But once in awhile, someone gets it right. Someone harnesses the power of mass connection and takes it in a new, meaningful direction. That person is NPR's Saturday Weekend Edition host, Scott Simon.
Earlier this week, Simon's mother lay on her death bed in a Chicago hospital, succumbing to what, I don't know. Simon took to Twitter to document his last days...hours...minutes at the bedside of his precious Mom.
I am getting a life's lesson about grace from my mother in the ICU. We never stop learning from our mothers, do we?
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 25, 2013
Mother & I just finished a duet of We'll Meet Again. Every word has meaning. Nurse looks in, asks, "Do you take requests?"
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 27, 2013
No real sleep tonight. But songs poems memories laughs. My mother: "Thank you God for giving us this night & each other"
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 27, 2013
Mother: "I don't know why this is going on so long. I'm late for everything I guess."
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 27, 2013
They sang her favorite show tunes, she joked with the medical staff as well as her son, imparted some lasting advice, and when she was afraid, Simon held his mother as if she was a small child. It's a tough, sobering reality to cradle the cradler.
I tell my mother, "You'll never stop teaching me." She said, "Well don't blame me for everything."
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 27, 2013
Mother asks, "Will this go on forever?" She means pain, dread. "No." She says, "But we'll go on forever. You & me." Yes.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 28, 2013
I see dawn coming in sky and want to hold it back to keep my mother from what's ahead--to keep my mother, period.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 28, 2013
I just realized: she once had to let me go into the big wide world. Now I have to let her go the same way.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 28, 2013
I think she wants me to pass along a couple of pieces of advice, ASAP. One: reach out to someone who seems lonely today.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 28, 2013
And: listen to people in their 80's. They have looked across the street at death for a decade. They know what's vital.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 28, 2013
I love holding my mother's hand. Haven't held it like this since I was 9. Why did I stop? I thought it unmanly? What crap.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
In middle of nights like this, my knees shake as if there's an earthquake. I hold my mother's arm for strength--still.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
Perhaps he felt a personal, historic significance to log what he was experiencing in order to recall his journey once the surrealness of the inevitable funeral and internment passed, or he used it as a means to keep his own family in DC informed without leaving her side to phone in details, or maybe he just needed to throw his feelings out there because the enormity of watching your mother die is just so indescribably massive, it's impossible to process alone.
Mother cries Help Me at 2;30. Been holding her like a baby since. She's asleep now. All I can do is hold on to her.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
Her passing might come any moment, or in an hour, or not for a day. Nurses saying hearing is last sense to go so I sing & joke.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
When she asked for my help last night, we locked eyes. She calmed down. A look of love that surpasses understanding.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
I know end might be near as this is only day of my adulthood I've seen my mother and she hasn't asked, "Why that shirt?"
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 29, 2013
The heavens over Chicago have opened and Patricia Lyons Simon Newman has stepped onstage.
— Scott Simon (@nprscottsimon) July 30, 2013
Whatever his reasoning, his honest documentation is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. He fearlessly laid himself out bare. And I, for one, thank him for sharing, despite being reduced to a blubbering mass. In hindsight, having my eyes well up with tears, blurring my vision while trying to scroll the TelePrompTer for a live newscast probably wasn't the smartest move.
Simon's struggle with his desire to hold onto his mother while knowing he had to let her go touched me deeply, because A) I HAVE A FUCKING HEART and B) my own treasure, Big Mar is 92 years old. I know she can't live forever, but she is still so full of life and love and wisdom to depart. She is a lesson in grace, elegance, and joie de vivre. She is an amazing woman. With age, Big Mar has become more carefree, more light, taking delight in the simple things.
She is an inspiration.
She's also mortal.
The day she leaves this mortal coil, I will be completely devastated. But, much like Simon, I hope I will have the opportunity, as difficult as it will be, to hold her hand, shower her with love, and make sure she knows the enormous impact she has had on not just ours, but every life she touched as she slips through to the other side.
