My Eulogy/ A labor of love:
I remember a conversation with my mother when I was a little girl. I asked her “What happens when you die?”
Her answer was clear and direct.
“I am not going,” she said. “It’s that simple.”
My mother did everything in a big way. She didn’t just buy a house. She drew the blueprints, interviewed the architects and builders and designed every detail. She didn’t have just 2 kids – she had 4 (I never knew another Jewish family with 4 kids).
When needlepoint became the rage in the 60s s she didn’t just do a few pillows with cute little sayings like everyone else’s mother. No, she did reproductions of famous original paintings – and would weave different color threads together to produce Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Matisse’s Reclining Pink Nude., Matisse’s Blue Nude, Leger’s Mechanic, Leger’s The City. And that’s only naming a few.
Not one to sit still. She approached everything with the organizational skill of a CEO. As a young mother she was active in the synagogue’s sisterhood at Rodfei Shalom and Beth Hillel. She had an interior design business that she started when we were young. At age 61 she opened an art gallery. She and my dad were excellent bridge partners. She planned holidays with precision and were amazing. She insisted every Passover that the menu should be just Milthic matza ball soup (made with milk and butter), asparagus and roasted potatoes – a menu that was in the Oscherwitz family for years.
She started a couple’s club with the Sherows, the Sirotas, the Walds and the Schaeffers that lasted for 50 years. Her best friend Sally Hoffmann, who was my best friend’s Jan’s mom was the Lucy to her Ethel.
She played ma Jong for years until one day she abruptly quit. Why? I asked. She said, “One day I realized that whoever didn’t show up, that’s who they had for lunch. “Not for me.”
She prided herself on the fact that every detail of each of our weddings was planned in just two days. (and 3 of us married within four months of each other)
She was the only mom I knew that insisted my dad take all of us to Wrigley Field every Mother’s Day. A quiet, empty house was bliss she said.
Throughout her life, it was this joy for life that defined her. It defined her especially during the happiest of times – our weddings, the birth of our children, buying our first homes, our promotions.
She orchestrated the days we each brought a new baby home from the hospital – she always said that her mother said new babies ALWAYS came with a baby nurse. She planned the meals that would be made and insisted we had a changing table on every floor.
She reveled in the purchase of all our homes – in fact, I think she rearranged the furniture in every room of every one of our houses.
But she also had this zest for life even at the worst times. When her own mother was dying, my mom brought her home, to our house in Wilmette. She made sure that Grandma Laura had photos of her and Grandpa Phil next to her. I remember Grandma Laura picking up one of the photos and saying “They were happy, they were lucky” just hours before she died. Even then, Grandma Laura’s days were marked with family and laughter. And my mother’s own struggles throughout her life were always punctuated with humor. Lots of humor.
Everyone who knew Elaine Sternberg knew she was always the funniest person in the room. Razor sharp, she could always be counted on to deliver the unexpected one-liner. In the spirit of Elaine Oscherwitz Sternberg, I would like to share a few.
It was the mid 1970’s. Many of my friends were pregnant. With each announcement I would call my mom, upset that after more than two years of trying I had not conceived. Without missing a beat, she said, “Honey, I know what It is.” “What, I said?” “It’s that damn waterbed. All the sperm get seasick and die.”
When it came time for their beloved dog Benji to be put to sleep, I took them to the vet. We were all in the room as Benji took his last breath. Mom and Dad were sobbing. I took them home and later they came to my house for dinner. I made a nice dinner but they seemed inconsolably sad. Until that is, it was time for them to go home. As Mom gathered up her purse, she yelled to my dad, “Now Shelly, remember when we walk in the door at home you have to bark.” That was my mom. And with her characteristic zest for life, within 72 hours, my parents, ages 83 and 79 would become the proud parents of a new puppy, Maggie.
Undoubtably the scariest time for us Sternbergs was 12 years ago. We all got word that my brother Michael was taken to the Highland Park hospital after collapsing in his home. His heart had stopped and as we waited in the emergency room we all expected the worse. As the hours went by, the emergency waiting area became more crowded – our immediate family back then numbered 24 and of course there were friends with us as well. We were scared, trying to prepare ourselves for the worst and not knowing what to say. But then my mom yelled across the room “Shelly, go get the nurse. Tell her we have a huge family and we need the ballroom.”
A couple of days later, Michael opened his eyes for the first time. It happened to be his birthday. I will never forget all of us standing around his bedside as my mother said, “Michael, if you wanted to have a party, couldn’t you just send invitations?”
Several years ago, before my mother’s open-heart surgery my mom asked for my help unraveling some legalities regarding the Oscherwitz cemetery plots – specifically, a technicality that had to be worked out for my father to be buried next to my mother in the Oscherwitz plot –it took 4 months, but I got the details all worked out. I called my mother on the phone to tell her that all the paperwork for the plots was signed and all was in order. Great she said. The she asked me to hold for a moment and I heard her n the background yell to my dad, “Shelly – we are good to go.”
One of my favorite memories is when all 35 of us were gathered for a meal she would look around the table at all the children and grandchildren, turn to my dad, point at all of us, shake her head and say, “Shelly, do you believe we did all this?”
