Good morning.
It’s going on six months since my mom died. I am not preoccupied by her death, not mourning all the time. But I notice. In particular, at the moment, I’m needing to finish the unfinished. I’ve been contacting several people I needed to talk to about old issues, including not inconsequentially, me. I’ve been talking to myself in a different voice.
I couldn’t even begin to say I understand being a person but I do feel acutely aware of the way I have tied some choices and behaviors together, and that, somehow, they’ve been linked to my experience of Mom. As she keeps on taking her leave, I have to untie traces so she is free. I suppose so that I am freer.
In any case, here’s what I wrote and read at her memorial service. At the time it made me cry. Today it doesn’t. Publishing it here feels like one more bow undone. I wouldn’t call them knots.
***
Several years ago, having just come back from a visit when Mom did not recognize me, and was in fact surprised–although quite pleased–to find out she even had a daughter, I wrote something like, “I am losing my mother.”
As it turned out, of course, I found her.
In 2016, due to the exigencies of Alzheimer’s disease, we moved Mom up to Northern California. Her first community didn’t work out, eventually we found (place name). It was perfect for her, and she lived there until she died.
I’m not sure how Alzheimer’s usually works, but over the several years Mom was here I felt as though I began to understand who she had always been. Some memories. For as long as she was able, whenever I visited she’d greet me at first sight with,“Hello darling.” On good days, because there were bad ones but never mind that now, she would hold her arms wide and tell everyone, “I love you.” Some days I would take Mom out in her wheelchair. The town is not very scenic along El Camino–nail salons, car washes and Jiffy Lube–but when Nancy wanted an adventure she could find one anywhere.
And, when she could still access her imagination, she would spend long afternoons planning for guests. Usually the guests were her children. I could know, then, how she waited for us. How she kept space.
The last time my mom recognized me was when I picked her up from Friendship House, an organization near Santa Barbara that offers adult day care for people with cognitive impairment. I walked into the large open room where she and others sat listening to a speaker. One of the staff interrupted to tell Mom I was there. She stood up, the helper asked, “Nancy, do you know who this is?” And she smiled hugely and said, “Yes, it’s my beautiful daughter Lisa!”
The last time I heard my mom say anything was in March of this year. I was helping her eat lunch. When I asked if she wanted any more of the macaroni she said, “The red one.” She meant her glass of cranberry juice. It was particularly vivid against the window light that afternoon.
Sometimes what your mom tells you is complicated and sometimes it’s not.
I know the Mom I found might not be the Nancy you know. That’s how it works. But I believe that if we all exist as some kind of pattern of who-knows-what, the way we inhabit our bodies isn’t the sum total of our selves. If that’s true, each and every memory you all have of Mom is also her. So although she is gone–which I know, I saw her die, it was OK–she’s here. Hi Mom. “Hello darling.”
Also, in a million years she’d never have missed this gathering. Thanks.
***
And now I’d like to point you towards Ronni Bennett’s blog, Time Goes By. Ronni, who is in her 70s, writes about the issues of aging. Several years ago she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, she writes about that too, very clear-eyed and don’t-pity-me and authentic. On Saturday’s she posts links, often to videos. Today one’s about an Irish matchmaker, another shows cows jumping over painted road dashes, you get the drift. Life-affirming.
Have an excellent weekend.
40 Responses
This is beautiful, Lisa.
You really captured the conficting perspectives and emotions of death, and the nature of love between mother and daughter — so simple, strong, complex.
Thank you for sharing this.
@Drew, Thank you so much for your understanding and your work.
You, Ronni, maybe 4 others… must reads. Women I truly wish I knew in real life.
Warm embraces to you all. xox
@Rosie, Thank you so much. Ronni is the real deal, I am honored to be mentioned with her. A virtual hug in return.
Lisa, This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve read. And it is one of the best things I’ve seen you write. Such a message, such love. I know you know that your love for your mother is special as is her love (still existing) for you.
@Susan D., Thank you very, very, much.
This is just so beautiful and comforting, especially the idea that our memories of our loved ones are them, which makes them here. Hi Dad! “Hi Les!”
