On a sunny July 4th in 1939, New York Yankees first baseman Lou Gehrig stepped up to a microphone on the field at Yankee Stadium, announcing the end of his career at the hands of a terrible disease that would slowly but surely rob him of everything but his thoughts and personality.
On a sunny March 6th, 2011, as I waited for a flight in the Baltimore airport coming back from visiting a friend in Florida, mom called me with the news, that she was formally diagnosed with the same awful disease that took Lou Gehrig so long ago. As I wept in the airport, realizing the 3-5 years that we likely had left, she did what she was always able to, and bring out the best in the situation. "It's ok," she said, “I could get hit by a bus tomorrow and that would be it. At least here we know we have some time."
Time had been kind to my mom up to that point. She had done more for more people in three decades than most people could do in multiple lifetimes. The countless lives she touched surely earned her goodwill with the creator; that she had still decades ahead to enjoy her as-yet-unknown grandchildren.
But of course, that was not to be, leaving us with some remaining brief time to enjoy what family moments we could, and to reflect on the wonderful life that she had lived.
We weren’t the only children she devoted her life to; she would do anything for anyone. In her years of teaching she spent countless hours after school and on weekends, providing students with extra help not in just their academics, but in the development of lifelong skills--cooking for fundraiser dinners, coaching on how to provide great customer food service, generating ideas for events, and teaching the management skills to run them. When she wasn't helping students, she was actively involved in her profession, participating in statewide teacher organizations and test development.
As most of you know, she spent a year after high school in Japan as a Rotary Exchange Student, a program that she gave back to in her adult life. Helping to administer the program in the region, she also brought into her home many students--Petra, Alex, Ben, Rita, Laurette, Connie, and of course, Cath. I can’t talk about this aspect of her life without talking about Cath, who not only became another daughter to her, but also provided her with her first two grandchildren before Kim and I were able to.
And when she somehow found time after all those things, she still made time to give Kim and me every opportunity we could have asked for, driving us to dance and scouting events, volunteering as a chaperone and leader for us, spending countless dollars and hours to give us the most fulfilling childhood we could have.
There’s so much to say about my mom. We can talk until the wee hours of the night about all the things she did. But as important as a chronology of her life is--and we must certainly continue that conversation not just in the days and weeks ahead, but for the remainder of our lives--I want to focus today on the very character of her soul, from which all of those stories emanate.
My mother was the embodiment of the Golden Rule; she would do anything for anyone; but she also wouldn’t expect anything from anyone. When she was first diagnosed, it devastated many of us, even testing some of our faith. How could God do something so terrible to such a wonderful person? But whatever our thoughts, not once in the past 4 ½ years did she ever complain or look for sympathy. While all those around her struggled with mixed bouts of anger or sorrow or bitterness, she was always at peace. She was always willing to accept what came at her without any question, and most importantly, with that glowing smile on her face.
As terrible as ALS is and can be, it never robbed her of her smile. So now with her passing, we will miss that smile. I didn't know just how much we will until yesterday...I am overwhelmed by the number of people who shared that same sentiment. But the memory of her smile encapsulates everything that she was.
When a good friend of mine lost his father unexpectedly, he told me how he lost a piece of his soul that day that he will never get back. It is a sentiment that I have come to understand. But the entirety of my soul overflows with what she provided. Even as I lose a piece of it, I am still filled with all that she taught, with all that she was.
She was never bashful to tell us, or anyone for that matter, about how proud she was of Kim and me. But the truth is, everything that she saw in us with pride came directly from her. Whether she was proud because of life decisions we’d made, or personal or professional successes we’d had, every single one of those moments came as a result of her example.
So when I say she embodied the Golden Rule, it is utterly true. Certainly she had her moments in raising us where she needed to discipline us, but so much of what we learned about life just came from following her example. Be nice to everyone. Say please and thank you; write thank you notes. Volunteer for others that are less fortunate. Always remain faithful, no matter how dark the times may be. Do whatever you can for whomever you can, because even the smallest help can have the greatest impact. And of course, smile.
Before I close, I want to share a story about that smile in her last few hours. After many hours of troubled breathing and limited communication and responsiveness, the hospice nurse suggested that her breathing mask was prolonging things. We decided to remove the mask, which the nurse anticipated would likely help her finally rest. We gathered together, holding her, and told her how much we loved her. The mask came off, and within seconds her color improved and she opened her eyes. Kim asked her to watch over us, and dad added, as you would expect him to, "but don't watch me too close." And for the first time in what seemed an eternity, her face lit up and she laughed. Over the next few minutes, though she was unable to speak, we could see in her eyes and smile the love and peace in her heart. She laughed, she cried, and slowly she fell back asleep. The nurse thought that she would only last a few minutes without the mask. It ended up being another 12 hours, as she waited for her room to be empty for a brief moment, shielding us as she always did from life's unpleasant moments.
On the Pope's recent visit to the US, he addressed Congress, telling our leaders that "The yardstick we use for others will be the yardstick which time will use for us," which is a modern, simple way of quoting Luke 6:38: "Give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you.”
By this yardstick, I can think of no person to be more greatly measured by time or by God than Dodi Cechnicki. Her love and devotion, hard work and dedication, wisdom and caring could be measured by lifetimes of yardsticks.
But most importantly, it was this measurement that she most cared about. In her closing weeks, we talked a lot about how at peace she was, about how she had done and seen all that she wanted, and had no regrets. The only thing that continued to nag at her, the only unfinished business she felt she had, was that she tried to get along with everyone. It bothered her that she would pass from this earth without mending some relationships that she desperately wanted to mend. She specifically asked that the world know all she wanted is for people to know she tried her best and just wanted to get along.
And so it is now our mission, not just to help all those connected to her to know she meant no ill will, but to also embody that spirit in our daily lives. Life is far too short to carry around the burden of broken, but repairable relationships. Life cannot be fulfilled completely so long as we stand by the things that divide us and fail to lift up the things that unite us. That is the essence of my mom's lifelong and passing wish, and I ask that we all dedicate ourselves to that end. At times it will be a struggle, at times it will seem almost impossible--but so long as we keep that ideal she embodied in the back of our minds and hearts, then we do well to honor her memory.
I began today talking about Lou Gehrig, the namesake of the disease that has taken her from this world. It is only fitting then to close with the words he shared all those years ago.
“So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for.”
My mom still had a lot to live for, but had already lived so much, touching countless lives along the way. In a selfish way, I stand here and say that the greatest injustice in the world, to me now, is that there wasn't more time for her to give.
But I must suppress that, and recognize that her life was lived as God intended it, and it was time for Him to call her home.
And for that, we are the luckiest kids on the face of the earth.