Dead Mom Walking

by Rachel Matlow

Mom was still constantly reminding me that “it’s the dying person who takes the lead.” But her newfound vulnerability was enabling us to connect in ways we hadn’t before. We were letting our respective guards down and inching closer to each other than we’d ever been. The caretaker–dying person dynamic really wasn’t an issue. We were really just two people who loved each other, hanging out.

  “I don’t think I could do this dying thing without you,” she told me. It was sweet of her to say, but the truth was I needed her as much as she needed me. Mom had always been the person I turned to in hard times, and this was without a doubt the hardest. She was the only one who could help me through it.

  “I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re alone,” I said. “I’m going to be with you until the end.” I’d never spoken in so many corny clichés before. As someone whose mother tongue was sarcasm, it was hard to reconcile all the sincere things I heard myself saying. But they were true. In that moment, they didn’t sound overly sentimental or melodramatic. They were the only things to say. I suppose there’s nothing all that original about death.

  While I was learning to accept interdependence with Mom, I was taking two steps back with Molly. She wanted to come over to the condo, but I asked her not to at first. Mom’s dying world wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting for a budding relationship. I also wanted to be fully present for Mom. She was my priority. I needed time to figure out my new life with her before I could think about bringing Molly into it.

  But the truth was that I was also afraid of being overwhelmed by Molly’s feelings. She’d cry for me—more than me. So it wasn’t conscious, but I was keeping her at bay. Although, two or three times a week, after I’d completed my evening routine—packing and charging Mom’s vape, putting her to bed—we’d go out for dinner. Aside from my regular errands, those dates were my only contact with the outside world. I felt like an interloper sitting at Terroni on Queen West. How strange it was to see people normally going about their lives. That used to be me.

  Elizabeth the death doula continued to come to the condo for regular visits. She knew exactly what to say to put Mom at ease. “The only agenda that matters is yours,” Elizabeth would tell her, speaking precisely Mom’s language.

  One afternoon I joined them in the living room after their session. Mom still didn’t know that much about Elizabeth. Their focus, naturally, was on Mom. But she couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer. “Do you mind if I ask you what your politics are?” she asked.

  Elizabeth smiled and looked toward the ceiling. “I’d probably say Green Party, but I’m actually more left-leaning than that.”

  Mom’s jaw dropped, and I burst out laughing. Elizabeth looked puzzled. “Mom was convinced you were a Conservative,” I said, filling her in.

  Now Elizabeth laughed. “I have my disguise,” she said, looking down at her crisp blue button-up. “But my Birkenstocks are by the door. I’m passionate about environmental sustainability, and I’m a vegan,” she added. By now Mom was practically levitating off the couch.

  And for the kicker, Elizabeth shared how she was trying to be a good ally for her teenager. “They recently came out as gender-fluid,” she said. Mom nodded along furiously, pointing her finger at me as if to say, “Me too! Look! I have a genderqueer child too!”

  * * *

  —

  MOM WAS SITTING up in bed writing notes for us to open after she was gone—plain white cue cards in lavender envelopes. She wrote Little Molly a card for her sixteenth birthday and then dropped a favourite necklace of hers—a delicate gold chain with little pink pearls that her father had given her on her own sixteenth birthday—into the envelope. “It’s really neat to think of her opening it,” Mom said, getting a faraway look on her face.

  “Do you want to hear what I wrote for Teddy?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said, more curious than fully comfortable with the prospect of reading Mom’s final words to my dad. How would she say goodbye to him?

  The front of the envelope read “When all was said and done…” I was anxious to see whether the rejoinder would be serious or funny—or both. I opened it: “You were the love of my life.” I was surprised. I knew she’d loved him, but the certitude of the declaration—and the vulnerability of the admission—overturned my expectations. It was big. Bigger than I’d ever imagined. I smiled at the thought of her flirting with him from beyond.

