The Good-Bye

It was in a room at the Montage Hotel in Laguna Beach, California, a room overlooking the Pacific, where we all gathered for one last impromptu visit in August of 2004. The room was filled with quiet giggles, roaring laughter, and meaningful conversations. In the center of it all was my mother, regally reclined on a bed in her white crocheted sweater, looking elegant as ever.

There was a philanthropist and his wife dressed in black tie, having just come from a formal wedding, my mother’s dearest friends Christy and Sheldon, who had flown in from Greenwich, Connecticut on a moment’s notice, an Irish beauty and her Arab prince of a husband looking as though they had just stepped off a yacht, a yogi monk, and my stepfather among the group gathered there, all knowing this was a kind of farewell. Everyone in the room was aware that my mother had a week or less to live, and yet the evening became a raucous and deeply meaningful celebration of love.

Friends were scattered across sofas and chairs, while others flopped onto the bed beside my mother. By then, she was frail, but she was radiant that evening, her cheeks still rosy, the familiar sparkle still dancing in her eyes.

The festivities stretched late into the night until, one by one, her friends drifted away, most believing they would still have time to see her again in the coming days. That was not to be the case. Christy and Sheldon, however, knew they would see her the next day before returning to the East Coast.

The following evening, at sunset, when Christy and Sheldon came to say their final goodbyes, the emotion in the room was almost unbearable. How do you say goodbye to your closest friends for the last time? It was gut-wrenching. Wanting to give my mother and Christy some time alone, my stepfather, Sheldon, and I stepped inside, leaving the two spiritual sisters together on the patio as the palm trees swayed in the breeze and the sun slowly lowered itself into the sea.

The Wedding

Fast forward to June 10, 2011. The sun was setting in Greenwich, Connecticut, and I was getting ready to marry Ric at the home of Christy and Sheldon when Christy came somewhat breathlessly, only minutes before the ceremony, and asked if we could move it from inside the house to the garden.

I agreed easily. That day already felt like a dream. I was about to marry the love of my life, and I wasn’t concerned with where I happened to be standing when it occurred.

Before leaving the room, I had a quiet conversation with my mother. I had felt her spirit with me throughout the day. Since she had passed before I met Ric, she never had the chance to know him, though countless people who loved her have since told him she would have absolutely adored him.

I then made my way down the winding staircase on the arms of my father and stepfather, past the small gathering of friends and family, toward my handsome groom waiting outside on a brick patio overlooking the stream that ran through the property.

A few days later, when I spoke with Christy, she explained why she had suddenly felt compelled to move the ceremony outdoors.

During that final visit with my mother, while they sat on the balcony of the Montage watching the sun set over the Pacific, Christy had pragmatically asked, “Well, if I won’t be able to speak with you physically, how are you going to communicate with me?”

And my mother answered, “Through the water.”

Just before the wedding began, Christy remembered that conversation and wanted Ric and me to stand near the stream during the ceremony — closer to the water, and somehow, closer to my mother.

So to my mother, on her birthday —

I am forever grateful for the breathtaking presence you brought into my life, and for the profound joy and honor of being your daughter.