jawnbc | Us (for Mom)

Thank you everyone for coming today. It means a lot to us. And it shows how many lives Mom’s touched. Your company these last several days, your phone calls and emails and messages have made a difficult time much less so for us. Thank you.

Patricia Anne Bickner Egan was born on August 7th 1938 in the Bronx, the first child of William and Catherine ( O’Rourke ) Bickner. A few years later her sister Kathleen was born. Aunt Kathleen, who babysat us, made us laugh, and whom Mom loved so much.

The four of us kids have few or no memories of Grandpa Bickner; none of us got to know Grandma Bickner at all, who died when Mom was just a teenager, something that forced her to grow up very quickly. In fact, Mom took on many of the responsibilities of an adult before she even began high school.

In high school Mom—Bicky as her friends called her—became friends with a girl named Bernadette Egan. Berna brought Mom home to meet the Egan family and Nanny and Mom took a shine to one another pretty quickly. A few years later Mom also took a shine to Berna’s older brother Padraic. More about that later…

Mom was smart. Really smart. Really, really smart. And a hard worker—at home, at school, or at work. She could’ve gone directly to college when she graduated high school, but other priorities meant entering the work force and continuing to take care of her father and sister.

After Dad left the Army, he and Mom began dating, and on June 20th 1959—over 51 years ago—they were married. Mom and Dad’s love was incredible: they were such a team. For the first years they lived with four kids in a small apartment in the Bronx. But they saved their money and moved us to Nanuet. They supported one another as each went back to school and got college degrees.

And Dad took such great care of Mom these last years. Thank you Dad for loving Mom so much.

Mom tried her best at everything: you might call her an over-achiever. Her family is proof of that, if you think about it. Mom had Kathleen in June 1960, Mike in June 1961, Tommy in October 1962 and me in February 1964. Do the math: that’s 4 babies in less than 4 years. And Mom had only one ovary. How’s that for over-achieving?

One family, four very different children…something Mom understood. She treated us equally, but knew us each so well we always felt special and loved.

Kathleen is a force to be reckoned with, someone others know they can rely upon; a leader in her community. And now she’s in nursing school, which seems perfect. Just like Mom.

Mike is quiet, thoughtful and athletic; his nieces’ and nephew’s best pal. He’s also the person who could make Mom laugh like no one else. If anyone ever needs him, Mike’s there. Just like Mom.

Tommy is the guy everyone knows and everyone wants to know. No one is more loyal; you definitely want him on your side when things get hard. Just like Mom.

I’m the nerd, who loves to learn and is happiest when I’m surrounded by family. Just like Mom.

Mom made sure we all got the space to be ourselves, our best selves. But to be a family, a team, an Us. Mom and Dad made us Us.

Mom’s love for her grandkids was, if anything, even stronger. Jenny, Jacquie, Jessie, Marty, Caitlyn, Casey, Katie, Tina, Richie and Grace, Grandma loved each of you so much—and thought you were all awesome people. So proud of you all—and proud of the job your parents have done raising you.

Then there’s Mom’s furry children: Bootsy, Puddy, Blackie, Calico, Deogee, Sam. Mom used to love to tell the story about when Mike was driving her back from the shelter after adopting Sam. Mike looked down at the dog and said “you just won the puppy lottery.” Indeed.

I have to say, though, that the time she cooked filet mignon for Sam and served me chicken cutlets really got up my nose. But her chicken cutlets were AWESOME. So was her spaghetti sauce. And London broil. And eggplant parmagiana.

Mom and Dad have given us all so much—but perhaps the greatest gift they gave us was the Summer House.

Every June on the last day of school we’d load the station wagon with “Irish luggage” (Glad bags; so Dad could see better in his rearview mirrors) and boxes of pots and pans, and they would drive us to Rockaway.

They gave up our nice, spacious suburban home—which they’d worked so hard for, even building us a swimming pool—for a cramped apartment, a shared toilet, and a solitary shower. That you could only access via the front porch stairs. It was noisy, there was no privacy, and it was a two block walk to the Laundromat.

But to them—thank God—these trade-offs were nothing. Summers at any beach are great, for sure. But Rockaway gave us cousins that became brothers and sisters. An unrivaled closeness with our aunts and uncles—more like extra moms and dads, really.

And Nanny and Pop: how many people got to live with their grandparents every summer of the childhood? Not many I’d guess. We could shuffle down the hall for some of Nanny’s soda bread or a sandwich. Or got to “hang out” with Pop on the roof chasing pigeons. Amazing really.

For Mom this was probably all a no-brainer. She loved the Egan family from the first day Aunt Berna brought her home. She loved the loudness, the craziness, the chaos, and—most of all—the abundant love. Nanny and Pop were her mom and dad. And she loved that if you took on one Egan, you took on all the Egans.

All of this—Mom and Dad’s marriage, how they raised the four of us, how they shared that love generously with the entire family—all of it, gave us a sense of self. Of who we are. And our place in the world. It was an amazing gift, one that all of us are so grateful for. Life can be tough sometimes. Knowing who you are and who you can count on in the tough times is everything. Who will take care of you when you need to be taken care of.

We Egans take care of one another. Like we are today, as we grieve together and say goodbye.

Patricia. Bicky. Tricia. Pat. Aunt Pat. Grandma. Mom. Whatever we called her, we all knew one thing: we could always count on her, especially in the tough times. Get Aunt Pat. She’ll know what to do. I can’t recall a time she didn’t either.

Mom didn’t even freak out when she was the one in the middle of crisis. On one warm summer evening on 114th Street, a high riser bed decided to chomp off part of her finger. Can you imagine how much that must’ve hurt?

But yet again, she was her usual cool cucumber self, getting folks organized to take her to the hospital. Including ensuring someone found the finger, which she wrapped up and gave to someone to bring to the hospital with her—in case it could be re-attached.

I think it’s the closest Mom got to giving anyone “the finger.”

But I could be wrong on that. :)

Mom was the strongest person I’ve ever met. During her illness of course, but way before then. If you look back at her life, she’s demonstrated it again and again. She stepped up when her mom died. She went to college when she still had four pre-teens at home. Not a lot of women did that in 1972—and of course got top marks and passed her nursing boards on the first try. Unsurprisingly she opted to work in intensive care: even higher stress than many other nursing jobs. No biggie; Mom ate stress for breakfast. Not many things scared Mom.

One of the few things I can remember scaring her was driving from Nanuet to Rockaway. Every time she arrived at either end of the trip she beamed like she’d won the World Series. Which was always pretty adorable.

I did want to end with one personal story. Though it we were only on our own at home for a couple of years, Mom and I were always close. I was her baby, after all. By sharing with me her love of reading, she got me very excited to start kindergarten.

In Nanuet parents usually drove their kids to the first day of kindergarten—for the kids’ and parents’ sakes, I see now. But in my 5 year-old mind kids went to school on the school bus. On. The. Bus. Period. It’s what Kathleen, Michael and Tommy did every day—so I would too. And no matter how she tried, Mom couldn’t convince me otherwise.

What did she do? She called the school and arranged for the bus to come and get me. I actually remember that day: I was so excited and happy! The bus pulled up in front of our house. I kissed her and waved good bye from the bus window. And she smiled and waved back until the bus was around the block.

Two decades later she confessed that it took all the strength she could muster to do that, to smile and wave when she felt like falling to pieces that morning. Because her baby was growing up. “But you’re still my baby” she said when she finished the story.

I will always be your baby, Mom. And you’ll always be my Mommy.

We love you Mommy and miss you so much already. We all do.

But we’re glad you’re at peace.