In this delicate moment

Late last month, my mother passed away.  This event was, by turns, unexpected and then expected and then unexpected.  A lengthy - for her - hospital stay of two weeks entailed treatment for pneumonia, which appeared to be cautiously successful until her heart stopped beating. She was 69 years old.

I could dive into the topics that this sort of event prompts of most writers:  how the loss of one parent can alter a relationship with the surviving parent (true), how a parent's death at a relatively young age can prompt escalated concerns about one's own mortality (also true), or how sifting through that person's belongings can shed both positive and negative light on their truest self (also true).

I could go there, or there, or there, and thus join the chorus of blog entries that sing the same tunes. It's not that my versions would be any less meaningful, but I don't believe I could add anything new to the stratosphere.

Instead, I could ruminate briefly on what it's like to have this kind of thing happen to a person living outside of their parent's country of residence.

People here were immediately and remarkably kind.  And they were quick to assure me that I could leave my ongoing classes without concern.  One professor very helpfully stood in for me on a day trip to an important mausoleum and some catacombs.  I was able to rearrange other scheduled class activities without difficulty.

At the local institution for which I teach, I emailed the dean and the adjuncts I work with.  I received very kind replies.

And then, I started hearing from other people I had not contacted.  The President of the institution wrote to me.  Other administrators sent messages.

I had to cancel appointments and Italian classes.  The emailed responses to these messages were full of empathy.

A series of small miracles unfolded:  flight arrangements weren't cheap, but they weren't horribly expensive either.  So I couldn't select my seat, but given the timing, it wasn't reasonable to expect that luxury.

At first, I couldn't find any lodging in my hometown because an important college football game was scheduled.  But then I thought of a B&B (an extreme rarity in this location) I had stayed in before.  Luck was on my side.  I even got the room I had stayed in before.

My taxi ride to the airport was short; there was very little traffic.  I checked in to the airline without difficulty.  I was granted an aisle seat and no one sat next to me.  During my layover in Atlanta, the electronics store clerk first said that she had no more prepaid SIM cards, but upon checking, she found one for me. I phoned the car rental place at my hometown airport, concerned that I would arrive too late to pick up my reservation.  I was assured by a very nice and polite young man that he would be there well past closing time (11pm - yep, that's a small town airport for you).

And true to his word, while the housekeeping staff was mopping the floor beside the baggage carousel, he was there.

And for 6 days, I was home.  I did the things that people do when they have to go home for reasons like mine.

Upon my return to Rome, the students who only knew I was away for two class meetings (but not why) saw me on campus and asked "are you o.k.?  were you in the hospital?" The students who knew the reason for my absence collectively wrote a dignified condolence note, decorated with their signatures.  And then there was one young man, who is also living away from home, who spoke thoughtfully with me in my office about his feelings - on my behalf.  He spoke of the power of distance, the troubling notion of being away from home in a special instance like this, and how elders in his own family have assured him that as long as he is in Rome, he should conduct himself as if he was meant to be here.  Something brought him here, and so he should remain as long as the reasons remain valid, even when he feels the inexorable pull towards home. He should be fully and totally present, they assured him.  Because he is supposed to be.

In the efforts of consulting with this local college on the creation of new facilities for their art program, I was asked to meet with the architect.  I suppose that because he had inquired about meeting me a few weeks prior, he was informed about the reason for postponement.  And so, upon shaking his hand two days ago, he too expressed his condolences to me.  I had never met him before.

A text from my former Italian teacher - who is now The Spouse's teacher, this season - read, in part, the way only the most poetic Italian translated into English can possibly read:

'I am with you in this delicate moment.'

I could first say that I should be completely unsurprised at this remarkable country's capacity for a) revering mothers, and b) empathy.  There are enough Saint Mary churches to take up a whole column in the index of a standard guidebook.  And they do sincerely minister to the poor and disadvantaged. Consider the continued charitable efforts to assist the 2016 earthquake victims, or Italy's consistent record when it comes to the rescue of seaborne refugees from Northern Africa.

I have to add that I remain struck by the utter lack of generic platitudes.  Condolences were uttered with such genuine and often unique sentiments. This, combined with friends' messages that were short on sap and long on 'real talk' (just the way I like my sympathy), has made for an important return to living and working in this world.

This world:  where I should be fully and totally present.  In this delicate moment.

Every day that I descend the Janiculum hill after teaching, I pass this place on the bus:

On a wall that fences in a sports complex, across from the Ministry of Education, is this shrine. All of the plaques you see are expressions of thanks. 

The plaques date back to the 1950s.  But they continue to appear anew, even today.  And for those who need to make their expressions more efficient, they slip notes behind the glass that covers the image of the Madonna.

Per Grazia Ricevuta. 

Thanks for blessings received. 

This is a spot for the living to commune with THE mother.  The intercessor.  The communicator.

When time affords the opportunity, I will have to exit the bus here.  I have a note to leave.