I received the following text from Dad on Monday, August 26: “Mom and I loved riding the Cyclone back in the day. Last Thursday, the cables malfunctioned, and that roller coaster has been suspended indefinitely.” The “Last Thursday” in Dad’s text was August 22, 2024. This is as Dickensian as I can be. You, dear reader, must understand that the Cyclone stopped running on August 22, 2024.

My Mom, Regina Ellen Kelly, met my Dad, Jerry Baumann, through the Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) in Brooklyn. Dad played baseball on the same CYO team as Mom’s older brother, Bernard. Regina and Jerry were camp counselors at CYO summer camp in Coney Island in the 1950s.

Mom was a Brooklyn girl through and through. She lived in Park Slope, growing up on 4th Street in a grand Limestone house a few doors from Prospect Park West. She was the daughter of an FDNY Lieutenant, a Dodger fan who loved Ebbets Field, and an avid rider of Coney Island’s premier roller coaster. In her later years, after she and my father retired in Scituate, Massachusetts, they became Red Sox Fans. Being a Sox fan is still an offense in New York, punishable by revocation of your New York City birth certificate.

As a girl, she loved Astroland and Luna Park at Coney Island. As a teenager, she loved my Dad, the Dodgers, and the Cyclone. A few days ago, the family had gathered, and my father told me that after a day of overseeing their charges at the CYO camp and after the late afternoon meetings, they would sometimes ride the Cyclone before heading home to Park Slope.

In 2017, on my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary, we took them back to Brooklyn and the places important to them. Coney Island was one of the stops we made. Mom had already been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, and she needed a cane to steady herself as she walked around the boardwalk. Her eyes seemed brighter that day. Perhaps she was seeing the beach with the eyes of a fifteen-year-old girl again. This place was steeped in memories for her. We stopped for lunch at Nathan’s. As we were eating our hot dogs, Dad talked about the chow mein sandwiches you could get at Nathan’s. I pointed at the Cyclone and asked Mom if she wanted to take another spin with me. Expecting an eye roll and a soft rebuke, I was surprised that she had the look of someone considering taking me up on the offer. She looked at me, a hint of disappointment on her face, and told me she was too old to ride it. Then she smiled at me and laughed, “Maybe next time.” The Cyclone was turning 90 that year, and Mom was 79.

Mom got sick in May 2024 and was hospitalized. After that, it was a rehab facility and, finally, a memory care facility in a coastal Massachusetts town near my parent’s home. I went up in late June to see her. I was grateful she recognized me, even though my sister warned me she might not. When I entered the room, she said, “Michael, you look more like your father every time I see you.” We talked a little, but she was drifting off after 40 minutes. I sat in the rocking chair she had used to rock her children and grandchildren to sleep when we were babies. The room was full of photos of those children, grandchildren, and her only great-grandchild. The second day I visited her, she barely talked and seemed unsure of who I was. I knew it was the disease, but that did not make it easier.

On the morning of August 22, 2024, the phone rang just after 7 a.m. as I made my morning commute to work. The car’s touchscreen told me it was Dad on the line. My heart sank. There was only one reason he would be calling me this early. Dad broke the news that Mom had died peacefully earlier that morning. The news, while not unexpected, was a shock. Until then, I had considered myself lucky to have both parents into my 60s. Now, she was gone, and I did not know what to do with the information, the feelings, or the hole in my heart.

On Monday, August 26, I flew from Norfolk, Virginia, to Boston. When I took my phone out of airplane mode at Boston’s Logan Airport, there was a text from Dad about the Cyclone breaking down. This happened the same day that another Brooklyn Icon (she was to me) left us. At Mom’s wake, I asked him if he thought Mom’s passing broke the Cyclone. He smiled and said it was just a coincidence. Of course, the mischievous twinkle in his eye said otherwise.

Mom’s life was like her favorite Coney Island roller coaster: ups and downs, shakes and bumps, culminating in a gradual slowdown that brought her into the station. The lap bar lifted to allow Mom to go on to whatever was next for her.

On August 22, like the Cyclone, I was broken. I think I will be for a little while. But I am sure Mom wants Dad, her family, and her favorite roller coaster back on track as soon as possible.

Mom’s Obituary