By Alex Berger
Moms make lasting memories.
On May 13, the second Sunday in May, we should all think of these fond memories as we pay homage to our mothers (the only ones we will ever have).
The idea for a day to honor all mothers originated with a certain Anna Jarvis more than 50 years ago. She thought that her mother, as well as all other mothers, were special people. So she spent months persuading the proper authorities to set aside one day each year for honoring mothers. They finally agreed and so Mother's Day was born.
Although my mother passed away several years ago, I still remember her with overwhelming affection. There wasn’t a time that I recall when she did not express her love for all her eight children (I was the second youngest). She made each one of us feel distinctive and special.
My personal memories of her could fill the Grand Canyon. However, one particular remembrance stands out among the rest. At 7 years old, I was hospitalized in Bellevue Hospital for four weeks. I underwent appendectomy surgery, which coincided with treatment for an ear abscess.
I was very much underweight. The medical thinking of the time was that fresh air and regimented supervision at a “convalescent home” was essential for recuperation. They never thought that returning a child to his home and his mother was psychologically a better idea. So I was to be shipped off to such a “home” when the doctors felt I was strong enough to travel. That day arrived all too quickly.
At the hospital, my mother kissed me goodbye and smilingly said, “Don’t worry. Before you know it, you will be well and home again, listening to the radio account of your favorite football team.” Yes, even then, I was a Giants football fan. But neither of us realized that the fulfillment of her “bon mot” would stretch longer than we could have anticipated.
I arrived at the convalescent home and was told to surrender all my clothing. I was then given an ugly uniform to wear (oh, how I hated those short pants) and I looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy. They also explained the rules. The “average” length of stay would be three weeks. However, once they glanced at my skeletal frame, they stated that, at times, it might take a little longer. The duration depended on my “progress.” Their definition of progress meant my gaining a prescribed amount of weight each and every week.
A white ribbon was pinned to my uniform. The ribbon indicated the starting point. Red, blue, and gold ones would follow each week successively as I “progressed.” Once the gold ribbon was reached, I would be sent home.
Then began the regimen. I was force-fed very fattening food. The “nurse” brought me a full glass of foul-tasting, chocolatey liquid to drink every three hours. When I threw it all up after the third dose, she stopped.
And so it went. But, alas and alack, as time marched on, no matter how much food and elixir they shoved down my throat, I never gained one ounce. That initial white ribbon, pinned steadfastly to my uniform, remained.
Three weeks passed and despite not gaining any weight, I eagerly looked forward to going home. I knew that if the attendant brought me my original clothing the night before “going-home-day,” would be out of there. That evening finally arrived. I breathlessly awaited the attendant’s arrival.
He finally came in wheeling many baskets of clothing. As he approached, I stretched out my arms to receive my clothing, but he passed me by. I was stunned. A shock wave raced through my body. I was not going home. I cried the whole night through.
The fourth week grudgingly surrendered its days and still there was no appreciable avoirdupois increase clinging to my bones. I faced the night before “going-home-day” again with trepidation. My heart and temples pounded wildly as the attendant neared my bed. But, as before, he passed me by. My eyes exploded in tears as I watched him return the clothing to my fellow bed mates. However, he then returned to my bed, uttered a meek “Oops!” and returned my clothes to me. I was going home.
When he left, I waited until everyone was sleeping. Then I took off that silly uniform and changed into my regular clothes. This made my sleep more restfully. I vowed that from that night forward, no one would ever take my clothing away from me again. That vow was faithfully kept until 10 years later, when, at age 17, I enlisted in the Air Force.
I slept soundly with the knowledge that in a matter of hours, I would hear my mother's beautiful voice again.
The next morning, I boarded the bus taking all the discharged children to a depot in the Bronx. The parents were told to claim their children there. When we arrived at this pick-up point, I saw many happy parents waiting for their happy children. But when I looked around the depot, I could not find my mother.
My head reeled as I thought of the possibility that I would be sent back. The bus driver did not know what to do with me, an unclaimed child, so he placed me in a corner of the depot and left. The whole world seemed to topple down on me and once again, tears flowed from my eyes.
My vigil continued for an eternity. Then I heard someone call “Alex.” Through misty eyes, I looked up and saw the most beautiful sight in the world — my mother's beaming face. She hugged me and apologized for being late. She explained that she had taken the wrong train. A few more hugs, and the apology was graciously accepted. I had my mother again.
That experience made me realize the importance of a mother. Gloria and I made certain that our two sons, now married with children of their own, received an abundance of motherly love (as well as a little fatherly love on the side).
On this Mother's Day, it is my fervent desire that every child have a mother's arms to get lost in. This is as necessary for a child as food and shelter. Let me now wish a very warm Mother's Day to all the mothers out there. Also, on their children's behalf, a well deserved thank you.
And, Mama, even though you got lost on the subway those many years ago, you still found your way to my heart.
Sleep well.
Reach columnist Alex Berger by e-mail at TimesLedger@aol com or call 229-0300, Ext. 139.
