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 her family members in Italy. I emailed my cousin Marco, who had a better grasp of English than I had of Italian. He had the task of passing on the news on to his father -- my mother's brother -- and everyone else in their vicinity. I texted my sister, and gave her a play by play as the funeral home removal technicians puzzled over the task of removing the way too small wedding ring from our mother's finger, followed by moving her from her second floor bedroom down the stairs and out of our front door. I snapped a photo as the technicians wheeled the gurney carrying her body over the flagstone walkway she had designed and past the garden beds she had planted, two features she had actively taken on to improve our home's curb appeal.
My mother lived with us for seven and a half years, moving in with us less than two months before my youngest daughter was born. The three bedroom townhouse quickly became cramped; 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. My mother's presence made my life easier in ways that felt invisble until she was gone. 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. She bought groceries without asking to be reimbursed. he prepared meals. She included shopping for clothes and shoes for my daughters in her errands. She entertained my youngest daughter by reading books and welcoming her into her bedroom to sit beside her in bed. She provided.
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 in their disagreements. 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 had all 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; to compensate, I offered her the first floor office which was right next to the powder room, with a clear view of the back yard.
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. There were other options: the mostly unused formal living room and dining room, the guest bedroom in the basement. Maybe those weren't ideal, but my mother had already compromised for a living situation that wasn't her ideal. To make a land grab for the room we all had agreed was hers felt greedy. "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 always comes first; that person 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.
My marriage aside, the year had been off to a rocky start. We sent my mother to stay with my sister for over a month from Christmas and into the new year so we could all have a break from each other. I remembered an argument months earlier that escalated to a point where my mother said she would move out. After she died, I discovered a business card for a local senior living center not far away. She had explored her options.
Days after I asked her for the home office, I left for a week long business trip in Texas. Work travel provided a brief escape from home turmoil. You could focus on each task in your itinerary and at the end of the day you could return to the peace of a quiet hotel room and a bed you didn't have to share. The trip lasted an entire week. When I finally did get home that Friday evening, 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 from her that Saturday. Our older daughter had a soccer game with her travel team. I had initially planned to stay home, but decided on a whim that I would go. Early that morning, 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 return until early afternoon. As soon as we entered the house, my youngest daughter exclaimed that Nonna was sleeping on the floor, and wouldn't wake 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 herself into bed, but didn't quite make it. When I think of this, I imagine whatever happened was quick, and hopefully painless. If she hadn't died that way, she might have been in the hospital hooked up to monitors, followed by a stint in a rehab center, languishing in a way that would drain both her spirit and her finances. If she'd lived, she might have had to endure the remainder of Trump's first term, experience the pandemic, and possibly face Trump's second term as well. She would have hated it.
We called 9-1-1. She was still warm and 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, they weren't in an ambulance but a giant red fire engine, which they parked parallel to the front yard, right in front of our 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 had died and that the police would stop by to follow up with us.
Two male police officers showed up at our door next. One was soft spoken and I noticed he wore a pair of 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. They checked out my mother in her bedroom and told us there was nothing suspicious. "You don't have to decide anything right now," the soft spoken one said when I was reviewing the handout. That advice has stuck with me ever 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 sudden and unexpected loss can impact those of us left behind in ways we can't comprehend or articulate. 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 up our daughter (who was 13 by then) from middle school in the new vehicle, she cried. Her father didn't understand why she was upset that she didn't get to say goodbye to the old car before he traded it in.
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 my then-spouse put together a slide show of photos. We also arranged a bookcase with her books for guests to browse and take home, and created bookmarks with my best attempt at an obituary on it. My then spouse also got to try his hand at sorting out investment assets for my sister and me, thanks to my mother, and he wound up getting that home office after all. I never asked if it bothered him or if he felt any guilt, probably because I was afraid of hearing 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 full of arguments and upheaval. Besides, I was not raised in a touchy, huggy family. Hugs were for holidays, and maybe birthdays, or encouraged when we were visiting relatives from the extended family. "I love you" was not said out loud but conveyed with providing: food, clothing, shelter, and money.
My mother's 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. I'd like to think I would have arrived where I am now, but I doubt it. I have a closer relationship with my sister without my mother being the third party talking 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. On this side of it, I understand. The additional pressure to buy cards and flowers, and go out to brunch and wait for your reservation to be called in a crowded restaurant doesn't sound enjoyable to me. I'd rather not be treated to gifts and meals when they are societally dictated obligations for the performance required of a specific day. The sentiment gets lost when the calendar, commercialism and capitalism dictate 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. I picked it up and took it home.
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