For My Mom

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

What was my mom to me? She was everything. She was everything.

And now in her death, I am both saddened and joyful. Sad because at thirty-one, I was just starting to become her friend. In my twenties, as most people do, I tried my best to strike out on my own—although, as evidenced by the TV pilot she wrote that I found (which was dated 1987, the year before I was born... it's called Mount Royal and it's a juicy drama about a corrupt Montreal family), this apple fell directly under the tree. And joyful to remember the incredible, unique life she lived and to know that she’s no longer in pain.

Dementia is a hell of a disease. I lost my mom for good on December 10, 2019, and we lost her little by little every day for the last few years. Dad and I like to say that 2016/2017 was the last “good” year—the last year before things really started to shift. It’s our suspicion things had been changing for a while. There were signs. Her emotions, already passionate, grew inexplicably unwieldy. She of many words began to lose them. And not just words, she lost things too. Our house is filled with buried treasure, items that mom picked up and put down and forgot about. When I arrived from Los Angeles last week, I found a couch cushion in my dresser drawer… from a couch I’m not sure we even own anymore. She also got in a lot of car accidents the last few years. Not big ones, but silly ones, constantly misjudging a curb. Tasks that were once second nature became a mystery. Dad told me there was a time when mom bought new sheets every few weeks until he inquired why. Apparently the washing machine was broken, but really she just stopped remembering how to use it. For a long while, most of this stuff seemed harmless, and she was good at laughing it off. But I’ll never forget when I really started to worry: home for a visit, I came upon my mom trying to write a card. Anyone who knew her knows that her cards were epic, sometimes spilling onto a second and third page. And yet here she was, struggling to hold a pen and to use that pen to make any sort of shape on the paper.

And that’s how it went from there on out. She’d be seemingly fine and then just drop off a cliff one day in terms of functionality. Each time taking a piece of my mom that I loved so much.

And it was heartbreaking (and still is) to watch such a strong woman struggle, not only to express herself but also to just be in the world. In her passing, I’m thankful that part of her journey is over. But mostly I just miss lying on the couch holding her feet as we watched TV.

Despite how painful the past few years have been, the one thing they've taught me was how to fully love someone, flaws and all. I’ll probably always regret not being closer to my mom in my twenties, but the last few years have allowed me to step into a new role with her, as we all do with our parents eventually. I made peace with whatever I needed to from my childhood, good and bad, and was able to just be there for her. I got to care take her and love her like she did for me when I was little. She really did become childlike towards the end and she was so damn cute sometimes. She’d let me help her in ways other people couldn’t. I’d wash her hair, make sure it was blow-dried nicely, help her get dressed, and we’d go for a walk. If she needed to go to the bathroom, I was right there with her. I tucked her in at night and sang her the made up songs she used to sing to me.

And then, out of the blue, she’d have a moment of lucidity so profound it’d take my breath away, while simultaneously making me want to laugh. Last summer, mom and I were sitting outside in the backyard. I brought her an ice cream sandwich, unwrapped it, and handed it to her. She took it, looked at it, and then offered it to me. I said, “No, momma. That’s for you.” This was pretty typical of my mom. Generous to a fault. My dad once joked she was so generous, it was almost a character defect. Give her a gift, she gave you two back. As her daughter, this was both amazing and frustrating. Take care of yourself, I used to tell her, as I both basked in and drowned in her love. I was thinking of all this when she tried to give me her ice cream sandwich. I said, “I wish…” and then trailed off. She caught it. “You wish what? That I loved myself more? I know. I’m working on it.” She smiled and ate her ice cream. It’s a moment I’ve kept with me. A reminder that life is a process the whole time we’re here, and to lean into it, to love yourself fully because why the hell not, and to create deep, intimate, long-lasting relationships. Those are the things that make a life full, and man was hers packed to the brim.

I’m looking forward to a new relationship with my mom, where she guides me from the great beyond. On the one hand, when saying goodbye last week, I was cognizant of sending her off with joy so she could fully cross over. And, on the other hand, I gave her full permission to haunt the shit out of me. As long as it’s not in a scary way, I’m on board.

It’s fitting then, that we gathered on December 21, 2019, the last winter solstice of the decade, to celebrate her life. A symbol of rebirth, the solstice reminds us of the coming of the light. It may be dark now, but the days are only getting brighter from here.

Thank you for reminding us, mom, about the promise of spring. And thank you for all that you’ve given me.

I’ll see you in my dreams.