Mom…

Words I have dreaded speaking, let alone writing: my mother has died.

It was peaceful, or at least as peaceful as something so heartbreaking can be. She was surrounded by family throughout the day, loved fiercely until the very end. And then, in a quiet moment when it was just my cousin Tracy and me by her bedside, she slipped away. I like to imagine my father waiting for her with that grin of his saying, “There’s my bride.”

I recently learned I won’t be able to give a eulogy during her funeral Mass. To say I’m heartbroken is an understatement. The priest did not have the privilege of truly knowing my mother due to her illness, so I’m sure the words spoken that day will be kind and thoughtful, but they cannot fully capture who she was. Because of that, I wanted to put these memories into words so those in attendance could know what an extraordinary woman my mother truly was. She loved the church, she adored the blessed mother, and she wanted her mass at Ss. Peter and Paul’s church, so I will follow the rules while still sharing her story.

Maureen Helen Cavanaugh was born in Ashley, Pennsylvania, on July 26, 1943, to Gerald “Buzzy” and Josephine “Josie” Cavanaugh. She lost both of her parents far too young, but the greatest influence in her life was her grandmother, the legendary Helen Savitski Ohenkowski. And yes, my mother specifically made me promise that when she died, I would tell people how much she adored her grandmother and how happy she made her childhood. So if you take nothing else from today, know that Helen Ohenkowski was an instrumental part of my mom’s life and she loved her beyond reason.

Mom’s lifelong best friend was her brother Jerry. Now, depending on who tells the story, they either “occasionally argued” or regularly behaved like two alley cats trapped in a phone booth. But beneath the bickering was a bond that never cracked. They were each other’s safe place, biggest defender, and favorite person to call with gossip.

In 1968, my mother met my father, Jim Conway, at the Kozy K bar. She was already friends with some of Dad’s siblings, which honestly feels very on brand for my mother. Why meet one Conway when you can meet the entire family first? They were engaged less than two months later and married two months after that. When you know, you know.

Together, they built a marriage that lasted nearly 52 years. Like any couple together that long, there were highs, lows, disagreements, and moments where one of them probably considered smothering the other with a pillow. But love always won.

The best way I can explain their marriage is through baseball. Mom was a die-hard Yankees fan. Dad faithfully rooted for the Red Sox. Those fan bases spend most of their lives antagonizing each other, yet underneath it all is a shared love of the game. That was my parents. They saw the world differently in many way, argued passionately, and never once backed down from an opinion—but the love underneath it all never wavered.

In 1992, my mother took over her family business and reopened Jerry’s Café in her childhood homestead. The bar had already been in the family for more than 80 years, but Mom turned it into something special. Between her personality, her cooking, and her ability to make every customer feel like family, the place was often standing room only.

And let’s be honest: people came for the Maureen Burgers.

Her cooking was legendary. She earned local “Best Of” recognition for her burgers, and her annual St. Patrick’s Day ham and cabbage dinners became an event. It was also the one night every year where my parents’ teamwork truly shined—though the staff allegedly took bets on how long it would take before they started bickering in the kitchen. Honestly, that kind of teamwork deserves its own recognition. At family gatherings people waited patiently for her salmon patties, potato pancakes, and basically anything she cooked.

Out of all the roles my mother held, her favorite was being my mom, and she was extraordinary at it.

Now, my mother was not soft in the Hallmark movie sense of the word. She could be stubborn, opinionated, and capable of turning a simple disagreement into a full-contact verbal sport. We bickered often. It was practically our love language. But I never doubted for a single second how deeply she loved me or how fiercely she believed in me.

She worried about me constantly. CONSTANTLY. I’m fairly certain her resting state was “mild panic” when it came to me. But whenever I made a decision, even one she didn’t fully understand, she stood by me.

Years ago, I called her and casually announced that I was going to volunteer at an orphanage in Uganda and needed her to watch my dog Georgia and my cat Lola. To say she was flabbergasted would be putting it gently. When someone later asked her, “How could you let her go to Africa alone?” my mother replied, “I can’t stop her, but I can pray she’s safe.”

And pray she did.

Rumor has it she prayed to the Blessed Mother every single day while I was gone and she experienced stress-induced hives during my entire trip. Honestly, that probably sums up motherhood better than anything else I could say. She let me fly even though she wanted me firmly within reach.

My mother was not naturally an animal person. My dad and I were the instigators behind most of the pets. But despite herself, she fell in love with every single one of them—Sam, Toby, Maggie, Quincy, and eventually all of mine too.

