“Am I going to die?”
Those were the words I asked my mother on several occasions either when I read something negative about cystic fibrosis, when I was battling a lung infection or when kids ridiculed me in grammar school because of my disease. Mom always said, “You just have to keep fighting.” I never imagined that our roles would eventually reverse.
I lived a pretty ordinary life outside of using a nebulizer every morning, having my parents do postural drainage (cupping their hands and hitting my chest, sides and back to loosen the mucus in my lungs) and taking enzymes with meals. When I was sick, we often doubled up and did treatments at night. It was up to me to remember to bring my enzymes but Mom often had an extra stash in her purse to help her forgetful son.
Eva Lipman was an amazing mother. She comforted me when I was scared and pumped me up when I needed to fight. She told doctors that I didn’t need to hear so much about the limitations of cystic fibrosis because it wasn’t something that should define me nor inhibit me from living my life.
As we celebrate Mother’s Day this Sunday, I think of two women primarily. My wife Andrea who is an amazing mother to our two children and my best friend and my mother Eva who often fought for me like very few mothers could. There is something special about a CF Mom. My mom (and my dad) raised me with such strength. They lost their daughter Wendy to cystic fibrosis three years before having me. Wendy had only one photo taken of her, never left the hospital and lived only 16 days. It was a lot to bear for my parents especially my mom who carried her for nine months. Mom visited Wendy’s grave every year on her birthday where she left flowers and a stuffed animal.
As I grew up, Mom was often the caretaker and I was the patient. That is until August 28, 2020.
“Andy, just calling to say I love you. Still not in the room but I’m about to get there eventually. So go to sleep. Watching the Braves game so I can feel like I’m at home. Tell the kids I said hello and Andrea everything. Bye.”
This voicemail from my mom still sits in my current voicemails and I listen to it very often. This Sunday will be no different.
Mom’s first night in the hospital was August 28th. She was in and out until we got the diagnosis on September 11, 2020 (the worst September 11th that our family would endure). Mom was diagnosed with stage 4 T-Cell lymphoma, an extremely aggressive form of cancer per the physician.
We weren’t able to get in to see Mom until we got the diagnosis. COVID was just in the early stages so hospitals were very restrictive as far as letting anyone in besides physicians and staff. We were finally able to get into see Mom the following day as she received her diagnosis. Mom looked at us after getting the news and at the doctor and asked, “Am I going to die?” Those same five words I’d often asked my mother with regards to my disease. Mom never blinked then and so I didn’t blink this time. “Mom, you’ve got this,” I told her, though I myself knew that this cancer was probably going to take her life the same way cystic fibrosis might eventually take mine. I thought we had more time though. I did. Mom’s doctor didn’t though; however, she was kind enough to wait to tell us until after Mom’s journey ended. “I didn’t think she’d make it a week.” Mom made it TEN.
My biggest regret is that I didn’t have many personal conversations with Mom at the end. I wasn’t in the hospital until she was essentially unresponsive due to the fact that I was a high-risk patient and we were still in the midst of a pandemic. When I drove her home from the hospital less than a week before she died, I tried not to talk about the future. I didn’t ask questions that I wanted answers to because I knew that signaled finality. I don’t know if I did that more for Mom or for me. We just talked mostly about her grandchildren and how they were doing. Mom always loved to bring them little gifts when she visited though oftentimes they were my belongings from when I was younger. I got the feeling she used visits to deplete her basement inventory. What I wouldn’t do for another visit though.
Mom got progressively worse after I brought her home. She eventually returned to the hospital and soon became unresponsive. Mom was able to come home literally hours before she passed away. She passed away a little after midnight on November 18, 2020. The same little girl who was born in a displaced person’s camp in Germany to her Holocaust-surviving parents. The same woman who lost her first child to cystic fibrosis and would soon have her second child, me, born with the same disease. The same woman who passed away during a global pandemic. But throughout it all, my mom lived a great life and I give credit to my dad who for 51 years of marriage made her so incredibly happy.
Cancer stole my mom from us but as the years go by I realize that it can never steal the memories or the people she so positively affected which includes me, my dad, my sister Emily, Andrea and her beloved grandchildren. The hardest part of losing her I think was that we could not see anyone except during a Zoom visit. Cancer may have stolen my mom but it was COVID that stole our opportunity to heal for those next several months.
A few days after she died, I saw Mom again but this time in my dreams. She was packing and told me she had to go. A few days after that, I had another dream that I got a call from Mom. “I’m here,” she said. I went home to see where she was. She wasn’t there. I looked everywhere. She was nowhere to be seen. That’s when I realized what she was saying. She’d always be there for me. That “there” though was not the same as it used to be. I haven’t dreamt of mom since. I think that was her final message to me. It still gives me chills.
I miss Mom very much. I don’t have to look far for reminders. Her dog Daisy is 17 and is still with us as Andrea and I have adopted her though our veterinarian is completely shocked that she is still alive. She still cuddles right next to me as if she can sense Mom is there. I often look at old pictures of Mom and remember how she was often the team mom for nearly every sports team I played on, the chaperone for trips so she could do my physiotherapy and how she accompanied me to doctor’s appointments. And I will never forget those words “You just have to keep fighting.” I am, Mom. I am.
The year after Mom died the same team she was watching on TV that first night in the hospital, the Atlanta Braves, our favorite team, won the World Series for the first time in 26 years. I like to think Mom was watching.
A lot has happened over the last 18 months since Mom passed. Emily got married. Ethan had his Bar Mitzvah. Avery got her driver’s license. Some things still haven’t. I still have that same August 28th voicemail on my phone, there is a hole in my heart that will never close and I “just have to keep fighting.”
I love you, Mom.
Live your dreams and love your life,
Andy