Reflections on My Mom: The Dressmaker Who Tried Her Best

I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. I miss her so. Kristi Noem's recent firing (er, re-assignment to a make-believe job) would have delighted her to no end, and I could imagine she would have called me with glee in her voice. Trump's ascension to the highest office in the land (twice!) filled my mother with rage and she had plenty to say about it. In particular, my mom had no tolerance for anyone who takes advantage of or attempts to oppress "the little guy." She cared about people and wanted to help them when she could. Examples from her life are abundant. She and my stad did their best to be a steady presence for a troubled young man named Christian. My mom made a prom dress for a young woman who lived down the street in their tiny Oklahoma town. If anyone came to her door selling something or asking for help, my mom never hesitated. When they lived in Springfield, Virginia, a woman who resided in the nearby subsidized housing knocked on the door of my parents' house. I don't recall what she asked for, but it was assistance of some kind. For months thereafter, my mother gave Dorothy mini soaps that she'd saved from hotel stays and whatever else she could round up. At one point, our cat Lester went missing. Lester had often expressed an interest in trying his luck on the mean streets of suburban Springfield, periodically escaping through an open door. At one point, he'd been missing for a while and Dorothy caught wind of it. In hopes of claiming some sort of reward, Dorothy started rounding up random black cats and bringing them to the front door for my mom to identify. None of them were Lester. As I recall, Lester was later fished out of a sewer which, I think we can all agree, is much more exciting than simply existing in a warm house with all the Fancy Feast you can eat. 

As my mom's behavior and addiction worsened in her final years on the planet, setting boundaries with her was one the hardest things I'd ever done. I'll never know if I handled it "correctly" or not. I felt so hopeful every time she entered rehab. When she was sober, before the inevitable relapse, I felt like I had my mom back. The mom who made my daughter beautiful dresses and costumes. The mom who hand-made every bow on every Christmas gift. The mom who made me a dozen earring sets for my birthday one year. I prefer small earrings and the ones she made were huge, but the thought and effort were there. 

I have a few relatives who truly believe, in their heart of hearts, that I abandoned my mom and that I wasn't a good daughter to her. My mom apparently told one of my cousins that she "hadn't had a drink in thirty years." While it's true that my mom would go through periods of not drinking, she would also come for a visit to my home and drink a large bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream - because, you see, it was a special occasion and she was on vacation. There were medications galore and she was always sort of non-committal when asked what, exactly, she was taking. One thing we knew for sure was that some of her prescriptions contained very clear instructions indicating that they were incompatible with alcohol. 

While there were many incidents in her final years that left me with hurt feelings, there were two in particular that widened the chasm between us. The first involved my stepdad and his cancer meds. I am conflicted about wading too deeply into that topic, but I felt that my mother's behavior was so far out of bounds as to be almost unforgivable. The second involved a visit to my home. After a stint in rehab, my mom was doing well, and I offered to buy her a plane ticket to come for a visit. She had always loved visiting us and particularly enjoyed attending my daughter's musical performances. My mom was sober when I bought the tickets. She was scheduled to visit in May of 2024. By March, it was clear to me that she was drinking. My sister Audrey found a receipt for recently purchased wine. It was, of course, date-stamped, so there was no way to say it was old or anything like that. 

Knowing that she was drinking gave me flashbacks to the last visit before the one that was scheduled. It was not a good visit. My husband and I have a few random bottles of alcohol in a cabinet that I can barely reach; we hid them in our bedroom closet for the duration of my mom's time with us. However, one time I was digging something out of the closet and the bottles clanked together. Later, after my mother was briefly in my home alone while I volunteered at my daughter's school, I felt pretty confident that she had found the alcohol. It wasn't an outlandish thought - she had been known to turn her own house upside down to find alcohol, painkillers, etc. That night, I found her walking around my house, profoundly confused and searching high and low for her cat, Poppy. Poppy was, of course, back in Oklahoma. I felt like I was watching my mom, an incredibly bright and articulate woman, lose her mind right before my eyes. I was terrified. This is one of countless examples of what happens when one mixes medication and alcohol. Or takes too much of what is legitimately prescribed. She fell constantly, always blaming it on some mystery illness and not the combination of muscle relaxants and opioids. 

In April of 2024, once I knew for a fact that my mom was drinking (and could easily hear it in her voice when we spoke), I canceled the trip. My mom was devastated. Utterly crushed. I still feel awful about hurting her this way. I truly didn't know what to do and didn't feel like I could handle a visit with her as long as she was impaired. I couldn't imagine how she could negotiate connecting flights and long airport corridors. I didn't speak to her for quite some time after that. She left me countless voicemails; in many of them, she called me a bitch and other names. She referred to my attempt at setting boundaries as "self-righteous stupidity."  Another voicemail said, "I can't believe I raised such a nasty human being." 

In the fall of 2024, I called my mom out of the blue. I missed her terribly and, like a million times before, I wanted to hope for the best. She sounded sober and was clearly happy to hear from me. We talked pretty regularly in the weeks after that. I bought a plane ticket for February of 2025, hoping to have a nice visit with my mom on my birthday like we'd had the year before. I was bringing my daughter along. By the time we took to the skies for that visit, my mom had taken another tumble off the ol' wagon. She stayed in her bed and didn't answer the phone. By then, I knew that I'd need to refocus that visit on spending time with my sister and daughter. We'd booked an AirBnB and planned to spend some time in Oklahoma City. 

