Today I attended an event at Glendale Community College, honoring the life of Ms. Sally Black, a nursing instructor at the college and not coincidentally my mother. A brand-spanking-new and frankly cool nursing lab was dedicated to her memory.

I've gone back and forth about writing anything more about her, though in times past I've written about other members of my family. But what came to me today is this: Everybody (well, almost everybody) is important to those who love them, and on this basis alone they should be eulogized and remembered. But my mom was a bit more than just a nice lady who I loved. She did something small but incredibly important. We all, especially those of us who live in Southern California, lost someone important on January 26, 2008. Which won't seem important, at least until you get sick.

You see, my mother spent the last dozen or so years of her life teaching nursing, and she was amazing at it. She loved her job and was incredibly committed to her students and their success. Several of her students have personally told me that they simply would not have made it through the tough nursing program without her guidance and support, and how glad they were that she was their teacher. Many of her former students kept in touch with her long after they graduated, and she was always so pleased to learn about their lives.

At least two of her former students were inspired enough to want to continue their education to become nursing teachers themselves (having met both of them, I think they will be fine instructors in their own right).

But most fundamentally, my mother understood the often overlooked importance of nursing. Especially in an inpatient setting, we trust nurses with our care, our well-being, and sometimes our lives. Doctors are important. But especially in hospitals, nurses are the "first repsonders," and can be the difference between life and death long before a doctor shows up on the scene. Nurses are also the difference in less stressful situations, too. It is the nurses who put the "care" in health care. She never let her students forget that responsibility.

She also never forgot her own responsibility, gaining more education in medicine than some doctors. She subscribed to a number of medical journals and actually read them, continuing her learning just because she wanted to know. She was good enough at her job that other people noticed. She turned down several jobs, including a job as an education coordinator at a hospital which paid well over $100,000 a year, in order to continue doing what she loved and considered the most important: Making good nurses.

What this all adds up to, and what I'm trying to get at, is that her loss is important to more people than just me and my family. Her presence as a teacher improved by some small but significant amount the quality of health care not just in Glendale, but probably throughout all of Southern California (and perhaps beyond). Not only that, but those she inspired to become teachers will help spread her passion and commitment to excellent nursing. The ripples of that will continue to spread and bounce back for years and years to come - and that work was recognized today in a small and quiet way, just the way she did her work.

But it's hard not to think of how much more good she could have done had she gotten the usual allotted three score and ten. GCC will continue to turn out great nurses - my mom's fellow teachers are just as deeply committed. They're feeling the loss, though. Nobody can do it alone and the team has most assuredly been diminished. I hope that my mom's former students who are just now beginning to teach will rise to fill that void.

The thing I'm finding that I miss most is when something cool happens that I know she would have been tickled by. She would have been so knocked out about Michael Phelps and the Olympics. And she would have been over the moon about the nursing lab. I've no doubt that she would be pleased about it being dedicated to her, but I know for sure that she would have much rather been teaching yet another new crop of "baby nurses" there.

Also, dammit, I just miss my mom, for no more important reason than that she was my mom.

For Mother's Day, I mostly wish I still had a mother.

But before we go diving too deep into that particular well of sadness, I should say that I am genuinely and truly happy that I still have a fantabulous stepmother, not to mention all kinds of awesome grandmothers (seriously, I've got like 4 of them and they all rule).

And that's not even counting this girl I know who is the mother of a kid who is currently taking up a room in my house. I am short one mom, but... there are still many mothers whom I love dearly.

Next year will be a bit easier, I hope.

I know it's depressing but goddammit, I miss my mom.

NIBLET is sick. He coughs and sniffles and sneezes and has pink eye and is generally a poor, sad little Nibbler.

Tonight, twenty minutes after he was put to bed, he woke up, having coughed hard enough to throw up his dinner. It went everywhere, including onto his favorite stuffed animal, Pink Dog. DADDY is cleaning up the blankets and pillowcases and whatnot that have been fouled.

NIBLET
Do I have to tell Mama tomorrow when I wake up that I threw up?

DADDY
No, buddy. You can, and she won't be mad. We know you didn't do it on purpose. It's okay, sweet guy. You are sick.

NIBLET
Thanks Daddy. I will pick another dog to stay with me tonight so Pink Dog can get washed.

DADDY
That's a good idea, bud. Pink Dog does need to get washed.

NIBLET
I know, Daddy. Okay, good night.

DADDY
Good night, Brendan. I love you.

NIBLET
Good night, Daddy. I love you. Goodbye, sweet little Pink Dog!

The sweetness, it might just kill you. At least, it might if you weren't the person who had to put drops in his eyes for the pink eye. Ye gads.

RIP Richard Jeni, 1957-2007.

I wish the good comedians would stop doing themselves in, be it on purpose, or by drug or drink. There's just not that many people in this world who can make us laugh: We need every single one of you. Without you we are relagated to Paul Reiser and fuckin' Carlos Mencia.

I'm sorry you felt you had to go, Richard. I am so very sorry. I wish I could have told you before you went that in my mind, at least, you were and always will be one of the best.

( The bad part. Don't blame you if you don't want to read about it. )

Luckily, Christmas is one hell of an antidote for all that sort of stuff And a Christmas filled with lots of noise and presents and tons of kids running around and dogs and giant piles of food and even staying up a bit late drinking with your little brothers and cousins is all very, very, very good.

Another good thing is that we have, truly, the absolute sweetest kid in the world. He really is just such a nice little guy. He's smart as a whip, too.