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June 25, 2025
Today is my Mom's (Monica Koshuta) Birthday.
Yet again...
I know - this seems to happen every year about the same time.
And it appears that she has been doing this for a long time.
I am not allowed tell you how long - but I can tell you that she was born the same year that Amelia Earhart crossed the Atlantic non-stop - and her age rhymes with "nine teas free".
My Mom grew up Freeland, PA - a small coal-mining town nestled in the foothills of the Pocono Mountains.
She graduated from nursing school in 1953 and after working at Mercy Hospital in Wilkes Barre, PA she headed to New York City.
At Mount Sinai Hospital, founded in 1863, she lived in the Nurses' Residence, a stone's throw from the wards where she worked.
After a year of proving her skill, she was assigned to the "VIP" ward, a place buzzing with politicians, business tycoons, mob bosses, and celebrities.
More than once, she picked up the phone at the nurses' station to hear Frank Sinatra's unmistakable voice, calling to check on his mother, Dolly - one of her patients.
She had a way of making impressions.
Monte Proser, the larger-than-life manager of the Copacabana Nightclub, was another New Yorker who took a shine to her.
Grateful for the care she provided to his wife, he extended a standing invitation to the Copa, complete with a prime table beside the stage.
One evening after taking him up on the offer she found herself sipping a cocktail and chuckling at Jimmy Durante's opening act before enjoying listening to Nat King Cole's velvety voice fill the room.
After the show, both stars stopped by her table for a warm chat, leaving her with a cherished autographed postcard.
Another patient - a TV producer - was so taken with her poise that he suggested she quit nursing and become a "Box Girl," one of the women who revealed prizes on a game show.
She politely declined.
In the fall of 1955 she got engaged to my father and when she showed up with a diamond on her finger after a weekend trip home, the news of her impending nuptials was the talk of the 6th floor nurses station.
One of her patients at the time was the wife of an elderly Jewish businessman who had fled Nazi persecution.
While visiting his wife one afternoon he overheard the nurses chatter.
With a twinkle in his eye, he asked, "Have you picked out a wedding dress yet?"
When she admitted she had not, he insisted she visit his dress shop on 34th Street in the Garment District.
A week later, she stepped into the shop, where racks of gowns gleamed under soft lights.
The staff presented ten dresses, but the first stole her breath - a silky white creation that seemed plucked from a Paris runway.
It hugged her frame perfectly, needing only a minor tweak: moving a line of buttons on each sleeve.
Convinced it was the one, she braced for the price, determined to splurge.
When she returned to pick it up, the clerk handed her the bill: $13, just for the seamstress's work.
The dress was a gift from her patient, a gesture of gratitude that left her speechless.
That gown - later worn by my sister and now tucked away safely - remains a symbol of kindness and connection.
My mom's story is more than a collection of glamorous moments - it's a testament to her warmth, resilience, and ability to touch lives, from hospital beds to nightclub tables.
It was also the start of a long career in nursing that included pioneering hospice care with AIDS patients at a time when compassion was in short supply, and culminated with a PhD in nursing.
She showed us that a life well-lived isn't measured in years but in the hearts you've touched along the way.
Happy birthday, Mom - your legacy is written in all the lives you've made better.
