yourlifeisatrip

by Andrew Adleman

Her death is still as fresh as my birth. It was nine months ago, (her death, not my birth) and I miss her very much, especially on days like today. I remember her love and her singing Happy Birthday to me. I also recall the story she told of my difficult birth.

She was, of course, rushed to the hospital where she waited, and waited, and waited — in labor for 72 hours. I am not sure if mom was reluctant to bring me into the world, or if I was being extra cautious about sliding my pudgy baby body those last few inches to a new existence. Given my subsequent history, I’m pretty sure it was the latter.

Just as my mother had endured my birth, this willful woman endured her life, and mine, though not without letting me know that she knew what was best. To her dismay I did not become a Jewish heart surgeon (or even a Presbyterian foot doctor). Mom also put up with me marrying two non-Jewish women (not at the same time, God forbid), and gradually grew to love them as she loved me.