This is a date I can never forget. First, because it is the anniversary of my mother’s death in 1991, at the age of 84.

And second, because it was my sister Merna’s birthday.

That’s right — our mother died on her older daughter’s birthday.

It had been a stressful couple of weeks. I was just back at home after a summer spent working overseas in Prague (a whole other tale). And now our mother was hospitalized with congestive heart failure, and the two of us were trying to concentrate on our respective jobs while coordinating our daily visits to the hospital and worrying about what lay ahead.

On the 18th, we had agreed to go to the hospital that evening, before heading out for our customary birthday dinner. As I was getting ready for work in the morning, Merna called to say she had checked in with the hospital, and that Mother had had a restful night. Good news.

But before I could get out the door, the phone rang again. The hospital had called her back to say that, contrary to expectations, Mother had just passed away.

Well, there went dinner.

At least, that’s how we joked about it later . . . much later. At the time, it was the furthest thing from our minds (although I did remember to cancel our reservation). But first we had to notify our offices, then came the phone calls to family and friends, and finally the funeral arrangements . . . in Rhode Island.

Did I mention that we lived in D.C., but were originally from New England?

And that we’re Jewish, which meant that everything had to be done quickly?

Thanks to a whole lot of help from family members in Rhode Island, it all got done . . . rather smoothly, actually, and without any of the customary sibling disagreements. Sometimes a shared loss can bring people closer together.

It wasn’t without its moments, though. I’ve written about it before: the funeral director who tried to sell us his most expensive casket (did I mention that we’re Jewish?!!); my daughter packing seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush for the trip; the Rabbi in Rhode Island who looked like Mottel the Tailor from Fiddler on the Roof; the rainy day that turned sunny just as we reached the cemetery; and the therapeutic laugh-fest later that night at our aunt’s house, after all the friends had left.

And on the return flight home a couple of days later, there was a party to plan for all of the friends from the D.C. area who hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. And I must say, it was one hell of a party. Mother would have loved it.

Everyone mourns in their own way.

Merna and I grew closer after that. We were best friends, sharing a mutual love of the theater, searching out new restaurants, shopping, and traveling together. We lived just a block apart, yet we called each other a dozen times a day on the slightest excuse, or for no reason at all. After all, who knew us better — or shared a longer history — than we did?

I lost Merna 26 years later, on October 24, 2017, after a two-year struggle with cancer. I was her caregiver during those two years, spending more time at her apartment than my own, until she finally went into hospice and surrendered to the inevitable.

I still reach for the phone to call her sometimes. A lot of times.

Happy birthday, big sister. I miss you.

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Thanks to my readers for letting me share this day with you. As I said, we each mourn in our own way . . . and writing seems to work for me.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/18/26