Chapter 22 go home

When we were about to get into the car, it was time for Mother to say goodbye to Connie.They both knew it was time, but they also knew how to say goodbye.They kissed goodbye as if they would see each other again soon.They stood for a while in front of the lawn.Even though it was only for a short while, I admired the deliberate grace of both of them. The plane climbs slowly and lands very gently to ensure that the air pressure in the cabin changes as gradually as possible.We have to refuel in Greenland, which virtually triples the danger."We're home," my mother whispered as the plane's wheels touched the runway in Geneva.I know what this sentence means to her.This private jet is perhaps the most useful luxury we have ever experienced.

We arrived in Switzerland on December 20th.Over the next few days, we concentrated on getting ready for Christmas, which is just around the corner.We learned that finding a family doctor during holidays in Switzerland can be very difficult.So we found Betty, a wonderful nurse who had taken care of my mother while she was working at Cedars-Sinai, a famous medical research center in the United States.We asked her to come back and accompany us on this vacation.This is a difficult choice for Betty and her family.I remember, Betty's husband once visited us in the hospital.From his eyes, we could see that they had decided that Betty would come here with us.Here's our first Christmas present: The Bettys have given us their Christmas goodies.

Every day, we carefully accompanied my mother on walks in the gardens of La Paisible. The "Peace House" is where my mother lived for the last 30 years of her life.My parents moved to Bürgenstock after the filming of "Dragon and Phoenix".Bürgenstock is a small hilltop village facing the Swiss town of Lucerne.I was born in the town of Lucerne.But the cold winter there made them soon plan to find another residence with a suitable temperature on the shore of Lake Geneva.Mother said that they took the sandwiches, filled the thermos with tea, and took the train from Lucerne to Lausanne to find a house, like an outing.She said she will never forget the day when she saw the "Mansion of Peace" for the first time.A friend had told her that the house might be up for sale.So she parked the car not far from the house and stood under the hood to watch.It was spring then.The house is an 18th century farmhouse surrounded by two and a half acres of fruit trees.What she saw was cherry blossoms, and the house was hidden behind red flowers and green trees.

She remembered that seeing the house made her feel like butterflies were flying inside her.She felt like she was back home.I am so thankful for the butterflies that fly inside her and give her hope for the future. Our family usually gets together at Christmas.This year is even more so, because this may be the last time we will be together.My mother didn't like people spending money on her, and she didn't like giving people flashy gifts.She usually picks out little things like pencils, erasers, and letterheads.Once I gave her a scented candle and a special scented shampoo and she loved it.Because her mother couldn't eat, she could only stay upstairs to rest.We decided to cancel Christmas dinner, but brother Luca insisted on maintaining the holiday tradition.And my mother insisted that what she disliked the most was feeling like a burden and a burden to us.

My mother stopped working when we started school because we had to travel far to see her while she was filming.She believes that the two to three months it takes to make a film is too long a separation.So she decided to take a break from work to be with us.She said that if she had chosen to continue working, she would have been able to earn more money.But what she has is enough for us to have no financial problems in the future.She often says she's glad she didn't squander her image too much because the public was still interested in her when she accepted the UNICEF job. So the media is very interested in what she is doing and what she sees and learns in third world countries.What fascinates us the most is that she never feels like she is special or someone who deserves attention, even though she has and is getting attention.My wife accompanied her to a UNICEF banquet once.My wife vividly said that my mother looked like a thin leaf in front of hundreds of businessmen and women speaking on stage.After all these years, she was still a little shaken like she was on stage for the first time.She is always careful and always wants to do her best.She's basically an insecure person, and that desire to be protected is what makes everyone fall in love with her.Is this the true meaning of beauty?Just like a deer drinking water by the stream, suddenly the deer raised its head and looked around with big helpless and frightened eyes, that is beauty.She didn't know how slender her figure was, how graceful her movements were.She's just a fawn, just like any other fawn.

We had Christmas dinner as usual, all the family and friends came, and my mother didn't come downstairs.After dinner, my mother came downstairs.We all get together and exchange gifts with each other.She couldn't go out and buy presents, so she picked out some old presents for us: a scarf, a sweater, a candle.This scene is touching and most precious.Then, she read a short essay she had used in a speech at UNICEF.It was written by humorist and radio and television personality Sam Levinson when his granddaughter was born.The general idea is that due to his age, he cannot see the day when his granddaughter grows into a young lady, so he needs to pass on some wisdom to his granddaughter.Mother edited this essay into a poem and titled it "The Secret of Eternal Beauty."

