August 2001

My mother died of acute leukemia on June 20th. I oversaw her healthcare during her 18 months of treatment, and was her primary caregiver in the end. Helping her was an honor, though it occasionally transported me back to my adolescence. For example, weeks before mother died she forbade me from mentioning my gay matchmaker work to her favorite cousin, Bob, who would be attending her birthday party the next day. Of course, soon after I arrived at the party Bob inquired, "So your stepfather says you're a consultant. Do you do corporate turnarounds?" My two older brothers and stepfather - also sworn to secrecy - sat silent. Their stern expressions conjured up a nervous laugh from my gut. Awkwardly, I changed the subject, my vocation to remain a hidden yet valuable jewel of truth.

Before mother married my stepfather, John, she told him that she had spent her whole life cooking for us three children and our father (who had died 10 years earlier), and that she wasn't interested in cooking anymore. John didn't mind, and he was always good to her. Mother spent her last days in a hospital bed that had been assembled near the master-bedroom window of John's Sacramento home.

Hospice staff helped out every other day for one hour, and John relieved me most afternoons for as long as I wanted. One afternoon I drove my rental car to a neighborhood Safeway supermarket located in a well-landscaped strip mall with ample parking (so unlike San Francisco). I pushed an oversized grocery cart down extra-wide aisles, and selected the limited range of foods that mother specifically ordered, but sparingly ingested. During other afternoon breaks I read, but did not absorb, two novels I had picked out from the bargain section of a local bookstore.

In the early-morning hours of June 20th, I knelt next to mother's hospital bed on the side where I could talk into her good ear. I had some private words with her, and prayed. Then I reminisced about how she and John had shared good friends, taken art classes, gone ballroom dancing often, and traveled around the world. My intuition foretold that these would be the last words she would hear. Ironically it was she, who was embarrassed by my having become a gay matchmaker, who helped me believe in love enough to make it my vocation.

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