Mom

The photos worried me the most. Some were laid out neatly in old-school albums, peeking out from the plastic film covers that were carefully smoothed over them decades ago. Others floated around in drawers and closets. They told the story of a family - a family that knew happiness and brokenness almost in equal measure. Summer trips to Myrtle Beach. My prom (and wedding!). Cats - so. many. cats. Me and my sisters in Halloween costumes. My mom, looking glamorous in virtually every shot of her. My Pop (AKA stepdad) looking into the camera and holding up his hands in such a way that I can almost hear him uttering one of his catchphrases: "Outstanding!" 

I arrived in Oklahoma two weeks after my mother's death. I had two goals for the trip: clean the house (as much as I could, anyway) and bring one of my mom's cats back home with me. I'd spent years fretting over her tendency to take in strays. We used to joke about inheriting cats and now here we are. I can really only take one, so I chose Judy. Tiny little Judy, the forever kitten. 

My sister Audrey lived with our mom off and on since late 2022, but she travels for work and the little yellow house wasn't really home base for her anymore. She is rebuilding her life after a divorce and, frankly, is kicking ass. I'm so very proud of her. Because she is the only one living in the same state as our mom, our other sister and I are keenly aware that Audrey is the one who's been "dealing with Mom" the most. And there was a lot of dealing to be done. 

It's a tale as old as time (but not in the love story between a princess and a gruff-but-with-a-kind-heart beast kind of way). Mom had been in and out of rehab for years. After a stint in rehab, she'd seem renewed. She'd dive back into lifelong interests like sewing and cooking. I fell for it every single time - the sobriety, the promises, all of it. I imagine she meant those promises when she made them, though. 

My mom was smart and funny. I recently remembered a trip she and I took to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History when I was an older teen or young adult. We strolled through some exhibits of ancient peoples - full-sized dioramas of dark-eyed, dark-haired people crouched in the dirt, preparing meals. Bowls were laid out. I seem to recall one of them containing a large clump of plastic peas. My mom leaned closer to me. "This is the ancient tribe that glued their fruits and vegetables together," she whispered. 

She never quite settled on a career even after her kids were grown, but she tried a lot of ventures on for size. She even earned an Associate's degree in the field of legal assistant even though no one could picture her working in an office. She crocheted, sewed, and dabbled in silk flowers. She did make-up for a portrait studio and was really good at it. Her own make-up was always perfect and her raven hair was always given equal attention. 

We may never unpack what was inside her that caused that ever-widening streak of self-destruction. She had a weird childhood and often lamented that she felt forgotten at times. I think the way she felt about herself was complicated and likely beyond my conjecture. There had been substance abuse issues of various kinds for as long as I could remember. 

My mom died in hospice care. Audrey was with her. Mom had called 911 herself about a week earlier. She couldn't get out of bed. A helicopter took her to Oklahoma City. Soon thereafter, we knew it was an end-game situation. She had cirrhosis of the liver and her other organs were also giving up one by one. She was gone within a week. I took comfort in knowing that she spent her last few days nestled into a comfortable (and clean - more on that later) bed. She was heavily medicated and died almost exactly 24 hours after we'd been told she had 24 hours to live. 

I've learned a lot about the power of denial over the past few years. For the past year or so, my mother was no longer willing to go to rehab. I visited her in February and she simply wouldn't go. She'd lost her front teeth and felt that she could not go to detox without them. Mom called me on my birthday during that visit to Oklahoma. "I'm not sure what's going on with me," she said. "It must be something neurological." We all knew what was "going on." Just like we knew about the painkillers prescribed by a shady doctor who didn't seem to care that she took all of them in short order and then repeated the process a month later. 

My sister Mona visited Mom about a month after I did. Mom had asked her to help her clean her bedroom. My sister flew down, stocked up on garbage bags and cleaning supplies, and did what she could. She pulled bottle after bottle out of the bedroom and cleaned up after the cats. She hauled soiled linens to the laundromat. The bedroom had once been a reflection of a woman who cared about her surroundings. She'd painted the walls a pretty shade of coral and made curtains with a print that matched it perfectly. She'd hung photos of her three daughters on the wall. Now, it was a place to hide. A place to pretend that what's real is not real. 