Even though we were in Switzerland, word got out that my mother was ill and the paparazzi started showing up around us again.That's why my mother never set foot outside the house even though the doctor didn't tell me not to go outside.The paparazzi tried to get through the fence and secretly filmed the mother walking in the garden.They even rented a helicopter and flew over our house from time to time trying to get a picture of my mother.The first time, they succeeded, and we had to retreat inside the house.This incident angered the mother.Her daily 20-minute walks in the garden are her spiritual anchor: the fresh air, the smell of the country, the sound of cowbells, the trees swaying in the breeze, and the sun breaking through the branches of the afternoon mist are all she loves.

Once, when I took a walk with her, she pointed to the trees and told me which ones should be pruned next year. "This tree should grow well in the next few years, but those taller fir trees need to be pruned, otherwise the longer branches will not be able to bear the weight of snow in winter." These trees are hundreds of years old. Frequent maintenance is required.Over the next few months, following her advice, I worked very hard to maintain the trees, which made me feel so close to her, as if she was still living in this home, which meant a lot to her. many. After dinner, I helped her upstairs and talked about recovery.I have read many books in the last two months about mental recovery and the will to live.So I also realized how difficult it is for a mother to choose to survive strong.Can fate break her?I doubt it.Maybe not.But the sadness in her heart may have increased because of what she saw and heard when she was working for UNICEF. Fifty years ago, she had witnessed young people, her friends, being dragged to the streets of Arnhem to be executed for resisting the German occupying forces. Fifty years later, she is witnessing the same injustice and pain in a world that swore it would never happen again.

Therefore, I once asked her to live well for us and for our family."It's easy. I just don't know how to reconnect the top and bottom layers," she said. How meaningful her comment is.How long is the gap between the top and the bottom?Could the illness in her stomach be a physical reflection of her painful inner struggle with reality? January 20th is an ordinary day.She has been in a deep sleep as her condition worsened.For the last two days, she was only awake for a few minutes at a time.Before that day, the anesthetist had given her morphine.I asked why, and the doctor replied that, given her current condition, it was not certain that the previous painkillers would be helpful, so she had to be assured that she was not in pain.

"Are there any side effects?" I asked almost mechanically, and he looked me straight in the eye and said it probably shortened her life again by 24 hours or so. I go into her room.We all knew that our mother was leaving us.All around is quiet.A beam of mild golden sunlight shone in.I looked down at her.She was so calm and serene that I forgot she was a patient. I watched over her all night.In the middle of the night, she woke up, lying on the bed, looking into the distance.I asked her what she wanted and how she felt, and if she had anything to say.I asked her if she missed grandma?She didn't answer.After a while, I asked her if she had any regrets."No, I have no regrets, ... I just don't understand why so many children are suffering," she said.

