About Mom
A properly timed eulogy to my mom, Carole Benbassat
Hello Sketchbugs,
I originally wanted to write a piece about my March adventures in NYC, from guest speaking for two SVA classes to celebrating my Gold medal win at the 67th Society of Illustrators show. I had won a medal in the Editorial category, made a speech I was proud of, met a ton of cool illustrators, and hung out with friends I hadn’t seen in a while. It was a dreamlike weekend. But like all dreams, we have to wake up to reality: and sometimes reality sucks.
On the last day of March, my mom’s aid Mercy told me to come to New Jersey. Something was wrong with mom. Her small cold had worsened and my once celebratory glee turned into anxious agony as her palliative care team told me it was time to take her to the ER. As EMTs wheeled her into an ambulance, I knew full well she wasn’t coming back home.
In the the ER, the doctors found out mom had COVID and pneumonia; a death sentence for a 78 year old woman whose body was already weakened from battling scleroderma and dementia for years. I had been her caregiver for 7 years and had been preparing for this scenario for what felt like a lifetime, but hearing the diagnosis and seeing her condition still tore me apart. With a heavy heart, I decided it was time to put her in hospice. I called my partner, told Mercy, informed my family, texted my friends, emailed my agent and editors, and prepared for a strange waiting game with death.
It takes a surprising amount of effort for a body to die and my mom was a tough cookie. Her little body withstood all expectations and held out for around 5 days. I spent most of those days visiting her with my partner and later with my aunt Nancy and uncle Fred who flew out all the way from California to see her. Time passes by both slow and fast in hospice, so I tried to make the most of the limbo-like space by talking to mom and drawing her. I told her about how wonderful of a mom she was, recalled stories from the past, told her about how she’d see dad again, told her how much I loved her and so many more things. I even shared my gold medal speech from the weekend before. She wasn’t conscious but I want to believe she heard it and was proud of me.
My partner, aunt, uncle and Mercy said their final words to her throughout the five days, and on Monday, April 7th, mom passed away. I was by her side, holding her hand until the last breath. I had made a resolution to see her off (something I couldn’t do for my father when he had passed 7 years before) so there were no regrets. In trying to keep with Jewish tradition and trying to avoid the Passover/ Easter rush, we had a memorial for her that Friday. Many of mom’s family members, friends, and acquaintances (from all over the country) showed up as well as some of my friends who knew her. She was truly loved and this time I was a little more put together in planning the event. 2nd time’s the charm am I right? I even had a proper eulogy prepared, which I wanted to share here for those who could not come to the memorial or see the livestream.
Thank you all for coming to honor, mourn and celebrate the life of my mom, Carole Ann Benbassat. I know she would have been so happy to see you all gathered here, despite the somber reason. Some of you know her as part of the larger than life Goldstein family (and the decently sized Cohen family), some from book club, some from mahjong, some from meeting her on a train and striking up a conversation, some from being married to her husband, David Benbassat, and some know her as being my mom during middle school, high school, college and beyond. Mom was a woman who could charm a stone statue with her wit, kindness, style, and southern hospitality.
But before she was a mother, a wife, a working woman, and a friend to many, she was a little girl growing up in Hampton Virginia, surrounded by family, the ocean and the smell of crab canneries. Mom was born Carole Ann Goldstein to Herbert and Ruth Goldstein. She had a sister 4 years older than her named Jeanie and a dalmatian named Ringo; the son of the firehouse dog. When mom was 9, she met my dad, David Benbassat in Hebrew school. Mom always said it was love at first sight, telling my grandpa Herby, “There’s a new boy in Hebrew school named David Benbassat, and I’m going to marry him.” Mom knew how to manifest the future before it was trendy.
Before she thought of romance though, mom was a dedicated student and music lover. She thrived in school, oftentimes speaking of her past classes with glee. She was only second to the Valedictorian in her high school and proudly played the flute in her award-winning school band. She kept her high school flute with her throughout her life, even when she couldn’t play it anymore. Although her illness would take away her breath control, her ear for music remained. She could always tell when something was off key to the smallest detail. My dad and I were tone deaf, so we admired her talent from afar.
Prior to dating my dad in high school, mom went on a few dates with The Barefoot Contessa’s husband Jeffrey Garten. After Jeffrey, she dated a drummer in the band that her math teacher told her was too dumb for her. Only after the drummer debacle did mom start dating dad. But their first date went horribly, with dad choosing to watch a football game while trying to hold mom’s hand. They both famously hated football and mom didn’t like how fast dad was moving. The relationship could have ended there but mom took a chance and asked dad to the Sady Hawkins dance and the rest was history.
After graduating high school, mom went to Goucher then transferred to Tufts for an undergrad in mathematics. Dad went to MIT at the time and after they graduated, they got married in the chaotic year of 1968. Later, mom did a master’s in psychology, her thesis mentioning something about giving rats escape room like puzzles, so that’s neat. She would end up working as a consultant in the burgeoning world of computers, teaching a specific computer program that many companies used. She told me she once travelled to the Coca Cola company base in Canada to teach their staff the program (where she confirmed they did put coke in the original soda recipe).
Amidst building her professional and married life, mom was diagnosed with scleroderma; an autoimmune disease with a 5-year life expectancy at the time. Mom was devastated and spent many months grieving the future she had expected. Little did she know, she would continue to prove that 5-year life expectancy wrong, outliving the doctor who gave her the diagnosis, people who were healthier than her, and even her own husband (to the shock of us both). If mom was one thing, she was stubborn and she knew how to take a life changing diagnosis and make it part of her daily routine. Even with UV light sensitivity, lung issues, and new medicines, she still travelled the world, made lifelong friendships, and had a fulfilling career with her loving husband at her side. She even got to meet Bob Saget because of his work with the Scleroderma foundation. But one thing scleroderma did do was make it impossible for my parents to have kids. That was until I came into the picture.
