Something About Mary
TweetWhen I first met my husband’s sister, I was a bit nervous.
That would be true for anyone meeting their partner’s family for the first time, but with Mary it was different.
Obviously different.
Mary was born with Down syndrome. This made her the kind of different that some people point at, or look away from, or get uncomfortable around.

Mary as a teenager
But it wasn’t her difference that made me anxious.
It was because I had learned—after knowing Brian for more than year, but right after we started dating—that I was not the only Susan in his life. His ex-wife was a Susan. I was, for all intents and purposes, Susan 2.0.
It was awkward enough when Brian would introduce me to friends as Susan. If they had known the OG Susan, I could see the unspoken bewilderment and obvious discomfort written on their faces as they mentally went through “Wait, weren’t they divorced? Wasn’t she blond? Taller? Someone else?”
Sometimes Brian clarified. More often I had to explain my Version 2 status.
So if everyone else who met me was startled and a bit confused, what would Mary think? How would she react to her only brother presenting another—obviously different—Susan?
When he introduced me to his sister, all Brian said was, “This is Susan.”
And Mary? She threw me a big grin and enveloped me in what I later learned was her trademark bear hug.
That was it. She wasn’t confused. She didn’t care about details. As long as Brian said she should know and like this person, it was good enough for her.

Every year, Brian’s dad would throw Mary a birthday party and hire a person to come dressed as some kind of character. Looking at the photos, I always thought they were a bit creepy. But Mary loved them.
There was something about Mary.
What you saw was who she was.
There was no pretense. No mask. No hidden agenda.
In fact, her agenda was usually pretty clear. If Mary wanted something, she went after it. Like winning 10 medals for swimming in the special Olympics—including a gold medal in the international games.

Gold medalist, Mary Wood
Or when Mary was presented with a dessert of brownies and ice cream. Everyone else might be finished their meals, but Mary was slow-and-steady-wins-the-race chowing down, ensuring that she enjoyed every last molecule.
If Mary liked something, you knew it.
There was no fakery. No fawning. No pretending.

Mary’s smile was infectious.
She loved swimming. She loved bowling. She loved latchhook rugs. She loved painting.

This artwork by Mary was featured at an art exhibit and was included in a calendar sponsored by The Kennedy Collective, an organization that offers support services to people with disabilities in Connecticut, and where Mary attended day programs.
She loved eating, savoring every bit of her spaghetti and meatballs and the aforementioned brownies.

Mary loved cake. And brownies. And ice cream. A woman after my own heart.
She loved people: her family, her friends, her caretakers.

Mary and Brian
Mary surprised people, usually folks who had low expectations of her, or didn’t know her well.
At our wedding, Mary stood up on the bimah with Brian and I, dressed in a gown that matched the other women in the bridal party, with a tatted green necklace around her neck. She who rarely traveled out of state, who never wore jewelry, hadn’t been to a synagogue, grinned by our sides as we blended families in our temple in front of friends and family.

Mary, stood with us on the bimah at at our wedding.
Though she was small and weighed no more than a hundred pounds, Mary was strong.
This tiny woman—who was only a few months older than me—fought every challenge and every illness that life threw at her. As a young adult, she moved out of her family home and into a group home, where she thrived. She held down a job for an organization that provided employment to people who had disabilities. Mary had COVID multiple times, pneumonia over and over—and made it through. She had cataract surgery and hip surgery. She battled Alzheimer’s, which tends to hit people with Down syndrome early and hard.
But Mary kept going and going and going.
Until she couldn’t anymore.
She left us quickly. Probably determined to get to the next place, and not letting anything or anyone holding her back.
There was something about Mary, and all of us who met her and loved her knew how different—and special—she was.
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I’m so sorry for your loss. Mary’s beauty shines through your words and photos, and it’s abundantly clear that her passing is a loss for us all. May her memory be a blessing.
So sorry for your loss of Mary. It sounds like she had a wonderful life and a life to live. My condolences to your husband and his family. May she run free. ♥