  Mom could sense my surprise. “For years I would say I’d be devastated if anything ever happened to Ted. Of all the men in my life, I would’ve been hardest hit if he died. And I think he feels the same about me. I really love him. It’s been a good bond, even if it wasn’t a good marriage.”

  I understood. For a long time after the divorce, I’d hoped they’d get back together. But once I saw that they’d formed an even better friendship, I didn’t care anymore. They had one of the best relationships of any parents I knew, including the married ones. It was a hundred percent voluntary. There was no legally binding contract that required them to go on bike rides or sing off-key together in the car. They truly loved each other’s company.

  “Anyway, I thought it would make him happy.” Mom smiled, imagining him opening her love note. “And he won’t have to worry about commitment!”

  Then she began thinking out loud. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a partner for life, except for Teddy, in our own way. Maybe I was meant to have affairs that were meaningful.”

  I grinned at her. “You’ve had it all.”

  “That’s true,” she laughed. “At times I’ve been ashamed of my record, this trail of bloody male bodies behind me. It wasn’t on purpose—I tried to be as fair as I could be. But since I’ve been sick I’ve been reflecting on everything, and I’m so glad I mostly just did what I’ve wanted to in the last many years.”

  Last many years? As long as I’d known her, Mom had always done what she wanted. I started thinking about her boyfriends, her retreats, the choices she made when I was younger.

  “There were times I was upset with you when you spent so much time away,” I said, surprising myself. “But it made me realize that you were a person with your own needs.”

  “Not a martyr,” Mom jumped in. “With my mother, the big wish I had was that she’d have a self of her own. My mother didn’t give me role modelling for how to be a strong woman. It makes a huge difference.”

  I nodded.

  “I remember thinking that I didn’t want you to see a miserable housewife, baking cookies and wishing she could be doing things that were more interesting to her. I wanted you to see a mother with a self.”

  “You were a strong role model,” I reassured her. “Even though I really missed you when you’d go away, I think it did a lot of good for me.”

  “I never felt that you and Josh were calling out or begging me to stay,” Mom said. “Teddy did. And I had my own ambivalence. A lot of people told me I was crazy for leaving. But sometimes you have to stop thinking about everyone else. I mean, it’s your life!”

  Even when you’re a parent? I wonder that now.

  It’s true that Mom had shown me it was okay to live your life, to write your own script, to do things differently. So much of my strength comes from her, and I’m grateful for that. But if I’m being completely honest, Mom’s drive to live her own life had also had some negative consequences for me, her child. Her need for romantic love and spiritual growth happened at a time when I really needed her.

  Looking back now, it’s striking to me that during this exchange I couldn’t express my sadness without just as quickly justifying her choices. I was undoing what I was saying as fast as I was saying it. What was wrong with me? Who was I protecting? Why was it so hard to be honest about how I’d felt abandoned? It’s fascinating how I couldn’t stand to be with my emotions for even a complete sentence.

  It’s not that I blame Mom for having left town just when I was becoming
a teenager. She felt trapped in her marriage. She wanted to find passion, to find herself. It was complicated. And she definitely became much more present over the years. But why hadn’t I allowed myself any space to feel upset about her hands-off approach to mothering when I was little? Just how funny were my childhood stories really? Only recently, in reflecting on this exchange, would the irony hit me: I wasn’t in touch with the truth for the same reason Mom wasn’t—reality can be pretty fucking painful.

  In short, at the time of that conversation, I didn’t question her. (Apparently I too was unaware of the resentment in my field.) I had only a hugely idealized version of Mom—the hugely idealized version she had of herself. I was a mirror for her. I had to be. Mom wasn’t going to change her view of the world for anything. Either I was with her or I wasn’t.

  It was then, with my mommy-myopia, that I decided to write her a goodbye letter. I wanted to tell Mom how much she meant to me while she was still alive so that she could appreciate it. Eulogies are almost always glorified—and I meant everything I said—but it reveals just how on board I was with her idealized narrative. I stayed up late writing in bed on my laptop, thinking about all the good times we’d had.

