Later, I shared my discovery with my closest friends, and (of course) my sister:
She died unexpectedly, in the way I had dreaded ever since we had agreed she would sell her house and move in to live with me, my then-spouse and our two daughters. A sudden and unexpected death left me with the task of telling the rest of the world, including my relatives in Italy. I had to email my cousin Marco, who had a better grasp of English than I had of Italian. I texted my sister, and gave her a play by play as the funeral home removal technicians puzzled over the task of getting her from her second floor bedroom down the stairs and out of our front door. I had to Google funeral homes to find one less inclined to price gouge grieving families.
She lived with us for seven and a half years, moving in with us less than two months before my youngest daughter was born. Our three bedroom townhouse quickly became cramped, and our baby didn't even have her own room. Within the following year we sold that house and spent two months househunting all over the local area, to include deep dives into some of the towns in the neighboring state. We ultimately settled on the opposite side of the same town, into one of the few houses we all seemed to like equally. In many ways, my mother's presence made my life easier. She took care of the baby until she was a toddler, and was there when my other daughter had to leave for school, and come home.
My other dread was when I would be put in the position of having to favor my then-spouse over my mother, and serve as the tie breaker. By the time she died, we had reached that point. My marriage was strained and I didn't have the type of relationship with my mother where it would have been comfortable for me to share. So I didn't. I knew she knew things were bad, but I also knew she wasn't going to ask me about it.
She used the entire value of the house she had moved out of to serve as the downpayment for our new house. We hoped to find a home that had a connected apartment, or two owner's suites, or a walkout basement situation. She dreamed of an apartment over the garage setup as seen in the movies, or a TV sitcom with the cool older brother asserting his independence. Even though we all liked the house we bought, it did not have the type of separate space we wanted. She compromised and got the second biggest bedroom, but had to share a bathroom with her granddaughters. There would be no separate kitchen and living area, but the first floor office with its view of the back yard, was hers.
Weeks before she died, my then-spouse put me up to asking her for the office. He needed it for his latest career move as a financial advisor. He claimed he needed a door that could shut and a place to keep locked file cabinets with sensitive information. I didn't buy it. "Aren't there financial advisors living out of studio apartments?" I asked. "What do they do about needing an office with a door if it's all one big room?"
I knew how this was going to end. My own mother was the one who told me that after you marry, your spouse is the one who comes first, that is the person who becomes your immediate family. As the source of that advice, I still have trouble understanding why she chose to live with us. I knew she didn't want to be bothered with the headaches of home ownership, and that she believed it would be more affordable and better for everyone to pool resources and live together. Even though I still have to go through some of the possessions she left behind, I also believe this was her version of Swedish Death Cleaning, to get rid of her own house, and most of what she owned to make it easier on my sister and me when she was gone. When I finally asked if she would give up the home office so my then-spouse could use it for work, she looked defeated. "What else do I have?" she asked.
The entire year seemed to be off to a contentious start. We sent her to stay with my sister for over a month through the holidays and into the new year, so we could all have a break. I remembered an argument months earlier, when she said she would move out. After she died, I found a business card for a local senior living center not far away. She'd gone and talked to someone there, and had not shared it with me.
Days after I asked her for that office, I left for a business trip in Texas. Work travel provided a brief escape from home turmoil. It meant you could focus on each task in your itinerary and know you would eventually return to the peace of a quiet hotel room and a bed you didn't have to share. The trip lasted an entire week, and when I finally did get home that Friday, I entered the kitchen and my mother looked happy to see me. She reached out to me in a way that invited a hug, and I didn't have it in me to indulge her. I collected my bags and went upstairs to unpack instead. She would die the following day.
We were an hour and a half away that Saturday morning. Our older daughter had a soccer game, and I initially planned to stay home, but decided on a whim that I would go. Before we left, I knocked on my mother's bedroom door to let her know I was leaving, and she told me she would take care of my youngest daughter. "Thank you," I said, not knowing those would be my last words to her.
We didn't get home until early that afternoon. As soon as we entered the house, my youngest daughter informed me that Nonna was sleeping on the floor, and wouldn't even wake up when she tried to wake her up. I immediately ran upstairs and found my mother, not completely on the floor and not on the bed, but positioned in a way that indicated she was reaching to get into bed, but didn't make it. When I think of this, I imagine whatever happened was quick, and hopefully painless. If she hadn't died that way, she would have been in the hospital, and then possibly a rehab center, languishing in a way that would drain her spirit and her finances. If she'd lived, she might have had to endure the remainder of Trump's first term and possibly the current one as well. She would have hated it.
We called 9-1-1. I didn't realize she was already gone. My then-spouse and I positioned my mother flat on the floor for chest compressions. When the paramedics showed up, it wasn't an ambulance but the giant red fire engine, parked right in front of the house. When they left, I wondered how they manuevered around the miniature roundabout at the end of our street. They informed us that my mother was dead and that the police would follow up with us.
Two male police officers showed up at our door next. One was soft spoken and I noticed he wore black metal studs in his ears. They had to investigate, they said, to ensure there was no foul play. They had a paper handout with lists for funeral homes, and counseling. "You don't have to decide anything right now," the soft spoken one said, and that advice has stuck with me since.
From what I pieced together, my mother had made breakfast for my youngest daughter and went to her room after. Some time after that my youngest daughter went to get her and found her "sleeping." It wasn't the worst way to go but I also know sudden and unexpected loss can impact us in so many ways. She was six years old. One and a half years ago her father traded in the car she she had known for years without warning. When he showed up to pick her up from middle school in something completely different, instead of being pleasantly surprised and excited about the new ride, she cried.
The year our mother died, my sister made two trips to help me sort her things and work through the will. I didn't use up all of my bereavement leave right away and going back to work so soon felt like a welcome break from grieving. There was no funeral to plan because she hated funerals, so I didn't need the time until later. We had a small gathering close to her 71st birthday that year, and put together a slide show of photos, a bookcase with her books for guests to peruse, and created a bookmark with my best attempt at an obituary on it. My then spouse got to try his hand at sorting out investment assets, thanks to my mother, and he wound up getting that home office to himself after all. I never asked if it bothered him, or if he felt any guilt. Maybe because I don't want to hear the answer.
I feel guilty for not hugging her, but I also realize I wasn't in a great place and was returning to a home of arguments and upheaval. Besides, we were not a touchy, huggy family. Hugs were for holidays, and maybe birthdays, and "I love you" was not said out loud but conveyed with providing: food, clothing, shelter, and money.
Her death made room for me to do things without her solicited or unsolicited opinion. I recently wondered if I would have pursued a divorce if she had lived and remained nearby. I didn't think I would have. I also have a closer relationship with my sister without my mother being a third party gossiping to one of us about the other. We are freed from our roles as the black sheep and the good child and it's a relief.
My mother thought Mother's Day was a stupid holiday, and on this side of it, I understand. There's additional pressure to buy cards and flowers, and go out to brunch. I'd rather not be treated to gifts and meals of obligation to act out a special day. The authenticity gets lost because the calendar and capitalism dictates when and how we should show our appreciation.
In the past eight years I've received occasional reminders or visits, usually in dreams and most recently, on my walk. I've looked online for what might be branded that way, in that font, and nothing is a match. And maybe it doesn't matter. On a day between the anniversary of her death and Mother's Day I found a ribbon with my mother's name on it, and I picked it up.
