I had arrived at a huge event of the “Siyum Hashas” last week on Wednesday. My husband came home from work early, so we could leave at 3:30 for the program that began at 4:45 at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Downtown Los Angeles. There was no traffic surprisingly, and we parked, ate our lunch in the courtyard, rented binoculars, and submitted our pre-purchased tickets to the uniformed doorman by 4:15 pm. We were ready to go into the theatre and the doors were still not opened.

No problem. We sat in the huge lobby and relaxed. I heard my cell phone beep, and noticed a text from my mother who lives in New York. Noticing that she had sent me a picture attachment, I opened it, expecting to see the counterpart Siyum that took place in the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey.

Instead, to my alarm, was a photo of my mom in a hospital room. Her face was all bruised and bleeding. She had bandages on her forehead. My mom was sitting on what appeared to be a hospital bed, fully clothed. Her eyes were as  blue as ever, against her flushed face. Except for the black and blue marks all over her face, she didn’t look too bad. (I guess……). If not for her huge smile, I might have fainted. But I stayed strong.

I called my mom. She didn’t answer. I sat there – glued to the plush bench, feeling quite worried. Here I was  in the expansive lobby, waiting to enter a theatre and watch a momentous exhibit of Jewish men celebrating the completion of a 7 1/2 year Talmud learning goal, and my spunky mom just sent me a scary picture of herself.

It was what I call a “sandwich generation” moment, an experience that is usually fraught with scary feelings.

And then I realized: no, it wasn’t scary. If my mom had the presence of mind to send this picture to all her family (and the “to” list was quite long, I must say!), then she must be doing okay.

A few seconds later, I read the reassuring text that I had missed earlier somehow.

“Baruch Hashem, Thank G-d I’m okay. Looks worse than it is…”

Then it hit me. That’s my mom. Bubby to so many grandchildren and great grandchildren. Totaling more than I want to write on this blog.  And yet, she remains the matriarch and role model for all of us.

Warrior, fighter, optimistic and full of spunk.

I called my mom – she sounded amazing. The CT scan checked out okay, Thank G-d. She had tons of stitches, but was okay. My mom was going to rest. I would talk to her in the morning.

How many people do we know who can experience a fall at her daughter’s house, have her daughter summon Hatzalah (community Jewish EMT organization), get countless stitches at the hospital, a CT scan to see if everything is okay, and go home?

And: have the presence of mind to have someone take a picture of her at the hospital so that when she gets home she can download it onto her computer and send it out with a message? “Don’t worry – I”m fine” to all her kids.

Not many would have that presence of mind.

Sense of humor and fighter all wrapped up into my one.

That’s my mom. That’s my inspiration.

To protect my mom’s privacy, I am not posting the picture of her bruised face on this blog. For that, readers will have to use their imaginations! It looked pretty bad, but it’s much better now. Makeup and G-d’s power of healing can do wonders. But most off all, the power of the will to go on, laugh at our frailties and have hope/faith in G-d is what is so special and inspiring in my mom.

I love you, Mommy. You truly display the power of the human spirit.

And with that feeling of love, I entered the theatre, to watch the live hookup to New York of thousands upon thousands of men celebrating the power of the human spirit.