A Eulogy for my Mother
By: Julie Matlin
Tags: Cancer, Mothers, Eulogy, Death, Family

March 10, 2020; Photo by Eva Blue

On Friday, July 10, 2020, my mother, Evelyn Matlin, passed away after a mercifully short 17-month battle with stage four ovarian cancer. This is the eulogy I gave at her limited graveside pandemic funeral.

My mother was the kind of person who touched the lives of everyone she met. She was kind, compassionate, and wise… though often a little naïve. She was the kind of person everyone wanted to be around. She was funny.

She was married at 18, and a mother by 19. She then dropped everything and spent the next 15 years raising four children, after which she returned to McGill to earn her degree. And then, a few years later, opened the magic shop with my father. Over the past 40 years, she’s also written a few unpublished children’s books, screenplays, and kept a blog. She studied and earned a certification in document examination and operated a successful consulting business for decades. And of course, she analyzed all our handwriting.

My parents had an extraordinary relationship. They were so happy together. They were the role model for what a great marriage should look like. Well, except that my father got away with way too much.

They met young, and were married for almost 62 years, 42 of which were spent working together in what can only be described as an intimate environment; their desks touching. My dad ran the back end of the business while my mom tended to the customers, all the while keeping her consulting business on the side. The customers loved her. I can’t count the number of people I’ve met who told me my mother showed them their first card trick. She had infinite patience and delighted in bringing new magicians into the fold.

She took care of my father throughout their entire marriage, and he in turn took care of her during her illness. He’s so much stronger than I thought possible. I know she didn’t regret a day of their time together, but, I don’t know, joke’s kind of on her that he could’ve been doing laundry all this time.

Two of my three siblings couldn’t be here today, for obvious reasons. Neither could her siblings or in-laws. Travel bans and quarantines make it impossible. Grieving during a pandemic is hard. But we know they’re here with us in spirit. As are all her cousins and nephews, nieces and friends. She was much loved.

My mother and I were extremely close. She loved all her children equally, but each relationship was unique. My brother and I had a different connection with her, being in daily contact and close proximity. But I also think it’s because she was 31 when she had me, as opposed to the baby of 19 she was when she had my sister. She had so much experience, and had built up such a store of patience, by the time I came along.

Of course, I always love to tell the story of how mortified she was when she found out she was pregnant with me. She felt she was way too old and there would surely be something wrong with me. She vowed that if there was, she’d smother me in my crib.

Now, it’s one thing to have thought this, but she told me about it. Numerous times. Just in case anyone wonders where my dark sense of humour comes from.

We shared a love of many things, from cheesy soap operas like Knots Landing to the brilliant writing of David Sedaris. We spent so much time laughing. It was such a common thing to pick up the phone and hear her howling on the other end, unable to catch her breath long enough to share the joke. And I can’t count the number of seders that ended with my brothers, my mother and me dissolving into tears of hysterics.

Thanks to kind and generous friends, my mother and I would go to almost every exhibit at the museum of fine arts and attend as many plays as we could — especially the musicals. One of our last outings was to see Come from Away at the Place des Arts. I bought tickets for us long in advance, and even though she was pretty sick when the time came, she still wanted to go. We had a wonderful night, and I felt blessed to be able to take her.

As she got older, weekly Shabbat dinners switched to our house and it was a pleasure to see her finally sit down and have the chance to relax. And to enjoy her grandchildren. But we still made her bring the chicken soup. My boy loves her matzah balls.

My mother loved her grandchildren more than anything. My kids got to spend so much time with her, and for that I’m eternally grateful. The relationships they built provided memories that will last them a lifetime. Even after my mother stopped eating, she’d hoard the muffins and cakes from her lunch tray so she’d have something to offer when they’d visit. And when they weren’t there, she’d say to me, “Take something home for the kids.”

They loved their bubby, and their bubby loved them.

And she was crazy about my husband, Daniel. “He’s the one,” she said, very soon after meeting him. Well, you all know that story. Even when I was furious with him, she’d always talk me down, reminding me what a good husband he is, what a good father he is, what a good person he is. She wanted the best for me, and knew Daniel was it.

She loved all her family — her siblings, children, grandchildren, in-laws, cousins. She was the one who reached out, kept in touch, kept the lines open. She was just a good person.

My mother’s 17-month long illness was book-ended by what were probably two of the most joyous occasions of her life: my son’s bar mitzvah and my daughter’s bat mitzvah. She was diagnosed only days after the former, and the latter was her last night out, right before the pandemic struck and her health started its final decline.

During that time, I went from daughter to chemo buddy to inevitable post-chemo hospital escort when the treatments started going bad. It allowed me to see a whole different side of my mom. And while of course I wish it had never happened, and I know it sounds strange, I’m so thankful for that time. To have been there for her, to have been a comfort during her time of need, and to have had the conversations we had. And to have laughed like we did — to the point the nurses thought we were nuts. Those are memories I’ll cherish despite the fact they’re shrouded in cancer.

She was so strong, and such a hero throughout the entire 17 months. She held onto her dignity right up until her final days, when she refused to let me feed her. “Not like that,” she said, as I held the spoon out for her. So I put down the spoon.

She smiled at every nurse, even when she could no longer speak. And I’m so proud to say I even made her laugh on her last day by asking an extremely inappropriate question.

And then I told her how beautiful she was. And how we all loved her, naming each of us in turn. I played her favourite music off a playlist my brother had put together, and even though she was only semi-conscious, I saw her lips move as she tried to sing along, and her foot sway from side to side. She derived so much pleasure from music and listening to my father at the piano.

I stayed with her all day and held her hand, often getting up to look into her eyes and always greeted with some form of recognition, a smile or a slight raising of the eyebrows.

I kissed her on the forehead and told her I’d always be there for her, like she had been for me. And I told her it was okay, that it was time for her to rest. She passed away hours later, knowing she was loved.

Edited slightly for clarity and privacy.