My mom had always wanted to be a mother. And more importantly she always wanted to be a girl mom. When her and dad got engaged, they spent a night writing down all the names of their future child, all of them girl names. Julie was funnily not on the list so this must have been the naming warmup. When the doctor said my parents could not conceive, she was utterly heartbroken but took the news in stride, adopting adorable black cats and living a fulfilling dink life with my dad (dink stands for dual income no kids). They had given up trying for kids and adoption was off the table until around age 48 when my mom’s work friend Amy said they were not too old to adopt from China. At 50 years old, my parents adopted a 7-month year old me from Kunming, China. Once I was in mom’s arms for the first time, we were thick as thieves.
All throughout my life mom was a gentle, loving presence. She and my dad would be the hallmark of gentle parenting if they had a family vlog (which they would never do because they wouldn’t believe in exploiting me to the masses). When I was feeling sad or scared, I’d cuddle up on her lap and go to sleep with her. When I was feeling hungry, we’d bake up some brownies together and snack on the dough. And when school was over, we would go on our weekly girls’ nights to talk about the day and the weekly gossip. She encouraged my love of art by reading every children’s book about art that she could find, hanging up all my artwork and posing for a portrait or two. I kept drawing her till the day she passed.
She would give the best soft hugs, the sweetest compliments, and the most insightful advice. But if you ever threatened my wellbeing, she would turn into a tiger. When I was having my mikvah as a baby, I struggled with each dunk into the water. On the second dunk I came up and was coughing badly. My mom threatened to kill the rabbi and my dad who was dunking me if they decided to go for the third dunk. Let’s just say I did not get a complete mikvah that day. Does this make me an incomplete Jew? I don’t know.
When my dad passed away in 2018 however, our roles of parent and child were inexplicably changed. My dad had been my mom’s foundation, her rock for the past 50 years and when he passed away so fast, she deteriorated. Dementia slowly took hold of her mind and her legs became too weak to carry her. I even debated taking a gap year at RISD or dropping out entirely to help her settle all the death bureaucracy, but she refused, saying my education was important. Once I graduated and 2020 hit, it was apparent that mom needed help, so I moved back home. Serendipitously, the illustrator career I had doubted pursuing had given me the flexible schedule to be take her to appointments, pick up groceries and keep her company as her caretaker. We were also aided by the help of her live in-home health aide Mercy (the most apt name), who helped with mom’s daily necessities for 4 years. She considered mom her own mother and treated her with kindness I could never repay.
Even struggling with dementia, mom never forgot who I was completely. And even after I moved out in 2022, her eyes would gleam whenever I would make my weekly visit. To her, I was always her daughter and that was the thing that kept me going the last 7 years of watching her slowly fade away. I could tell you so many more stories about her. She loved anything chocolate and French quenelles, taking walks with my dad, having long conversations on the phone with friends, and gossiping about Elvis’ hips. She was my biggest supporter, my shoulder to cry on, and my guiding voice. To say goodbye to her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but knowing she’s reunited with my dad, in my heart, and in the memory of people here, brings me the greatest joy. Her legacy is with all of us.
After the memorial, I buried mom’s ashes where I buried dad’s: somewhere in nature where they can be together forever. My aunt, uncle, and their children flew back to California, my fridge was filled with food from friends and family, and the world went back to “normalcy”. There are days where the sadness drowns out the entire day and there are days where it’s sprinkled throughout like puddles on a horribly paved road. No matter what metaphor I throw at it, it still sucks. Being a 29 year old orphan isn’t very fun. I don’t recommend it.
One thing that has been helping me through this monumental grief period is looking through all the drawings and paintings I made of mom during my 7 years as her caregiver. I originally just wanted to do this as an art exercise but it quickly became a little activity we could share in when eating dinner, doing the NYT crossword, watching TV: any small moment really. These pieces are part of her legacy. They feel more gentle and less clinical than photographs, and give mom a sense of pride and vulnerability. I have shared a few pieces here:
I wanted to end this long post by thanking all of the people who supported me during this 2 week hell. Thank you to my partner Ava for stepping up when I needed you most, to Aunt Nancy, Uncle Fred, Greg, Becki, and Shari, who gave me direct support throughout this ordeal, to my friend Tegan (and her family) who got me donuts and flowers while I waited in hospice, to my RISD friends Cat and Franco who came down from Providence to lighten my burdens, to my mom’s friends Carol and Lynn as well as my highschool friends Allison and Sumayyah who delivered meals throughout the hospice days, to Ava’s family and friends who watched over Mo, to all the family and friends who reached out with loving messages and/or more food, to Rabbi David for his words and prayers at the memorial and all of those who came to the memorial, digital or in person.
If you would like to honor mom, please consider donating to the National Scleroderma Foundation. Without their work, mom probably would not have lived as long as she did. And if you would like to support me and my work, please consider becoming a paid sketchbud, buying some art at my shop, or leaving a nice note about mom. I bet she would love to hear your stories.
What a beautiful way to honor grief and the gift of her life. A sacred thing to share!
Your eulogy was so beautiful. The portraits are so moving. I know how much your parents adored you - for years, they were always so proud.
And, now , even more so.❤️