She passed away on March 19th. I wasn’t there. I got the call, was it from my sister? It’s hard to remember. Pieces feel crystal clear and foggy all at the same time. But I could hear my father wailing in the background. Weeping. Heartbroken. I feel like I heard him say she was getting cold, but it’s hard to know. I was thousands of miles away.
My mom wasn’t perfect, but her whole life she strived to be the best mother to my sister and me. She loved me so much. She loved me more than I can understand even now, and I loved her. We were close. Not the way Rachel and her were. I used to think that… meant something. But it didn’t. Rachel and I are very different people and so we had very different relationships. That’s all – it’s really that simple.
My mom was so afraid of death. All her life. Now that I think about it, I wonder if that was part of my fear from such a very young age. But that’s another story for another time.
She had a fear of being buried alive, of being cremated alive, of dying alone. I advocated for hospice earlier than most people agreed with and it made me feel misunderstood and judged. I felt like people thought I had no hope or had given up. But I had taken a class about death and the dying. I had learned about hospice and even considered becoming a chaplain myself. So many people fear death in our society (I do too) that many end up spending their final days alone. Mom was in pain and disoriented in a strange room with unfamiliar people and I had little doubt that if she were of sound mind, she’d have chosen to be “home,” comfortable and with people who loved her.
I was not there. I was beyond blessed to have a company that allowed me to work remotely, and a lifelong friend whose mother opened her home to my dog and me for a month. After driving across the country in July away from my hometown and to my new city (and swearing to never do that again) I found myself loading up my car and heading East in winter with my dog at my side. I can’t tell you the dates – they mean nothing. Before mom died and after. It’s hard to be more orientated than that.
So across the country, with temps hitting the negatives, we drove to my mother whose health was in decline. To my sister, who was trying to take care of absolutely everything. To my dad who desperately needed hip and knee surgery but cancelled his surgery so he could remain by my moms side.
I got to my hometown, settled into a home that wasn’t mine but was a comfort nonetheless, because of the countless days and nights I’d spent there growing up and the family who always made me feel welcome. I worked long hours and tried to be more of a help than a hinderance to my sister.
I visited with mom, but generally she seemed to have very little in common with the mother I had seen in December. Rare glimpses between mood swings and delusions. I spent some time with friends. I spent more time crying.
I can still kind of hear her voice saying, “I love you too, honey.” Or when she said “I’m so sorry, I’m going to get better, I promise.” And I told her I had no idea why she was apologizing, she had nothing to apologize for. I was just grateful to see her and spend time with her. I can feel her hand in mine as I held it. Her soft skin. The strong nails I so admired as a small child. But the terrible truth of it all is no matter how great our will or how tight our hold, those we love will slip beyond our grasp, or we will slip beyond theirs.
When I left around a month later, it seemed as if we might have some more time. Months, we were told. The month in town was hard for me on top of an already difficult couple of years. The long working hours I was required to do didn’t help, nor did living in a home that wasn’t mine with a stressed dog. Nothing felt like solid ground. The years of Covid isolation due to moms vulnerability, several moves, deaths, job hunting and changes, health challenges, financial hurdles and parental issues… I had been trying to take care of myself and improve my health but a person can only handle so much. I had been too stressed for too long, according to my doctors. But at the time I didn’t know how much harder it would get.
So I drove across the US again, me and my reactive dog. Now probably also traumatized dog. Bitter cold temperatures and strong gusts of wind; snow either piled taller than my car on the banks of the road or blowing across it like a sandstorm. Through plains and deserts and mountain passes. Somehow doing it all without chains because I didn’t know any better.
Mom had already taken a turn when I arrived back in Seattle. But I’d only been at this job 8 months and I had very little time left. We spoke a few times over the phone, her and I, when she could. Rachel and Dad agreed it made sense for me to stay where I was. Although mostly unspoken, I think we all knew that I would return after she passed. This is the nature of our world – of having to keep a job and pay bills.
I try not to have guilt or regrets. My mother was proud of me for the job I got and the courage it took for me to move here, but she was also hurt that I left, though she never said it. She told me she was grateful that I did it so I could help with the costs of her care, but she only said that when things had progressed quite far and it was hard to know how much it was really her. She always insisted, before December, that she didn’t need or want my financial help… and I guess ultimately she was right.
It’s hard to know I left all of them just nine months before we lost her. Nine months I could have spent with her, helping Rachel and Dad, getting her to laugh and distracting her momentarily from the daily challenges she faced in life. I had suspected my time in Cincinnati was getting short, although I tried everything I could to stay – I applied for hundreds of jobs in Cincy! But it was not meant to be. Where all my applications failed a recruiter and interview after successful interview led to an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I was so intentional those last couple years – regular phone calls, dinner, jeopardy or movies and visits with Watson, after the loss of my big guy. We built a stronger relationship and store of memories because of my sense of a move in my future. How different might things have been if I hadn’t been trying to savor each family meal and holiday, knowing I may not be there for the next one.
At first, I struggled a lot because I didn’t get to be there with her in her last days (not in person – it’s my understanding that she thought I was there quite frequently). I knew how badly she didn’t want to die alone, and she didn’t. Not really. But I wish I could have been there for her a little more. I didn’t see her and I chose to not see her before cremation. I didn’t think… a goodbye like that would have been so outside of the context in which I knew and loved her. I thought it would do more harm than good.
I’ve since come to the realization that there is no right place to be as I lose a foundational person. Their loss… it is an earthquake which crumbles the foundations. It turns my bones into putty and mouth to ash. The pain I feel deep within my chest – I still don’t understand. We talk about heartbreak but it makes no sense, does it? The terrible, real, physical pain I feel within my chest seems as if it could kill me, should kill me.
In truth, I feel like I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. My brain is still struggling to reconstruct the world and orientate myself within a universe where my mother does not live and breath. It is finding it incomprehensible, I think. Genuinely. I don’t know what it is like for others but in addition to my grief, I suspect my neurodivergence offers an additional hurdle. It feels as if my brain is working overtime to solve a complex formula that has no solution. And so my brain reboots itself; there must be an error in logic, it seems to determine. There has to be a solution. But there is none, and so my brain sends out signals to my body already in long-term stress mode. ANXIOUS! Fear… ANXIOUS. Wait, are we entering REM sleep? PANIC. WAKE UP.
I’m no longer in that deep, weirdly numb while weeping, chronically exhausted phase of loss. It seems as if my panic, anxiety and stress are trending in the right trajectory. But I also feel like the grief itself is a bit worse each day. I feel a day further from the last time I spoke to her or the last time I hugged and kissed her. Her face in my minds eye is a little less distinct. I can’t remember what she used to smell like, or even the last words she spoke to me.
For a Brave Sparrow 