Mom, however, was back in the hospital because the cancer had progressed. No one mentioned it, but we all knew what was going to happen. I sat with her each day, happy to be near her. Every time I left her bedside, I made sure to tell her that I loved her.
They were hitting her hard with the chemo, and she was having relatively good days and really bad days. On a good day, my brother and I got the most loving version of Mom there was. On a bad day, we were verbal punching bags for whatever she was angry about at that moment.
One afternoon, after Kenneth gave her some water, she said he was the greatest son in the world. She showered him with all the praise she’d never given him growing up. It filled his soul with exactly what it had needed all these years. The next day, he was giving her water again, and she choked on it. Instantly, he became purse-snatching Kenneth again: “You’re trying to kill me! I know what you’re up to, boy—you wanna murder me so you can get that insurance money!”
Mom began insisting that we stop the treatments, take her back home, and let God get on with his work. There was no convincing her otherwise. Dad even visited her, tried to tell her that his God wanted her to do chemo, and ended up in an argument with her that seemed just like the old days.
On my last day in Philadelphia, Kenneth and I sat with Mom for hours. He was on one side of her chair, and I was on the other side. While she was speaking, Kenneth dozed off from exhaustion. Suddenly, Mom summoned strength from God knows where, reached out, and smacked him across the face. “You better wake up,” she rasped. “These could be the last words I ever speak, and you’re falling asleep!”
After I returned to Australia, I got the call from Kenneth. Mom was no longer in pain. She was in a better place. I instantly said a prayer, from me to her, thanking her for her love; letting her know that I was in this great position in life because of the lessons she taught me; and promising to continue honoring her by keeping her wisdom, compassion, and leadership alive in me.
The producers allowed me to go back to Philadelphia one more time to make arrangements for the funeral and bury my mom, my rock, my teacher.
I’d never lost a loved one before, but I noticed that I processed it differently than everyone else in my family. I knew that my mom had wanted to stop suffering, and her wish had been granted. It was only us, those left behind, who were still suffering. And we had just two choices: to stop living or to go on living.
It was strange to travel back to Australia after the funeral and see that nothing had changed: Airport security still yelled about traveling with liquids. The plane still smelled like old carpet. Couples still kissed and bickered and ignored each other. The sky was still blue. The movie crew was still scurrying around, coordinating the same tiny details through their radios. Everything was different for me, but in the world, everything was the same.
When you mourn, when you hurt, when someone you love—or everyone you love—passes, it may feel like a void has opened up in your universe. But in the universe, energy can never be destroyed. So if the pain and the absence existed only in my mind, then it wasn’t real. It was imaginary, and me being hurt or angry about it wasn’t going to change anything. There was nothing I could do except let go of a tragic story and embrace one that served me—and her—better. So I did.
I chose not to lose my mom, and instead to gain an angel. In my mind, my heart, and my life, she is still completely present to this day—and as wise, compassionate, and stubborn as ever.
Life Lessons
FROM INDEPENDENCE
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Waiting for other people to make your dreams come true is like waiting for a bus on a corner where there’s no bus stop. Sometimes the bus driver may feel bad for you and stop anyway, but usually he’ll speed right past and leave you standing there like an idiot.
With Nate
71
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WHEN LIFE HANDS YOU SHIT SANDWICHES, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT
When someone dies in your family, traditionally there’s a period of mourning. This is generally followed by a period of amazement. This period begins when you start going through the possessions of the deceased.
Sometimes the amazement is positive: “Oh my God, Dad’s Coke bottle collection is worth a million dollars!”
Sometimes the amazement is negative: “Oh my God, Dad’s wanted by the FBI!”
And sometimes it’s just confusing: “Oh my God, why does Dad have three boxes full of pubic hair?”
In our case, we experienced all three kinds of amazement.
The positive: Kenneth found a box of memorabilia from both of our careers. There were videotapes of The Big House that Mom had recorded every week, newspaper clippings from my appearance at Just for Laughs, advertisements for my performances at the Laff House. Any accolade I’d received, if Mom had access to it, she’d clipped and saved it. From Kenneth, she’d saved fliers announcing pool tournaments that he’d started competing in and even articles about the military drill accident that restarted their relationship. She’d never mentioned being aware of some of these things, yet it turned out that she’d been following our lives more closely than we’d thought.
The negative: Kenneth found a lot of pictures of Mom and Dad in intimate situations that no child ever wants to see.
The confusing: We found a family tree that Mom had made. On it, she’d written names of my dad’s relatives who I’d never met, as well as how they’d died. Peaches got stabbed at a block party. Booby got stabbed in jail. And I forget where James got stabbed. But anyway, most of them were gone.
The confusing part kicked in when we saw the list of seven names underneath my father’s branch of the tree. Two of those names were Kevin and Robert, which is my brother’s birth name: Robert Kenneth Hart. The rest were the names of Dad’s other kids. Some I knew about, others I didn’t. But next to those seven names, Mom had written the number eleven and circled it. It was a mystery. Neither of us could figure out what the number eleven meant, but it felt significant.
The next time we spoke to Dad, Kenneth asked him about it.
Kenneth: What does this number eleven mean? I don’t understand.
Dad: Just leave it alone.
Kenneth: No. Mom is gone—somebody has to keep this information alive. We need to know where the fuck we come from.
Dad: Well . . . you’re the oldest of the Roberts.
Kenneth: What do you mean “the Roberts”?
Dad: There are more Roberts than you. There’s four of ’em that Nance knew about, but there may be five.
Kenneth: Why would you do that?
Dad: I wanted to name everybody Omar, but only one of them women would let me. When they didn’t go for Omar, I tried Robert, cause that’s my dad’s middle name.
Kenneth: You’ve got five sons named Robert? You’re nuts.