I was never able to give her human grandchildren, but she always said, “My grandkids have paws.” And she meant it.

She adored Lola, Isabella, and Georgia Grace, always spoiling them with treats and affection. When Georgia and I somehow managed to break our legs just days apart, my mother stepped in and cared for Georgia as if she were her own. I never worried for a second about her recovery because I knew Mom would make sure she had everything she needed. I truly believe that spending her last year living with my cats, Jaxson and Milo, and my dog, Finni Roux, brought her comfort, companionship, and a lot of joy.

Every night, Finni kissed her goodnight. It started during COVID when I was too afraid to pass an infection on to my mom, so Finni gave the kisses. Last night, I watched my girl staring at the hospital bed looking so very lost.

Milo stayed by her side faithfully, providing comfort while simultaneously driving her absolutely insane because he is, in fact, a cat.

And sweet Jaxson, terrified of her oxygen tubing, kept his distance but always listened carefully whenever she spoke to him. In recent weeks, he began going to her and would let her pet him. I think his catuition knew something that I was too afraid to face.

Watching my pets grieve her has broken me in ways I never expected. She was their Grammy, and they loved her.

For nearly 35 years, I lived about two hours away from my parents. Every summer I’d come home for weeks at a time. But this past summer, I knew my mom’s health was declining and she could no longer safely live alone. A series of events happened all at once, and I abruptly moved home intending to commute to work.

That lasted exactly two weeks before life body-slammed me with my own health issues, forcing me onto medical leave and long-term disability.

At the time, it felt devastating.

Now I see it differently.

It gave me eight extra months with my mother.

Caring for her was not easy. COPD is a cruel disease, and my mother was also wonderfully stubborn. We fought. We bickered. There were moments where I questioned both my sanity and hers. But I tried very hard to fill those months with joy too.

At Christmas, I bought us baseball-themed trees along with Phillies and Yankees advent calendars. Every night we’d open them together and hang the ornaments. My mother became genuinely invested in which Yankees player she’d get. A silly Dollar Tree miniature Christmas tree and plastic Yankee ornaments delighted her.

I also managed to drag her away from Hallmark movies and the Game Show Network long enough to watch The Traitors with me. This woman had never watched reality television in her life, yet somehow became completely obsessed. Eventually she binge-watched all four seasons. One night, I woke up at 3 a.m. to find her still awake watching a finale. When I teased her about it, she said, “I couldn’t sleep without knowing who won!”

Honestly, relatable.

My mother was funny. Truly funny. She loved corny jokes, ridiculous puns, and making people laugh. If someone told her she was funny, it absolutely made her day.

And she could imitate anyone.

If you never heard her do an impression of someone, it probably just means she she had an impression of you, too.

It was never mean-spirited, but whenever she retold a story, she’d slip into that person’s accent, mannerisms, and speech patterns so perfectly that half the entertainment was just listening to her reenact the conversation. I will miss those stories more than I can put into words.

When my father died during the pandemic, he died alone. That reality haunted me. So when I realized my mother’s time was nearing, I became determined that she would not leave this world without me by her side.

Bringing hospice into our home was not an easy decision, but it was made with her blessing. The goal was simple: to make her comfortable and spare her the physical burden of constant medical appointments. Sadly, what I initially perceived as a longish journey, ended after only three weeks.

Hospice is both beautiful and heartbreaking. It asks everything of you while simultaneously giving you moments you will treasure forever.

I cannot say I was the perfect caregiver. There were days I was exhausted, overwhelmed, emotional, or convinced I was doing everything wrong. But I tried with my whole heart. And I’m grateful beyond words that I was able to honor her wishes and stay beside her until the end.

I had an entire year to write my father’s eulogy because COVID stole so much from us, including the ability to properly gather and grieve. Writing this for my mother feels rushed and impossible because how do you summarize someone who filled so much space in your life?

But I want people to focus on her life, not just her death.

Maureen Conway was one in a million.

She was funny, stubborn, loving, opinionated, loyal, anxious, compassionate, resilient, and unforgettable. She loved deeply. She worried professionally. She fed everyone. She argued passionately. She laughed loudly. And she made people feel like they mattered.

I am endlessly blessed to have been her daughter.

I will treasure our Broadway trips, vacations, shopping adventures, lunches together, baseball arguments, reality TV debates, and especially our daily phone calls.

And somewhere, I hope she’s reunited with my dad, telling terrible puns, feeding heaven’s stray animals, and arguing with Red Sox fans who still somehow think the Yankees are inferior.

Rest in peace mom. I will miss you forever.