There’s no gentle euphemism like passed away or insanely inappropriate one like kicked the bucket.
She just—died.
It's hard to believe it's been a month already. In some ways it seems that time is flying, while at others it feels like it is crawling. I've poured over many of these words for weeks now, settling on the fact that there will probably be a series of posts about my mom and trying to figure out just how much I can cram into this first one.
Her death, much like her life, was unpredictable and erratic. A week and a day prior to it, I’d seen her, and as per our usual, talked to her, bickered with her, beseeched her, interviewed her, sat in the companionable silence of TV watching, kissed her, hugged her, and ultimately left her. Who can ever know when it's the last time you'll see someone?
In our last time together, it was with my husband and my son. It was so mundane. I’d bought her groceries and stocked her fridge and cabinets with every kind of soup and individual meal you could think of, including two different versions of her favorite eggroll. We sat and watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, and I listened as my mom actually complimented me, saying that I was pretty smart. Didn't she realize I’d gotten that from her?
In all honesty, I wasn't actually worried about my mother's death. In spite of the many obvious ways my mother neglected her health, be it physically or mentally, she actually had me convinced that she would outlive us all. Not only can any of my family members and friends attest to the fact that I said this randomly when referring to my mother, but I'd also actually said it a mere 30 minutes before finding out about her death.
The worry about death had been and still is reserved for my dad, who has been in a “deterioration center,” also referred to a nursing home, completing his second bid--the permanent one--for over a year now. It's no one's fault that he is declining; it is the result of too many diseases culminating at once: end stage renal failure and three days of dialysis a week; low blood cell counts and anemia; high blood pressure and cholesterol; COPD (a type of lung disease); years of poor dietary decisions and an inactive lifestyle; and multiple medications and experimentations. I wouldn’t be able to tell you if there was anything other than the obvious wrong with my mom; for most of her adult life, she refused medical care, opting instead to buy Tylenol and self-medicate with various over the counter solutions (rubbing alcohol was among her favorite).
She was fiercely independent. At 74 (she will no doubt haunt me for revealing her real age), she had a spring in her in her step and a twist in her hips that any attempt to replicate by others resulted in injury.
Whilst mom appreciated the things I bought and brought for her, she also increasingly resented the help I had to give her, so much so that she had insisted on paying me installment payments in her last 5 months, most of which eventually went right back into buying something for her. Unlike my father, she would never have acquiesced peacefully into allowing me to take over her financial affairs. I only managed to wrangle a small benefit for her--something she saw as charity--in January, after a lengthy debate.
Physically, we were virtually nothing alike. Where she was petite and graceful, I was tall and ungainly. In her heyday, she was an incredible beauty; at my best, I am moderately attractive. She was fair-skinned with sharp bone structure, while I am toffee-toned with rounded features.
Personality-wise, we both meshed and clashed. As one of my friends pointed out when he said he learned a lot about me at my mom's funeral, we were more alike than I liked to think about. There was always a battle of wills. We had the power to both amuse and incense one another in the span of 10 minutes.
Even though we both seem like we talked a lot—I with my closest circle and her with the voices of her illness*--we’re essentially quiet people who observe others. Both of us were avid readers, mostly because she cultivated that hobby by limiting my outdoor time as youth. As a result, both of us were smart, though my mom was an absolute whiz with historical facts and figures, whereas I dabble in certain time periods along with grammar and literature.
Though we both had a love of books and reading in common, we didn’t really read the same things. Yet, she she's read almost all the literary classics, while I'm just really getting started with them. Later in life, my mom stopped her usual customary heavy reading in exchange for lighter magazine browsing. She was also heavily into her latest craft project.
Any sense of innate artistry I have, I credit to her (although my dad had an eye as well). As noted in her obituary, mom had a penchant for turning scraps into works of art. She went through artistic phases: one year, she would embroider, the next she would sculpt, all without the intention to share any of her works. Her last phase was beaded sketches; at least 40 hung on the walls in various frames. So she created in me a creative thinking spirit that I try to use at least a little each day, although admittedly, it will never rival the strength of hers or come even close.
The other thing she cultivated in me was the love of makeup. Unlike most moms who try to keep their daughters from putting on makeup until 15, my mom encouraged me to wear eyeliner as early as age 12, just so I “wouldn't look like [I] rolled out of the bed.” And those who know me now know that I won't even go to the gym without having at least eyebrows shaped in. In eulogizing my mom, my uncle said that it didn't matter if it were the middle of the day or 2 in the morning; if my mom knew you were coming, she’d have her makeup on.
That’s all I can say for now. I now I'm not really ending this particular blog with something pithy, but although her life came to an end, I can't really bring what I'm writing about to one.
*mental illness: a topic for another time