@LeslieK, Thank you. And I say hi to your dad too, tearing up as I do. xoxox.
This is the sort of thing I’d like to hear at my own service. (Now I need to figure out how to accomplish this, but that’s a different topic.) Your observations from going down this path echo my own experiences on the more-or-less same path, and give me much comfort even all these years later. Thanks.
@Marsha, I am so glad to give comfort. And for what it’s worth, I could write this only after what were some truly difficult and painful times, so, if something is good now, that’s probably better than anything said when you’re gone. xoox
Lisa,it is beautiful
So complicated,so simple
So here and so far away
I believe that our loved ones are still with us in a way
As time goes by,I love my late father (I had and have great relationship with my parents) more and more,understand a lot of things better-I think as well as you do
xo
Dottoressa
@Dottoressa, Thank you. “So here and so far away,” just this. I am glad you are finding even more love for your father, love -as many say but I guess I may agree- is the thing.
Thank you for sharing this. In my experience, when dementia takes away memory it still leaves the essence of who the person is. Hello darling.
@MJ, Ah I just love that you said Hello darling. xoxox.
Just so beautiful. Thank you for sharing this. Your writing is so simple but so complex and nuanced at the same time.
@Jane, Thank you very much. And you are very welcome.
Lovely, Lisa. I hope you enjoy a restful
Labor Day Weekend! xx
@Theodore, Thank you. You too!
I love the idea that your mother imagined planning for guests especially you. I wish she could make you a lovely cup of tea and you could sip it together. I wish my father could help me find my glasses one more time. I had not thought about “untying” my father so that he could be free. I probably still need him too much. The voice is your voice.
Luci
@luci, The voices are our voices now, and if you still need your father I am sure he wishes to be near you.
Ah, jaysus, (as the Irish say) that was beautiful. Thanks so much for this, Lisa. xo
@Sue Burpee, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re welcome and thank you;).
Beautifully written , beautifully thought . I wish I had reached this point ! It has been 7 years now and it has all got worse again somehow . I wish I had your grace !
@Rukshana Afia, Thank you. I am so sorry it has all got worse again. I can promise you I am not graceful, but I can summon eloquence and I’m making an effort not to feel like by so doing I hog attention, and must therefore feel ashamed. Grace is so often just letting go.
Lisa,
This made me cry. It’s filled with joy and sadness. For a year after my father passed, I talked to him, sometimes out loud, to share things. They weren’t even things I shared with him when he living, but talking to him made me miss him less.
@T, Hugs to you. I imagine your father knew you would do this after he was gone, and was so happy to know it.
Great pieces, Lisa. Both of them.
You did good. <3
@Ann in Missouri, Thank you. As you know, we live to do. a. good. job. xoxox.
xo. . .
@frances, <3 <3 <3
Yike. That was beautiful. Will check that blog too. I especially enjoyed your comment about your mother taking her leave, of you. If I had had those words in my head when my father died, many years ago now, it would have helped to make sense of the confusion I felt in the months after his death. It really is a long goodbye and that is how it should be. If we vanish from our dear ones in a trice, it wasn’t much of a link.
@Annie Green, It really is a long goodbye, and I agree. It should be that way, being human is a prodigious gift.
Just gorgeous.
@K-Line, Thank you sweet one.
Working through loss is cathartic. Hard but so important. My experience is, some questions are never answered, but talking through it is important. Sharing memories (the good, the bad and even the ugly) is also helpful. Been there, done that too. Thinking of you.
@Susan, Thank you. And working through loss is exactly this.
Dearest Lisa,
The relationship with a loved one doesn’t end with that person’s death. It continues, but in a different way. Embrace the journey, and accept the love that exists beyond time.
And keep writing! You’re a natural…
xoxo
@Victoire, Thank you.
I love Victoire’s comment – all of it. I’ve found it to be true for me.
A beautiful eulogy and it’ll be interesting to see how your relationship with your mom evolves over time, because it will.
@KSL, Thank you. Yes, I feel the evolution already, in other areas of my life, surprising me.
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