These were the last words she said before falling asleep again. It looked like she was sleeping again.However, I feel something.Suddenly there is this feeling.I know what I should do at that moment.I sat on the chair next to her bed, held her hand, and told her how much I loved her.In this very bed I used to spend nights in my mother's arms as a little boy.This bed used to make me feel like it was the safest place in the world.Then, I felt that this bed is so small, without my mother, it is so meaningless.I told her that I knew how much she loved us and that now she didn't want to prolong that love.Neither do we.I whispered that if she was ready, she should go.I put her hand on my cheek and let her feel the temperature of my tears.Somewhere, I think, she can still hear me.I kissed her and told her that the little boy would always be with her. She once talked about "those people."We don't know what she means.She said they were there waiting for her."Those people," she described, were Amenites who waited quietly in the fields.When we asked her to explain, she always replied softly, "You won't understand, maybe you will understand later." She has a strong sense of the other world, and she is not afraid.We've talked about her death, our fears, our anger and our hopes.She told us not to be angry, death is natural and a natural part of life. I stood up, stroked her forehead, and told her I would be back soon.In a daze, I went downstairs and called the pastor.He answered the phone after the first ring.He said he was happy and sad to hear my voice, and he had been waiting for my call.This pastor is in his 80s and baptized me 33 years ago.Life and death are performed by the same person, I feel like I am floating between reality and the sky.He said he would arrive at four o'clock.I said thank you. I walked through the village to the cemetery.The cold winter winds tear my face, reminding me how miserable my life is right now.She once told me that she wanted to be buried because of my brother.One of the things she always regrets is Grandma's cremation, so we didn't have a place to visit her.She had mentioned the stillness of the Jura Mountains.Jura Mountain is a low mountain behind our house, and a valley hidden in it is inhabited by a group of isolated hermits.They just want to own their own land and defend this independence, this is a Basque race that is not known to the world.When I pushed the door, the cold iron door stuck to my fingers.Behind a clearing there is a lovely little tree against the wall of the cemetery.Although it is still winter, I can still imagine the scene of flowers blooming on the branches in spring.This is the highest point of this gentle slope.I look at the scenery here and feel good. I walked back through the village to the town hall.The first floor is the post office, the second floor is the office of the city hall, and above them is a tall clock tower.The bell tower rings every hour, and my childhood was spent in the bell.The mayor is a good friend of ours and I used to go to school with his kids.He looked up to see me and knew why I was there.He pulls out an ancient book from his library, and we start looking at the floor plan of the cemetery.I pointed to lot 63.He said the price of the land was 275 Swiss francs, and if we bought it, the land would be ours for 500 years.I asked, "How much would it cost to own forever?" He replied, "350 Swiss francs." I suddenly had a sense of serenity, how good it would be to live in this small, 800-year-old village. The "forever" price only needs to pay 75 Swiss francs more.We shook hands, and I walked home. She hasn't been moved yet.I sat beside her and told her about the land and the cherry blossoms.I feel that she should have agreed.The intercom at the door rang, and the Reverend Pastor Ettinger had arrived.I went downstairs to meet him, but when I took his hand the words were stuck in my throat.The two of us walked upstairs in silence.He stood on one side of the bed, and we knelt at the foot of the bed.The language he reads is beautiful, and his voice is full of emotion, with the maturity of a pure soul that has gone through 80 years.I am crying and my wife is crying too.We held our hands and followed the pastor upstairs.The sun broke through the clouds and shone through the window.After prayers were over, we held each other up and kissed her softly before heading back downstairs.The pastor sat in a chair and opened the Bible.I asked him what he needed.He said he already had everything he needed.I asked him if he needed to go home?I'll call him again when needed.He said he would stay here until it was time to go.So I sat down next to each of them one by one and told each of them about the cemetery, the view, the cherry blossoms, and the price of owning the land forever.They were all listening quietly.After I finished speaking, I asked them if they were at peace.They all said yes.I ended up sitting next to Robbie, and I asked him if he was at peace?he said yes.As soon as he finished speaking, the intercom upstairs rang.Giovanna, my mother's maid and friend of 35 years, said nothing but "Come on!" and we ran up the stairs. she left. She was smiling, her mouth slightly parted.A tear hung in the corner of her eye.The teardrop is shining like a diamond.Giovanna paled.She kept repeating that she was cleaning the sink when Krista, her mother's UNICEF friend and assistant, walked in and found her dead.We hugged Giovana tightly, her whole world was over.She was always by her mother's side, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad.Her mother had told her that husbands might come and go, but they would always be together.I have heard that people choose to die when the one they love is not around for a while.Mother is alone. Three days ago, she took her last walk in the garden.On the way back to the room and up the stairs, she told us she was tired.Just before Christmas, we were talking about whether I should bring my dog ​​from LA since I was planning to go back to the States at least once she got better.She said give her a month to think about it.She worried that two of my dogs — a black setter and a Bobie mix — would