  Dear Mom,

  Why do most people wait until after a person dies to deliver their eulogy? I figure it’s more useful for you to read this before you die.

  The art gallery and Wah Sing lobster, prosciutto in the car, McDonald’s hot cakes, watercolour painting in the Adirondacks, the Russian Tea Room on my sixteenth birthday, the three-star restaurant in Paris, martinis on the roof of the Park Hyatt—we’ve had so many good times (and great food).

  Thirty-five years with you isn’t enough time. Although you’re going too soon, I’m still the luckiest boy-girl in the world to have had you as my mother. I’m one of the rare fortunate ones who absolutely loves and likes their mother. You’ve been my mom and a true friend.

  You’ve been my go-to person for advice, always making me feel better when I’m sad or broken-hearted. I’ll miss your voice (recognizable from across the room), winning laugh, huge, shimmering smile, the way you talk with your hands and tell non-linear stories like a tree branch.

  I’ve always been so proud that you’re my mom. You lived by example, showing me that it’s important to be true to yourself and live authentically. You’ve lived life to the fullest and, even in dying, have been a role model for how to say goodbye with such grace and Buddhist-y acceptance.

  Speaking of being authentic, you are perfectly “inappropriate.” Shall we talk about furries? You’re hilarious. Never boring, that’s for sure! We have laughed so much together (no one laughs harder at my twisted humour than you). The amount of material you’ve given me will surely fill up a comedy act, maybe even a book.

  Thanks for naturally delivering all ten pounds and two ounces of me, letting me wear ripped jeans to synagogue when I was five, being extra proud of my aggressive hockey playing, showing me how to cross the street (and then letting me go off on my own), supporting me in quitting high school to be a travelling hippie, and always being a phone call away.

  And thanks for not being “that kind of mom”—of course I much prefer you. You’re right, you have been way more fun!

  You are an extraordinary, larger-than-life person who’s touched so many people’s lives. You’ve filled such a space—life will be less without you.

  But I’m going to be okay because of you.

  I love you so much and will think about you every day.

  As Grandma would say, roses in your pillow…

  Rachel

  18

  THE TIP OF THE EMOTIONAL ICEBERG

  The next morning I felt shy as I entered Mom’s room. When Mom didn’t say anything, I asked her if she’d gotten my letter.

  “I did,” she said in a quiet voice. “I read it and I cried all the way through.”

  That was all I needed to know. I didn’t care to talk about it. I’d just wanted her to understand how I felt about her, and it was easier for me to say it in a letter.

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked, quick to change the subject.

  “I wake up, and every day I’m not in pain, I think I’m so lucky.” Mom was feeling crummy a lot of the time, but the pain wasn’t too sharp. She was lucky that her cancer hadn’t caused any blockages or spread to her bones.

  “All three of the surgeons said I’d have the most terrible, anguishing, painful death for sure.”

  “Do you want to go back and complain?” I joked. “ ‘You promised me a painful death!’ ”

  “I was hoping I could go back to them in five years and say ‘ha ha ha.’ ” Mom’s voice softened. “I hoped to escape it.” The wished-for future she’d written for herself hadn’t come true. As I saw it, the only thing she’d escaped was reality.

  And yet, despite this, Mom had a Buddhist perspective on dying. “Death is a part of life,” she’d said at one point, “and impermanence and change are a part of life. Two things we know for sure are that we’re going to die and that we don’t know when. I’ll suffer less if I go along with it rather than fight it.”

  I admired her live-and-let-die serenity—it certainly made her dying easier on both of us. But I wasn’t as accepting as she was. Sure, death is a natural part of life, but Mom’s dying didn’t feel natural to me. As human life forms, we have some cards in the game. I think I would’ve been a little more at peace if I’d felt she’d done everything she could to save herself. Mom had tried a lot of stuff, but it was all just incense smoke and mirrors. By the end, her terminal cancer diagnosis was a scapegoat for her own bad choices. How could I ever accept them?

