Attempting to Remember my mother
Every year, as I sit in the quiet afterglow of Christmas, I find myself preparing for the significance of December 27th. This date marks a profound turning point in my life. When I had just turned 14—now fifty years ago—my mother passed away. She entered the hospital on Christmas afternoon, never to return home again. During her absence, I believe neighbors checked in on us while my father was away. My memories of her are colored by the fact that she had been in ill health for much of my childhood. Late that fateful night, just after 11 p.m., my father entered my room to tell me she had died. I woke my brother and sister so he could deliver the news, and thus began our family’s long, fragmented journey through death and grief.
My mother struggled with significant gastrointestinal issues for as long as I can remember. She underwent multiple surgeries for ulcers—a condition now often treated with antibiotics—and faced other health challenges as well. Ultimately, she developed a subphrenic abscess, and likely became septic, though I cannot say for certain. In 1975, the fatality rate for subphrenic abscesses was high, with studies from that period reporting rates between 31% and 40%. Today, that rate has decreased to between 10% and 30%.
Family started to arrive at our home around midnight. I vividly recall that Saturday Night Live was on—one of the very first episodes, as it was 1975. Paul Simon was the musical guest, performing “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.” I was struck by the irony and couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t mention dying as the ultimate escape, since my mother had just done exactly that. Paul Simon’s music never resonated with me, and I am certain this event played a significant role in that. I believe it was the next day that we traveled to Glens Falls, New York, to make arrangements for her funeral.
Grief, and our experiences with it, profoundly shape who we become. My mother’s death and the way my family handled it molded me into the person I am today—at least, the person I was until about five years ago. Grief acts as a kind of protector. My memories of my childhood with my mother are fragmented. One of my fondest memories is of standing with my arms wrapped around her as she spoke with neighbors, my ear pressed to her belly. I could hear her voice both from her mouth and resonating through her body—a moment of ultimate safety that I cherish. I wish I remembered more. Family members describe her as a very special lady, and I trust their words. I am certain I would recall more if we had been encouraged to talk about her after she died. Instead, her death seemed to erase her existence among the adults in my life.
After losing my mother, I was expected—by example—to carry on. It was also made clear that my role in the family had changed; I was now expected to help my father. With no time allowed for grieving, grief itself came to my rescue, shutting down my emotions. My father struggled with his own grief, and I took on many responsibilities vacated by my mother’s absence. I often think of that fourteen-year-old girl and wish I could comfort her, perhaps with a hug and a cup of tea, to lighten her burden. Our collective grief was continually pushed aside, and we were expected to move forward, even though our lives had changed in ways we couldn’t possibly understand.
I do not share this story to elicit sympathy, but to highlight how common this experience is in our society. Suppressing grief is detrimental to our well-being. As Tyler Perry once said in an interview with Oprah, “Grief just waits.” We can spend our energy avoiding it, or we can devote our energy to understanding and accepting it. Either way, it is work. Only after the loss of my beautiful 31-year-old son, Jordan, to colorectal cancer in 2021 did I come to this realization. I wanted to let grief and sadness consume me—something I was not allowed when my mother died. Before Jordan passed, he made me promise to take care of myself, and a promise is a promise. Now, I never know what my relationship with grief each day will be. I must be willing to sit with it and find a way to coexist, for the rest of my life.
Grief changes people. I am not the same person I was before Jordan died, nor should I be. Each subsequent loss—my father, my dear friend Kathie—has shaped me further. Our society often encourages us to move on and erase the memory of our loved ones, but this is not healthy. I have found my true calling in the realm of death work, with grief as my main focus. I feel more at peace inviting grief in and working with it. I continue to struggle with my lack of memories from my fourteen years with my mother, and I feel an emptiness where those memories should reside. The only certainties in life are that we will die and we will experience grief. I am striving to encourage others to acknowledge and talk about grief, believing we will be better for it.
Fifty years, Mom. I do this work in honor of you as well. My hope is that by opening up to and accepting my grief, I might begin to break down my walls—and perhaps, allow some of you to return to me.
