The Last Call

“Mickie?”

I groaned inwardly. Hearing my mother call my name usually meant she needed something. What was it now? Still, I knew her requests were never demands. She was the least demanding person I’ve ever known. But as she aged, she came to rely on me more — physically and emotionally.

Needing others had never been my mother’s style. She was the epitome of self-sufficiency and competence, a pragmatic woman whose strength seemed unshakable.

My mother was born in Germany, and true to her heritage, she carried a stoic nature. But her resilience was forged through pain. On Kristallnacht, when she was seven, Nazis stormed into her home, burned her father’s Jewish books and arrested him — sending him to Dachau. The next day, she was taken by train to Switzerland and placed in a kinderheim, a children’s home, not knowing when or if her parents would ever return.

Trauma like that leaves its mark. It shaped her into someone who faced life through logic and determination, and those traits helped her survive what came next.

From Helper to Helped

For most of my life, my mother was the helper — not the helped. She expressed love through doing.

When my husband and I became parents, she was my guide and anchor. She showed me how to care for my babies, how to soothe them, and how to create order in the chaos of new motherhood. She was there when I was overwhelmed — the voice of calm and experience. But as time went on, our roles reversed.

Inviting my mother to live with us came with sacrifice. Privacy became a luxury. But it was also one of the most meaningful choices I ever made.

After my father passed away, we invited my mother to live with us. We built an apartment attached to our home. It was an act of gratitude, a mitzvah, and yes — a test. Inviting her into our daily life came with sacrifice. Privacy became a luxury. But it was also one of the most meaningful choices I ever made.

In those early years, the door between our homes stayed unlocked. My mother preferred it open — she liked the feeling of being part of our household. But because of her hearing loss her TV was on the highest volume all day, so I insisted it stay closed.

As our children grew up and moved out, our house grew quiet — except for the sound of my mother’s voice calling, “Mickie?”

Sometimes she’d appear suddenly in the hallway.
“Oh, there you are,” she’d say.
“I’m here, Ima. Do you need something?”
“No, nothing. I was just wondering where you were.”

Eventually, I asked her — gently but firmly — to call before coming in. I needed privacy, and I knew that if I didn’t take care of myself, I couldn’t take care of her. But she took it as rejection. She couldn’t understand why the daughter she had been so close to now needed distance. Though I understood and validated her feelings, it remained a tender and unresolved wound between us.

The new rule meant more phone calls instead of surprise visits. Often my husband answered.

“Is Mickie there?” she’d ask.
“Yes, she’s home but working. Do you need anything?”
“No, just tell her to come by when she gets a chance.”

When I came over later, I’d find her in her green recliner facing the TV. “Hi Ima, do you need something?”

Without looking up, she’d answer, “No, I don’t need anything. What’s up?”

I knew she just wanted company. So I’d sit with her, watching whatever was on, being present.

Fading

As she aged, her memory began to fade. I tried not to ask, “Remember?” but it slipped out sometimes. I needed her to remember — I needed her to still be the same strong, steady mother I had always known. My greatest struggle, I’ve since realized, was not forgiving her for getting old.

“Mickie?” she’d call. “Something’s wrong with my remote.” I’d go in, only to find her holding the cordless phone.

With time, she accepted the help of a live-in aide, Annie, who became her companion and helper with things I couldn’t bring myself to do. Still, she loved her outings — women auxiliary meetings, lunches, little shopping trips. She always wanted to show me her new purchases: an outfit, a kitchen towel, an apron for me. Even near ninety, she still expressed love through giving.

My mother, Bella Granek, with her granddaughter

But as her health declined, so did our connection. I was exhausted. I tried to meet her needs while meeting my own. Deep down, I knew that when it was all over, I would want to look in the mirror and see someone who honored her mother with dignity.

And then came the day I could no longer answer her calls.

Her Last Word

When my mother contracted COVID-19, she was hospitalized. On March 25, 2021, I rushed to her bedside. She had been semi-conscious for two days. I took her hand and whispered, “Ima, it’s me. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

After a long silence, her eyes opened. She looked at me with effort and whispered, “Mickie.” Then her eyes closed again. The last word on her lips was my name.

This time, I was the one calling her. But for the first time in my life, she didn’t answer.

After a long silence, her eyes opened. She looked at me with effort and whispered, “Mickie.” Then her eyes closed again. The last word on her lips was my name.

Today, I would give anything to answer her call.