latin Quarter via cab.It was evening by the time we were resettled, and Mom was exhausted. Her daughters, however, were ready to roam the Paris nightlife.
She said she would stay in the hotel, watch the baby, say her prayers (of course) and “set her hair” so it would look nice for the next day’s adventures.
The 5thfloor walkup room was in an exciting spot for nightlife, overlooking a vibrant busy square of bars, restaurants and general joie de vivre.
The hotel was the type whose shutters (also quaint) opened out towards the square.Dwellers could practically sit outside the window – if it opened, which fortunately this one did - and observe the activity below.
While roaming the area, we came across a choir of Spanish (young adult) men dressed in I guess what were their local (or perhaps) period costumes.
They were in the act of serenading a woman.
Simultaneously the three of us had the grand idea to hire them to serenade Mom. Once hired, they followed us back to the square and began to sing outside Mom’s window, and for a while we thought she was sleeping and wouldn’t emerge.
But, finally, she did.
I wish I had a photo of that priceless moment (No IPhones yet)….
There she was, sitting on the window sill, half out the window with the biggest, childlike smile on her face I think I have ever seen.
She was thrilled.
I am not sure if she remembered she had those pink fuzzy curlers in her hair or not, but she probably didn’t care.
It is one of the best memories of my life. I wish my dad could have seen it.
NYC
Another of my fondest memories is from the early 1990s when I lived in Manhattan. Two places there on my mother’s coveted list were the Plaza Hotel and the Tavern on the Green.
She was in awe of their perceived glamour and visited them many times just to see them. She had never dined formally at either, but constantly talked about doing so.