I still wanted to see my mom, of course, so I guessed at what groceries she might need and picked up a few things for her. She liked Gatorade in the weird flavors, so I picked up a few bottles and some frozen dinners. When we got to the house, I told my daughter to stay in the car and ventured inside alone. I found my mom in her bed. She hardly looked like herself. Where was my glamorous mommy who never met a shiny accessory she didn't like? "I don't want Little Missy to see me like this," she said, referring to my daughter. I agreed. I gave her a hug and tried not to breathe too deeply thanks to some unbearable combination of cat pee, cat poop, and discarded wine. And who knows what else. I cleaned out the litterbox that was closest to her bed, though it was an almost inconsequential act. 

My mom expressed shame about her condition. I blinked back tears. "Nobody's mad at you, Mom," I said. "We all just want you to get better." 

I told her that my daughter and I were going to poke around in the large shed out back before heading to our AirBnB. Pop left behind a huge collection of rock memorabilia and other random stuff that he used to sell on eBay. I wanted my daughter to pick out something that had belonged to her grandfather. She and I spent some time poking around, laughing at some of the wacky stuff we found. Just then, I thought I heard my mother's voice. I thought I must be having auditory hallucinations because she was in her bed and seemed unlikely to leave the house. Then we saw her through the open door of the shed. Somehow, miraculously, she had pulled herself together - or at least made an attempt. Her hair was uncombed, but she'd somehow found two matching shoes. 

The stricken look on my daughter's face is something I'll never forget. Here was her once animated grandma, the woman who'd made her a Belle costume one Halloween, teetering on the frozen ground, looking for something to hold onto. She looked tiny but also puffy. Her front teeth were missing. "I need you to move your rental car so that I can go to the store," she said. 

I walked out and hugged her instinctively. She felt frail, so far from the woman who used to dance her heart out at the gay clubs in Dupont Circle. "Mom, what do you need at the store?" 

"I need cat stuff," she replied. I had just been in the kitchen, putting away the groceries I'd brought. My sister had already seen to it that there was cat food, litter, and treat. There was water in the cats' water bowl. 

I urged my mom to go back to bed and get some rest. I walked her back into the house, steadying her with my arms, and she went willingly.  When we left, my daughter expressed concern about the cats. "Meemaw said they need stuff?" She was 19 at the time, but I didn't feel ready for her to learn lessons about addicts and truthfulness.

I'm 99.9% sure she waited until I left and drove to Walmart for wine. 

The next day, my sister and I returned our mom's rental car. It was supposed to be returned days before and insurance wasn't covering it. She'd totaled her car (she'd claimed that her car flew backwards even though she had it in Drive) and had a rental car temporarily. Audrey asked her if we could take her to detox in the city since we'd be there anyway. She wouldn't go. 

Months later, Audrey and I talked about what the tipping point might have been - when rehabilitation was no longer a possibility. She felt like it was probably right about then - that last refusal to go to detox. By the end of April, my mom entered hospice care and died in short order, her liver and other organs giving up in quick succession. 

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A few months ago, I had lunch with my friend Tiffany. She's dealing with the challenges that come with aging parents and has had some frustrations with her mom. She asked me what I would have done differently when it came to my mom and aging. I have been pondering her question ever since. Ultimately, I know I could have extended far more grace to my mother as she aged. Her hearing wasn't the best. "Do what now?" was her standard reply when I'd try to tell her something over the phone. "Do what now?" She'd tell the same stories over and over. Now I found myself retelling stories. I mean, I know I told SOMEone, but who? Fortunately, my sister Mona will cut me off immediately and save me the trouble. "Nope, heard that one." 

After my mother's death, my head swirled with the not-great memories of her. The name-calling. The threats. The denial. In time, however, happier memories have emerged to balance the painful ones. I feel like I still haven't processed her death fully, but I'm working on it. I remember all the times she told me, "I'm so glad you're my daughter." She was proud of me. She thought I was beautiful and smart and ALL THE GOOD THINGS.

My mom was freshly 18 when I was born. I have to remind myself that she did the best she could - as a mom and as a human in general. I have to remind myself that she was dealing with challenges (mental and physical) that were well above my pay grade. I couldn't fix her. Sometimes I think she didn't want to be fixed. 

For 55 years, I was loved by a raven-haired beauty who loved to laugh and dance and make art. She loved being the mom of girls. She made the best fudge - I would eat it until I felt a little bit sick. We used to play Badminton in the back yard, and she insisted on calling our team the "Badminton Kittens." Once, she liked a photo of the two of us so much, she had it blown up to 36x48 and hung it in the living room so that the rest of the family had to look at it every day. Sometimes, I like to think of her living on some other plane, watching Judge Judy with the volume much too high. Her smile is restored and her shoes always match her outfit. There is, in all likelihood, a cat or ten in her lap. 

Before I sign off, I want to share a few photos of dresses and costumes (and one robe that's still in use!) my mom made for my daughter. Her sewing talents were unmatched.