devour her little Yorkshire terrier, which she described as “like a hamburger”.She has a sensitive affection for dogs, a bit like she has a sensitivity for fashion.She owned a number of Yorkshire terriers before the hobby caught on in the 50s, and some say she started the trend when she bought a pair in the 80s.This is a new breed of dog, the name Yorkshire comes from the name of the country priest in England who domesticated them.They look like a smaller version of the RCA dogs.They also quickly became popular. a month.Does she know?Could she feel it?Don't we all know when this moment comes?Could it be that we ordinary people hide such wisdom, and only those who have approached another world have such wisdom?I think in a month we'll know what to do with it, she didn't even last a month. Someone wiped away that tear for the mother.I raised my hand, the word "no" stuck in my throat.Now, the room is filled with family and close friends.Everyone was crying, or wringing their hands.I felt as if I was standing on the highway at night.I think I saw her boobs still moving.I was told this is normal.After a simple additional unction by the priest, doctors came and confirmed the mother's death. I call my father.He has come to Switzerland, not far from us.He drove up overnight, hugged me and said goodbye to my mother.It's been about 10 years since the last time the two of them saw each other at my first wedding.I'll never forget the look on his face when he walked into the room and saw his mother lying in bed.He held her hand and kissed her forehead.For him, the most important chapter of his life is over. Her body remained in the room for 3 days.Then, on the morning of January 24th, we carried the coffin out into the street, through the village, to the chapel.I learned that 25,000 people had gathered on the streets of our small village of 1,200 inhabitants.But they were all silent.I remember my mother telling me that she would never forget the first time she participated in a UNICEF activity - visiting a camp in Somalia.The silence there is almost deaf.There were 15,000 hungry men, women and children.No one spoke.When we lived together in Italy, we used to joke, imagine what 1,500 Italians would do if they were in that situation. I used to try really hard to make her laugh, which is what all kids who grieve because of a single parent do.I'd do some antics like a kid, or talk to her in some kind of ridiculous accent, and she'd laugh, sometimes on her knees.She has always possessed a sensitive yet dull sense of humor, even in the most dangerous situations.When she was still in the hospital, she jokingly compared the seven doctors who visited her to "seven dwarfs". "After the 7 dwarfs have been here, we'll read someone's letter, or call someone," she said lightly. She received many touching letters, but one of them left the deepest impression on me.When she first signed her contract with Paramount, she attended a Screen Actors Guild luncheon.They seated her in a prominent position, next to Marlon Brando.When everyone was seated, she felt very shy and said hello to Marlon Berondo.Since then, the two have never spoken at the banquet.Since both her mother and Marlon Barondo's manager were Kurt Frings, she told Kurt's then-wife Mary about the incident.Kurt passed away a few years ago.It hit the mother no less than her business manager Abbe Birnstock left her.They are always present in each other's lives, like family. Mary must have told Malone what her mother had said, about the dinner party and how she felt.Because my mother had received a letter from Marlon Berondo.In the letter, Marlon Berondo told how much he was in awe of his mother and how he was not good at words. For 40 years, my mother had believed that Marlon Berondo was avoiding her, which was not the case.He was just in awe of his mother, as she was for him. She will never forget those Somali families who lined up, peacefully waiting for an opportunity that never came.Mothers are deeply hurt when they see children die in their mother's arms.How can she sleep at night knowing that there is not enough that people can do, that there are limits to what people can do, and that there is no power to stop injustice and war?How can she watch us at the dinner table, frolicking in the kitchen, enjoying the family happiness and going through life calmly?Could this have doomed the separation process from which life began?Why did the UNICEF executive die from the same disease a few months after his mother?Is the human will to die born of sympathy and pity as strong as the will to live?Can people know the difference between the two?Is it like going with the flow, like a goat jumping off a cliff? We walked slowly, the sharp edges of the coffin stinging our shoulders with each step.I looked up at the sun, the sun was blinding me, but I smiled.After the paparazzi helicopter incident, I called on an old family friend, a retired colonel in the Swiss Army.I told him how much the helicopter incident had hurt my mother's feelings.He listened to me.I asked him if there was anything we could do to stop the helicopters from circling the day of the funeral?He was silent for a while and said he didn't know.I ask this man who has never bowed to the rules in his life to try again.This is not Italy or France, where such miracles can happen with a little political interference.But this is Switzerland, nothing like this has ever happened.Although he also came to the funeral, he did not give me an answer as to whether he was successful or not.The sky was clear that day.I later learned that there was an order from the upper floors -- I don't know how high the upper floors were -- that the entire funeral area was a no-fly zone between 10:00 am and 4:00 pm.I smile.This time we finally stopped the paparazzi.After weeks of cold and gloomy weather, the sun finally showed its presence. The ceremony was short and warm.I spoke last and here is what I said: Teacher, author and famous comedian Sam Levinson once wrote a poem to his granddaughter when she was born.Mom likes this poem very much.She read the poem for the last time this Christmas.She also gave the poem a title.