  * * *

  —

  WE SOON RAN out of Paris movies. I thought a whole season of a TV show might be a little too ambitious, so we started in on some miniseries—The Honourable Woman, Top of the Lake. Mom, who’d been going to sleep at 7:00 every night, was suddenly staying up until 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. “One more!” she’d demand. “Let’s keep going.” She was high as a kite. Forget cannabis—binge-watching was Mom’s dope.

  It didn’t take long before we made it through all three seasons of The Americans. Politics, espionage, relationships—thrilling TV was bringing Mom back to life. We eventually settled into Borgen, a gripping political drama about a woman prime minister in Denmark. We were engrossed. What would happen to Birgitte next? We needed to know. As long as there was another episode of Borgen, Mom had a reason to live.

  Mom had never watched so much TV in her life. But it made sense. She was too tired to read anymore, and TV provided an escape. The characters were easy to be with and didn’t demand anything from her. She could just lie back and be transported to another world where her dying wasn’t the main plot.

  “What did I do with my final days?” Mom joked aloud to an imaginary audience. “Did I spend my time with my family and friends, who I adore?” She laughed. “No. I spent it with Birgitte.”

  From her perch on the purple couch, Mom turned to me. “In the middle of all this shit, we have such a wonderful connection.” It was true. We’d put aside our bickering and were being kind to and appreciative of each other like never before. Smiling back at her, I was overcome with regret. It sucked that it took her dying for us to have a weeks-long pyjama party. We were only just beginning to hit our stride in our adult relationship, and I wished we had a future together where we could always be this way.

  * * *

  —

  JOSH, MELISSA, AND Little Molly had been coming over once or twice a week to visit. Teddy too. He’d always bring a big bouquet of flowers for Mom, but he never stayed long—he was clearly restless and needed to keep moving. I think it was too painful for him to see Mom this way. She wasn’t able to do much, so we mostly just sat around talking.

  One afternoon, Mom and I were sitting with Josh and Teddy in the living room. At on
e point they were both deeply absorbed in their phones. Mom and I smiled and rolled our eyes at each other. I knew exactly what she was thinking: I’m about to die and these guys can’t tear themselves away from their phones? Mom and I got each other without saying a word. Just then, a wave of sadness came over me. Who would be there to make fun of Teddy and Josh with me when she was gone? Mom was my ally within our family unit. I suddenly became aware of how our dynamic was about to change forever. I loved Teddy and Josh with all my heart, but I was worried about being left alone with them. It hadn’t worked out so well the last time.

  One morning Mom had a craving for palatschinke, a type of Hungarian crêpe with cheese and jam filling, so we decided to have a family pancake breakfast. Josh was going to pick up the palatschinke from a Hungarian restaurant in the Annex on his way over. As we waited for the others to arrive, Mom reflected on our family get-togethers. “I hope they’ll continue after I’m gone.”

  “You’re leaving the party too soon,” I said. “And I’ll be stuck at the party that won’t be as good without you.”

  Mom looked at me. “I don’t want to leave!” She burst into tears. I saw pure anguish in her watery hazel eyes as she said those words—as though all her grief, terror, and regret were being expressed through them. As accepting as Mom was, even the most enlightened Buddhists don’t want to die.

  I felt helpless, paralyzed. It’s too late. She was drowning in front of me and I couldn’t do anything but watch her sink. It was torturous not to be able to help her. I knew she wasn’t my responsibility—I was her child, after all—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d failed her, just as how I imagined a parent must feel after losing their teenage addict to a fatal overdose. It had always been my job to bring her back down to earth. I was the realist, the level-headed one. She was the dreamer, the magical thinker.

  I set the table for our pancake party, unable to shake the image of that pleading, regretful look in her eyes. There’d been many sad moments up until then, but I didn’t think it could get any more painful than that.