The Long Winter | Pt 3: Finding Home
My mother’s death shook me to the core. She had been dealing with a rare neurological disease, making it difficult to walk, to write, and speak. But the prognosis was not remotely suggestive of imminent death. So the suddenness completely stunned us all.
She died late the night before Thanksgiving, and the following morning was something of a horrible dream. Nothing felt real. More like moving through another dimension. Friends had invited us over for a Thanksgiving meal and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the news. What do you do? Your mother just died. Do you go? Do you stay home?
I was in shock, but I didn’t want to stay in the silence of death. So I put a dress on and we went. I remember taking photos on our way, desperate to ground myself in reality - as if a photograph could prove that what was happening was real.
The evening was blessedly beautiful. We were surrounded by a table full of old friends and new. We gathered and shared what we were grateful for as Romeo happily ran about with a roll stuffed in his mouth. And in that moment - despite the shockwave of tragedy - I was so full of gratitude. That there is life after death and that I had a seat at the table for it. The dichotomy of love & gratitude in the wake of the sorrow was a powerful thing to feel. I wondered if my mother didn’t die right before Thanksgiving, so as to remind us to always be grateful for the good.
Because of the holiday, and because of the sudden and usual nature of my mom’s passing, there was an inordinate delay in knowing not only why she died, but in being able to arrange memorial services to bring closure to her death. We were held in limbo for weeks while an autopsy and investigation were underway.
These days were hard. While we waded through limbo, writing was my escape. Between the shock, sadness and grief, I’d light a candle, then my hands found the keys. Writing it all out felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Christmas was coming, but I felt numb to celebration. Though the idea of doing nothing felt strange, too. I decided to put up our tree but adorned it only in white. No reds or greens or ornaments with too much memory. I sprinkled baby’s breath throughout to signify my hope for new life. “My Winter Tree” I called it. It was my way of honoring the season my mother and I loved so much, but respecting my grieving heart, too.
Romeo is so perceptive, and I am aware of how deeply he can feel me. In the early days after she died, he’d crawl into my arms and just stay there. Though I wrapped my arms around his tiny body, it was him who was holding me. He let me feel him breathe, let me draw from the life he had. He reminded me in the very darkest of the dark, that I still was on my way to somewhere else. He reminded me there was so much life yet to come. He reminded me that I am mother now and that I have strength to carry on.
When we finally got word that her body was released, funeral plans could be made. Flying back to Phoenix to bury my mom felt insane. While packing for the trip I remember thinking, “what do you even wear to your mother’s funeral?” My mom is traditional, so I opted for all black. But on the day of the funeral, it was colder out than I had packed for, so I asked my dad if I could borrow a coat. “Sure, use this one,” he handed me mom’s black London Fog parka. “It was her favorite. She wore it everywhere. You should have it, Liz.” The moment was as meaningful as it was strange, to hear him speak of her in past tense.
The ceremony was beautiful. I needed this event. It helped the slow-motion dream I’d been living start to feel more real. The final service was to intern her ashes, the experience of which was, unbearable. The finality of it sunk a weight in my heart. I held my brother and sister tight with a baby in my arms. I was a daughter, a mother, wife and sister, too. And I did my best to be strong for them all. In the face of this moment, I held everyone close - together for one last time, this one for mom.
We drove to the cemetery by caravan and I looked up to try and find her in the sky. It was grey and gloomy, apropos of the day. But as we made our way through the half-hour drive, the clouds began to part and all of a sudden there were bright patches of sun. By the time we arrived, the entire sky was divided. I had never seen anything like it. The sky was alive and split in two, like a painting of the heavens representing the dark and light of life. Thanks for the reminder, mom. I’m glad you made it home.
Once back in LA, a new reality sank in. The grief felt different now, like a thick fog had settled in. There were days I couldn’t bring myself do much of anything. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t watch TV. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t sleep. One day I kind of circled around the home idling until I finally stopped trying to do anything. For a moment, I felt frustrated that I couldn’t bring myself to “be productive” but quickly brushed the thought away, because if this season has taught me anything, it’s that grief is ruthless. There are no rules. No singular way to do it. And most of all, that perhaps the most productive thing we can do at times is let pain and sadness flow out.
The winter in LA was as long and cold as the one in my heart. There was day after day of record rain and cold winds. It all seemed to cast a poetic backdrop to the experience I was living. But I found that on the occasional days when the sun did shine, I savored it even more.
T h e l i g h t.
How precious it is, we don’t realize until we are so long in the dark.
When my mother died, the part of me that died too, was the part that was holding on as a daughter, still searching for home in my mother’s love. But her death was a great untethering, leaving me free to take the good of her and build it into the home of myself.
And in a strange way - this long, quiet wintering, and writing my story out has helped me understand and reclaim my self in a way that feels exactly like being home.
As winter begins its passing, so does the feeling of death. My grief is not over, but the ice of it is starting to melt. And just when I looked again out my window at that big tree, I saw the tiniest buds of soft velvet green begin to appear.
N e w l i f e.
I feel naked and tender like a babe myself, facing the world anew: I’m a daughter without a mother, and a mother who feels at home. I turn my face towards the long-awaited promise of life after death, that warm beaming light
of Spring.