Here’s this week’s Smartmom from the Brooklyn Paper:
Things haven’t been the same on Third Street since B., a beloved
neighbor, got sick in February. Sure, life goes on. The children play,
the neighbors talk, the cars speed east toward Seventh Avenue.
But
there’s a new sense of the fragility of things; the way that the thread
of life can break unexpectedly and bring pain and suffering to a family.
Some
neighbors knew more than others, but it was obvious to just about
everyone on the north side of Third Street between Sixth and Seventh
avenues that a beautiful and devoted mother of two, a woman who was
often out in the spacious cement beach of her Third Street apartment
building, was missing in action.
No one wanted to intrude by
asking too many invasive questions. The code of privacy was maintained
as a way to show love and respect to the husband and children of this
brilliant woman who was struck down in the prime of her life.
Smartmom
remembers meeting B., a statuesque woman with penetrating eyes, when her family moved to Third Street from
Washington Heights in 2003. Ever the Third Street ambassador, Smartmom
wanted them to know that they’d moved to a great block; that they would
not regret crossing the river.
She could tell that B. was smart;
a licensed Gestalt psychoanalyst, B. received her doctorate in
philosophy from the CUNY Graduate Center, where she specialized in
contemporary philosophy of language, logic and philosophy of mind.
Over
time, B.’s family adapted to Third Street’s sidewalk rhythms and
became active participants in the raucous playtimes, the BBQs, and the
stoop sales.
An attentive neighbor and friend, B. never passed
without a warm hello and a smile. One Third Street neighbor, whose
child was in a class with B.’s son, remembers B. as a kind, empathic
friend “who was above all a mother. One of the best.”
B. didn’t
allow her children to stay out quite as late as some of the other Third
Street parents; Smartmom noticed that. There was a gentle order to her
household that Smartmom envied. She never served an impromptu supper on
the stoop or let her kids run wild after 9 pm.
But in the warmer
months, B. was often outside with her husband and their flock joining
in on the Third Street banter, the harmless gossip, the endless
discussions about children and school.
But as she talked, B.’s
eyes rarely strayed from her son or daughter as they played in the
yard. Fiercely protective and vigilant, B. never neglected her role as
mother/protector of those beautiful children, especially her son who
has diabetes.
Learning that B. was ill was an unforgettable blow
for the mothers on Third Street. It seemed deeply unfair to hurt
someone so young and talented and to deprive two children of the years
they deserved with their mom.
For the mothers on Third Street, the identification with B. was
profound: if this could happen to B., it could happen to any one of
them. There was anger and regret for the things left unsaid and the
feelings not shared; for the sense that life is suddenly so
changeable.
As the reality sunk in, they struggled to come up
with appropriate ways to express their love and concern. Some sent
notes, some visited, one brought bread on Fridays. Others exercised
discretion as a way to honor the family. Smartmom noticed plants and
flowers on the inside of B.’s front window. Window boxes were planted
with red geraniums and Black-Eyed-Susan’s in late May.
It was
obvious that B. was well cared for in her last months by a tremendously
devoted group of relatives and friends, as well as hospice workers whom
Smartmom watched as they changed shifts.
In recent weeks,
Smartmom noticed that B. was often sitting in her front window.
Smartmom couldn’t help but look for her there as she walked by many
times a day. Some days she waved at B., some days she just smiled.
A
few weeks ago, B. waved back and Smartmom was ecstatic. A few days
later, B. spent short periods of time out in the yard, sitting in a
wheelchair and meeting with friends.
Magical thinking and denial
are powerful. Smartmom hoped that B.’s illness was in remission, that
the experts were wrong, that she would overcome the predicted outcome.
But it wasn’t to be.
Over
the months of B’s illness, Smartmom thought about B. dozens of times a
day. Though they were warm neighbors rather than intimate friends,
Smartmom felt a real sense of love and protection toward her. She never
once pitied this woman who died as she’d lived with a gentle strength,
a deep intelligence, and unyielding connection with the husband and
children she loved.
So how has Third Street changed? Someone’s
missing and it hurts. But Smartmom believes that B. is looking out for
her kids, her husband, her friends and neighbors on the street she
called home.
Dedicated to Beth Hassrick, 1961–2007