Jean Blum

BLUM, JEAN age 88 of Delray Beach died July 1st. Loving wife of Marvin; loving mother of Marc (Aura) Blum and Marcie (Steve) Marks; Cherished grandmother of Justin and Danielle Marks, and Adam and Jordana Blum; Adored great grandmother of Hannah and Benjamin Marks and Aidan McSherry; Dear aunt to Lisa Blum. Graveside services Thursday, July 3rd at New Montefiore Cemetery, West Babylon, NY. Donations may be made to the Alzheimer's Association. Arrangements Entrusted to Riverside Gordon Memorial Chapels, Delray Beach, FL. 561-496-7550.

July 3, 2014
Mom,
I wake every morning and go to sleep every night with you on my mind.
Trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. On so many levels we've lost you years ago but this renewed loss is totally different. So much more painful.
When you entered Heartland almost 3 years ago to the day I was told by the medical professionals that they thought you would last 6 months, laughable, …they didn't know you, they didn't know the Jeannie Blum we all know.
They had no clue about the tenacious strength that kept you going throughout your lifetime. A girl from the Bronx, you came from challenging beginnings. In spite of those challenges you cultivated a deep inner strength that no one could match and at the same time you also nurtured a tremendous capacity to love.
And love you did,
Your Marvin, you shared a lifetime, 65 years of marriage just a few months ago.
You shared a life filled with great joys, losses, highs and lows. Your early years together were not so easy but as the years passed the two of you grew stronger together, closer and more in love with every year.
While we were sitting at your bedside this past weekend Dad was reminiscing about the two of you working for the Sunsentinel. The first year you earned $27,000.00 from selling subscriptions. The district manager was pretty amazed about those high numbers and asked the sales manager about the two of you. He answered "They're a husband and wife team and they know what they're doing."
He didn't know how right he was, you were a team.
No man was ever more devoted to his wife than my father and no women more devoted to her husband than my mother.
Dad has been a pillar of strength and dignity taking care of you throughout these final years, loving you and doing whatever it took to keep you safe and protected. You took your last breathe of life while holding his hand. Perfect.
6 years ago I was still living in LA. Dad and you were at home and Dad had a blackout incident and was taken to the emergency room. I received a call from a neighbor alerting me to the situation and I immediately flew to Florida knowing at that point in time you could no longer take care of yourself or be left alone.
I called you as soon as I landed and told you I was on my way, you argued you were going to drive yourself to the hospital, you wanted to be with dad. It had been quite some time since you drove, Dad had taken the keys away.
I told you to wait for me, that I would take you to the hospital to see him, I was an hour away, and you weren't allowed to drive. You had a few choice words, told me you were going and then hung up on me.
Despite your fog and confusion from your illness you knew you had to be by Dad's side, and that's just where I found you. Protecting him with your strength and devotion.
Maybe finding the car in the parking lot hours later ended up to be more of a scavenger hunt, but we managed.
I've spent my lifetime trying to make sense of the complicated relationship we have shared.
You are my mother, the keeper of my history, you gave me life, kept me safe, went head to head with me, told me I was beautiful, disciplined me, dried my tears, sat up countless nights with me when I was sick, and gave me the biggest smile when I came to visit you at Heartland communicating love when you could no longer talk.
Through all of our struggles the one thing I'm sure of is that I love you and you have loved me. I guess in the end that's all that really matters, at least I hope so.
You had many passions, you never met a plant you didn't love, and they in turn loved you back.
All plants, no matter what their state thrived and blossomed under your loving care and healing powers.
That is a legacy you passed on to your grandchildren, Danielle and Justin with their love of growing vegetables, Dani on rooftops and Justin in his backyard, Adam who has cultivated a garden Dad says would make you so proud and our little Hannah who displays indignant anger over the local jack rabbits eating her precious tulips that she so lovingly planted the season before.
You loved music, had it blaring in the house when I came home from school. Show music, holiday music, Sammy Davis Jr., Bing Crosby, Perry Como, but Frank Sinatra was your favorite, "Oh my Frankie" you would say, you spoke of him as if he were a personal friend and I suppose on many levels he was, he sang to your soul and you would sing along with passion not caring that you didn't hit the notes and loving it.
You were so beautiful mom, always a great sense of style, dressed "to the nines" as you would say, hair done just right. As a child I was so proud that I had the most beautiful mom.
The day Danielle and I came to Florida after years of separation I remember you standing on the balcony of your condo waiting for our arrival. It had been many years since I saw you, I was told about your illness in a letter from Jordana, a letter which lead to a turning point I so desperately needed which I'll always be grateful for.
I arrived at your condo very anxious not knowing what to expect.
I looked up at you and all I could think was,
"My god, she's still so beautiful. "
There you were, your hair was shorter than I remembered but perfectly done, white jeans, black and white striped blouse, wearing this old familiar pin, your collar turned up. Dani looked at me laughing and said, "Grandma's so stylish, she's so cool."
After years of not seeing each other you looked at me asked in the most uncomplicated, innocent, almost childlike sweet way, "why did I come to see you?", I answered, "I just wanted to see you Mom," and that was that. You hugged me and turned to Danielle, squealed that high pitched sound you so often made and hugged her with abandoned love.
You loved us all, shared yourself, your home, opened your doors to those that needed a home, cooked countless meals, grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted, worked hard, ran businesses, you were artistic, your hand writing was bold and graceful, freehand calligraphy, loved your dogs, your cat Lucky, took care of Grandma and Grandpa when they were sick, delighted in your grandchildren, protected your family, had a quick temper, loved the water even though you were afraid to swim, played Mah Jongg and cards, danced, loved chocolate, mussels marinara, Chianti, loved vacationing in the mountains with your friends, laughed out loud often, loved babies, casinos, shows, movies, gossip and fashion magazines, had a most generous spirit and gave away thousands upon thousands of hugs and kisses freely to all of us. You even fished, there's a picture of you on the refrigerator catching one, that's how I know about that. When you were in the room, people knew.
You loved your parents and mourned your mother for half a lifetime.
I told Dad last week that I thought you were trapped inside this poor, tiny, sickly body and your soul needed to be freed of its prison. And once you passed you would find your way to your beloved mother who you've waited so long to be with.
I believe you're with her now, and Grandpa Dave too, that you're no longer confused, nor infirmed or in pain. That your soul has taken on its young self.