I knew what I was walking into when I arrived last week to clean. My sisters and I had already agreed that nothing on the floor was salvageable. Between bodily fluids and cat poop, the clothing and other items were ruined. I wish I had the vocabulary to describe the smell to you, but I do not. I worked steadily in that room trying to remove anything that seemed like it could be the source of the odor that seemed to settle in my nose like it was taking up permanent residence there. I filled garbage bag after garbage bag with bottles and ruined clothing. The bottles, most of them 1.5 liter Chardonnay from the local Walmart, were tucked into every conceivable spot. But not well hidden because how could they be? I pulled her vanity away from the wall and found a row of them tucked behind but still in plain view. "She was terrible at hide-n-seek," I thought. The bottles, like an elephant crouching behind a sapling. More bottles rolled out from under the bed (which I dismantled and hauled out) and the closet, while others peeked out from piles of clothing. One lone bottle was wedged at the top of the closet. I thought about how hard it must have been for her to pull herself together just enough to drive to Walmart each day and buy a new bottle. That desperate sort of need is the very definition of addiction, I suppose. 

I took a short break and walked into the bathroom. A bottle of Samsara, my mom's favorite perfume, sat on a small shelf. I took the top off and lifted the bottle to my nose. It smelled like special occasions and "just because" occasions, its heady floral scent so familiar. "Oh, Mom," I thought to myself, tears springing to my eyes. 

I bought a few plastic bins and filled them with all of the photos I could find. I tried not to spend too much time looking at them (there was so much work to do!) but found myself lingering over some of them. My sister Audrey as a toddler - with the red curls that made everyone swoon - waiting impatiently to go down to the pool during one of our Myrtle Beach trips. Me as a teenager, posing with my arms tucked behind me in an attempt to hide my vitiligo. Mona on the phone. The five of us at Christmas, posing in front of the tree that held some inappropriate clay ornaments (my parents thought this was hilarious). My mom dressed up for a night out in Dupont Circle. In some corner of my brain, my mother is forever 28. Maybe every ten-year-old girl thinks her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, but mine truly was. She used to let me brush her long black hair. I was in awe of her dark eyes and carefully-cultivated glamour. She was objectively stunning. 

At the end of my clean-up trip, I packed up Judy and hit the road for the long drive home. While cleaning the bedroom, I spent some time looking for a small ceramic squirrel I bought at a school gift shop when I was little. The 'hand-painted' eyes were mismatched. Mom would periodically tell me, "I still have the gotch-eyed squirrel!" I couldn't find him, though. Between the gotch-eyed squirrel that had sat on her vanity for years, staring out in two different directions, and my bridal photo hanging on the wall, I know I was loved in some kind of way by her. I felt loved but also damaged. Our relationship had deteriorated in recent years. I grew less tolerant of the name-calling and other side effects of substance abuse. "I just want you to be well," I told her over and over. And she tried. She truly did. 

I visited her in February of 2024 and she was sober then. She ate meals at normal times and we even went to a craft fair. When I'd first arrived at the house, she all but ran across the porch. "I couldn't wait to hug you!" she exclaimed. It was a good visit. I took her out to dinner and we talked about a million things. 

It's a cliche to say that my mother is at peace, but I believe she is. Our worst fear was that she was going to kill someone with her car - she'd wrecked two cars in the final few years of her life. Knowing that she died in relative comfort brings me solace. At times I feel angry, other times simply resigned. I believe that it will become easier for me to conjure and sit with the good memories in time. My mom was more than her ending. I loved how she thought deeply about religion and politics. I loved her silly side. We had a family game that involved The Brady Bunch. Each episode, as Brady aficionados know, was generally centered around a particular character and whatever their problem was at the moment - like Jan's imaginary boyfriend or Peter's voice changing. We'd try to guess ahead of time who would have the "problem" on that episode. My mom would sometimes call me and say, "Quick! The Brady Bunch is coming on! Who's having the problem?" Jan was often a sure bet, but at least once I threw her off by naming Alice. Alice was the wild card. 

One of the photos I found on the floor, heavily damaged, was of me at age three. "My beautiful baby," my mother had written on the back in her spectacular cursive script. I feel like I should have more to say about the photo and the sweet caption she wrote, but maybe it tells its own story. 

I'll miss you forever, Mom.