Georgianne Davidson Pollowitz

I didn’t want this to be just another obituary listing the accomplishments of the deceased and their service to the community. I could provide an endless list of the civic awards my mother received, the boards she chaired and how my mom as a teacher was a lifelong advocate for education and helping to better the lives of children in need. Her long time association with the Klingberg Family Centers and the Alliance for Youth brought my mom great joy. Being able to serve her community was her passion.

I could share countless stories about this larger than life person who was Georgianne Davidson Pollowitz. How she traveled to Europe on the maiden voyage of the SS United States and had a stateroom between Elizabeth Taylor who befriended her and artist Salvador Dali. Mom didn’t like Dali, “He was vulgar, picked his nose at the table and walked off the ship without tipping anyone!”

I could share the story in detail of how the Pope stopped his procession at the Vatican to talk to my mom, hearing her speak English to her friend. Pope Pius XII asked about her travels from America, blessed her with holy water and then moved on. Mom made the papers!  Champions for this lady included my father David Pollowitz, a CPA and an Attorney who passed at home this June after over 60 years of marriage.

Instead I want to focus on the roll my mother cherished the most - that of being a mother to my sister Julie and I. Mom was my hero. I write from my soul how Covid stole my mom. I’m angry and hurt deeply. I do want to acknowledge all the health professionals on the front lines who help save so many lives.

The loneliest most desolate feeling is choosing a family burial plot. This when the person who meant everything to me was alive, vibrant and opening Christmas cards at the kitchen table just days earlier. Her half eaten egg salad sandwich in the fridge, waiting for her return that will never happen.

How can a home we loved for so many years feel this dead where all time has stopped?  The memories flood forth in the abstract. The memory of mom standing in the upper hall window waving goodbye to me. I hear mom saying how I better hurry up or I’ll be late for school. “Did you finish your homework?” I’m living in a scene from Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town.”

It was all so melancholy as our adventures and outings became less frequent due to the aging process and physical challenges. I wanted to whisk mom away up to Vermont a final time. A place she adored and was so proud of me for buying.

Mom was the Queen up there.  My friends would come calling to see Georgie. They all felt loved by mom. She knew their stories good and bad and took such delight in asking them questions about their lives.  Friends like dear Chuck now gone. When Chuck knew we were coming up, he went over to my house, laid the fire, poured the wine and kissed my mom hello “Big Mamma” he called her and that nickname stuck. My mom had the gift of making people feel loved and important and relevant. People with less than wonderful parental experiences used to want to adopt her. They told me how lucky I was. I knew that already from the depth of my heart. She was my hero and advocate. My “Big Mamma!”

I climbed the stairs and went into her empty bedroom. My God I never imagined that she would never return to that place. Everything is there just as she left it. Her tv remote, a silent television, a box of mismatched clip on earrings, old newspaper clippings gathered together in a worn rubber band and several watches with dead batteries. As dead as that house now. As dead as the mom I loved and cherished. I sat on her bed and wept. That deep guttural sound that resonates from a place of profound pain and loss.

My parents were so fortunate to be able to remain in their own home during this pandemic. I truly believed mom was safe.  She had 24/7 live in help, a driver, a cook, me, my partner Bruce, all who tested negative, all who wore masks. Social interactions were restricted. Was it that one fatal visit to the hair dresser that exposed my dear mother?  I’ll never know. Mom was taken to the hospital on Christmas Day.  My worst fear. What if she was exposed to Covid there?  It surely was a UTI or bronchitis?  Better to just have her checked out.

Then the call from the Dr’s. Mom had Covid!  She was put on the anti viral meds and steroids. For two days mom sounded great. Her mind regained clarity with that enriching oxygen. Mom never complained. She said she felt fine but was bored and where were her glasses?

Discharge plans were made, a home hospital bed ordered and I waited for the call to have mom transported home. My cousin Merry and I were so excited. Then came the call. Mom’s breathing suddenly accelerated rapidly. Maximum doses of oxygen didn’t work. I had three minutes to make the decision to put mom on a ventilator. I agreed. Of course I read there was the chance she could come off it. Without it, no hope.

The final call that no one ever wants to hear happened on New Year’s Eve morning. My mom had passed. One thing mom didn’t give me was Covid. I gently kissed the top of her head before she left home by ambulance for the very last time. And I’d do it again if I had the chance. My negative test results flashed across my phone at the exact time mom’s soul departed her body. This amazing lady died alone, surrounded by strangers with no one to hug her or stroke her hand. I would never see my mother again. I’m stunned.

I left my parent’s house, closed the door and it echoed with a dull empty and hollow thud. “No one alive here now. It’s over and gone and you can never reopen the door the same way again.” I drove off looking up at the window where my mother always waved good bye. I’m flooded by my tears and my heart breaks.

So my dear mom will be laid to rest next to my dad at Fairview Cemetery. There will be a service to celebrate the lives of both of my parents when it is safe to do so. Covid is real and it’s cruel. May God keep you all safe and in his love.

In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in Georgianne’s memory to the Friendship Service Center, P.O.Box 1898, New Britain, CT 06050 or online @ www.fsc-ct.org / ; Prudence Crandall Center, 594 Burritt Street, New Britain, CT 06053 or online @ www.prudencecrandall.org/donate/ ; South Church Feed the Need, 90 Main St., New Britain, CT 06051 or Foodshare, 450 Woodland Avenue, Bloomfield, CT 06002 or online @ www. foodshare.org/.  Erickson-Hansen Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.