I wish with all my heart that I'm right, that you're in a better place, have finally found peace.

I miss you so much mom and will for the rest of my life.
We brought back home, to NY, where you belong.
Rest in peace my dear mother.

Grandma,
I was immediately overwhelmed with grief when I learned that your journey in this world was over. Although I knew it was coming, the finality of it struck me to the core. It's confusing, because despite the fact that your soul has departed, I can still feel your Spirit right here. Death teaches us we are still alive, and I owe it to you to embrace this world with the same zest and enthusiasm that you did.
Boy, did you know how to live. You were the embodiment of strength, power, resilience and femininity. You were always so beautiful. Prettiest lady in Lakes of Delray. Hottest grandma at the pool. You owned it. Even in your final days your beauty still radiated just as strong as it ever did.
Last week I stood by your side. I knew this would be our last time together. I stroked your hair. I kissed your face. You squeezed my hand. Your hands were still as soft as they had always been. Your eyes were closed, but I knew you were present with me. I played your favorite songs – Frank Sinatra's voice filled the room.
I remembered the way you used to smile – a smile so bright it could warm you from the inside out. I can still hear your laughter. I can still remember the way the smell of your perfume filled the air – Shalimar was your signature. Crisp white blouse, collar popped, stylish blazer adorned with a pin, of course. Hair pinned back. Funky jewels hanging from your ears. Fancy sandals and a matching purse. You were so chic.
Even when you began to forget things, you still managed to remember how to look great. When you started to have trouble walking my mom decided to buy you a pair of supportive shoes. You didn't like them. We were worried that you might fall. You were worried that they didn't look good with your outfit. I can't blame you, they didn't.
But that's the thing – style was always synonymous with Jean Blum. You barely had to try. You even entertained with style. When we used to come up here and visit, I used to be so excited to be greeted with a giant deli platter filled with cold cuts, pickles, bagels, and cream cheese. Beautiful flowers on the table – you wouldn't have it any other way. Your house in New York was always full of magic. Beautiful vases and delicate figurines lined shelves and tables. Floral prints everywhere you looked. A thriving garden out front. I used to love to pick the tomatoes with you. I used to marvel at how pretty all your plants were. Your passion flowed into everything you did, and the Earth could feel it just as much as we could.
As you danced through life, you wrapped us all in a web of your enduring love, for which I feel so lucky to be part of. Thank you for bringing sunshine and beauty into our world. Thank you for giving me my mother. Thank you for all of patches of beauty and strength you have sewn into the fabric of her character, which I promise to carry on one day.
As I stand here now, I'm remembering our last moments together. As you lay in bed, my mom and I were worried the pain medication wasn't working. I asked you, "Grandma, does it hurt?" And you answered with a simple and unexpected, "Yes." Although I didn't understand it at the time, I finally get it now, Grandma - it hurts to say goodbye.