Theirs was a major love story. We asked my mom on their 60th anniversary what was their secret? “Dad makes the big decisions and I make the small decisions. And so far there have been no big decisions.”
But in all serious this is a woman who referred to my dad as her boyfriend. And my dad was the person who on his 90th birthday told a story about how they met. In front of all us at a very long table at Briarwood he told us how he told mom to look for the guy at the Empire room wearing a yellow scarf. And then, as recounted the details of their meeting, he started to cry. For a rare Sternberg moment we were all speechless. He reached under his sweater and brought out a yellow scarf, put it on and said.
“That was the best day of my life.”
I have known for many years how blessed our family was. My parents slid into their older years aging physically, but mentally they were as sharp as ever.
And when it came to the end of Elaine’s life – she orchestrated it all. On her 91st birthday she announced it would be her last. Although she was mentally sharp her body was not cooperating. She said her life had been wonderful. She wanted no hospitals and no heroic efforts to keep her going.
And so, in this last month, there many incredible moments.
The children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came to visit, brought a meal and very often brought their dogs.
She discussed the benefits of JDate vs. Match.com with her single grandchildren. And entertained my girls with discussions about which Kardashian was her favorite, or what happened on the NY Housewives or Top Chef. Laura turned her on to Big Little Lies.
Yes, my 91-year-old mother was not only up-to date on the latest shows, she could even program the DVR herself.
There were serious discussions too. All of which she had opinions about.
Elaine was a most modern woman. In touch with the world and all the details of politics. Morning Joe was her go-to and MSNBC played all day. She had lots to say about world events and of course lots to say about her world. Her family. How she loved her family.
Just last week my mom asked me to arrange a visit with Angie Astrin, her brother Jerry’s ex-wife. And she told me to hurry up because time is running out. So last week, even though we were warned to make it a quick visit, she had a 2 ½ hours visit with Angie and her daughter Francie. We reminisced, laughed and had the best time. No one wanted to leave.
Mom got to share some big events with my family recently.
She was able to watch the live feed from Am Shalom on Yom Kippur as my three daughters Laura, Annie, Ali and I chanted Torah with me in honor of my 20-year cancer free anniversary. She knew that Ali was to be recognized this weekend in California for her fundraising efforts by the Rheumatology Research Foundation. Although we cancelled the trip to be with mom, we were given a preview of the video which included Ali speaking about RA and shared it with mom. And of course the recurring statement to her friends at her card games “My granddaughter Laura won an Emmy for her work with Oprah.” She was so proud.
And so in these last few days there was mom. Totally in control. In her home, surrounded by her art, her photographs and her needlepoints. Listening to Hillary Clinton’s What Happened on her Kindle Fire. Directing what time a meal would be, what show to watch and what time Josie should pick up the mail.
And most importantly there was Josie, technically a caregiver but more like a daughter. From day one Josie called her “Mama” and with a tenderness that I will never forget, rubbed her head and held her close in her last hours repeating “you can do this Mama.”
And my sister, the nurse. Who managed every detail of my mom’s care. We could not have done this without you. And Michael and David for their multiple visits each week often with their dogs.
On the last good day when my siblings and I arrived very early in the morning she said to us AS ONLY ELAINE COULD “So, are you all here to see me expire?”
But there were serious moments too. Recognizing that this was likely her last day she told Nancy and I “it’s been a great run…. I had such a great life. I picked the right guy. We had the best kids.” She then instructed us to make sure her obit said she weighed 126 pounds.
And then the family came running. One by one in her bedroom saying they loved her. Videos were played of Eli and Avery yelling “I love you Gigi”. Danny proudly bragging that even though Avery is not quite 2, she can recite the Cubs lineup (A TRUE STERNBERG). I read a long letter of love and gratitude from her first grandson Philip that reduced us to tears. Sarah physically supported my mom on the edge of her bed for hours. And when my daughter Annie arrived – she got the greatest gift. My mom gave Annie her last big smile and spoke for the first time in hours “Oh Annie you are so beautiful."
Everyone rallied in her room and waited until they were out of her sight to fall apart. Abby and Jason were stuck in traffic and we are convinced she waited until they arrived before she left us.
My mother left us all an incredible legacy. She taught us that life is an adventure. That you can make lemons out of lemonade. That even a body that hurts like hell won’t stop you from enjoying yourself. That even hands that can no longer hold the cards, can still play a mean game of bridge. That no arthritic ache or muscle cramp will prevent you from walking the stairs to see your grandchild’s new apartment and drawing the plans. That you must always clean up as your cook. That everyone needs to try the Oscherwitz milthic matzo ball soup. That you are never too old to reinvent yourself. That every chocolate cake is worth tasting. That every inch of wall space must have art hanging on it – even in the bathrooms. That life is too short and too wondrous to complain. And that life without a dog is well, just not worth living.
“We measure lives not in time
But in grace
In the joy with which they lived
And in the love which they leave behind.”
Thank you Mom. You’ve left us with a whole lot of love.
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