Dead Mom Walking

by Rachel Matlow

  17

  A GOOD TIME, NOT A LONG TIME

  Mom woke up on moving day and got dressed in all black—a T-shirt, a cardigan (now two sizes too big), and a drawstring skirt that she cinched around her bony hips. It was more an attempt to hide her gaunt frame and bulging liver than a nod to gothic elegance. She fixed her hair and did her makeup in an effort to look like the living, and then made her way down the stairs for the last time. A friend of Mom’s was picking her up to take her to her homeopath appointment before dropping her off at the rental condo. Just like that, the Hemingway was in her rear-view mirror.

  As Mom later told me, she felt self-conscious as she entered the lobby of her new building. But as far as she could tell, no one pegged her as being on her last legs. She really just looked older. Or rather, for someone who’d always looked ten years younger, she looked her age. She took the elevator up to the fifth floor, where I was already prepping the apartment—unpacking a couple of boxes, putting the few clothes she still wore away in her closet, installing extra safety handles in her bathroom. Sort of like setting up a nursery for a baby’s arrival. But the opposite.

  Mom was in good spirits as she took inventory of her new digs. The walls in the kitchen and bedroom were sponge-painted in various shades of terracotta. In the living room there was a purple couch, a collection of odd-shaped ceramic vases in various shades of teal, a rococo wall mirror, and a range of Asian-inspired furniture. Mom laughed at the cheetah-print chairs in the dining area. She had fun imagining what the woman who owned the place was like: “I bet she wears leather pants!”

  I was surprised that Mom was in such a good mood, considering she’d just left her home of twenty-two years. I suppose she was better at saying goodbye than I was. Mom had told me how, after we moved houses when I was five, I cried “I want to go home!” every night. And when Teddy sold the house when I was fourteen, I was more distraught than I’d been about the divorce. I went through about ten rolls of film, photographing every room, every nook and cranny, so that I’d never forget it.

  “How do you feel?” I asked Mom as we lay down on her new bed.

  “So far I’m pretty thrilled,” she said, looking out the window. “I see beautiful trees, all these different shades of green.” She paused thoughtfully, and then turned to look me in the eyes. “And I’m so grateful I never have to walk up all those damn stairs again.” We hung out on her bed and watched a documentary about Iris Apfel on my laptop. The ninety-three-year-old style maven was a witty, age-defying, eccentric woman—exactly how I imagined Mom would’ve been in her nineties.

  “Are you planning to stay over tonight, sweetie?” Mom asked casually, so as not to put any pressure on me. I wasn’t. I’d figured the spare bedroom would come in handy, just later on. But I could tell she wanted me to stay, even though she’d never ask outright. I was touched.

  “Yeah, I’d like to.”

  Mom smiled. I didn’t know it then, but I’d just moved in. I would stay with her day and night until the very end. We were there for a good time, not a long time.

  * * *

  —

  ON ONE OF our first evenings together, I crawled into Mom’s bed beside her. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I had an urge to cuddle with her. I felt vulnerable and a little shy as I turned and put my arm across her chest. To my relief, Mom didn’t flinch at all. “It feels so nice to be held,” she said. We just lay there, silently staring up at the ceiling. I was pretty sure we were both thinking the same thing: How the hell did we get here? We were now in the home stretch, holding onto each other like two Scooby-Doo characters anticipating the monster closing in.

  Mom and I were setting forth on one last adventure together, though I was the only one with a return ticket. But would I ever really come back from this? Tears trickled down my face, dampening the pillow beneath my cheek. Mom was dying, and it felt like a part of me was dying too. The person I was when I was with her would die when she did.

  The next morning, when I entered Mom’s room, she was sitting up in bed. She’d already been awake for a while, reading letters from friends on her iPhone. “The press release you sent out is getting a big response,” she said cheerfully. In the days since I’d delivered the bad news Mom had received dozens of lengthy, heartfelt notes from those who loved her, telling her what a gift she’d been in their lives. She let me read some of them. They were all so specific and detailed. I recognized so many of the things people cherished about her. Her “quick-wittedness,” “radiant energy,” “zest for life,” “adventurous spirit,” “infinite generosity,” “enthusiasm for teaching,” and, of course, “relentless insistence on living life on her own terms.”

  It was hardly the first time I’d heard people sing her praises. In the alternative high school community, Mom had been a living legend. I couldn’t count the number of times we’d be out together and a former student would run up to her—“Elaine!” they’d yell excitedly—and tell her how she’d been their favourite teacher, how she’d changed their life.

  Mom had also been an inspiration to so many women of her generation, especially those in her writing group. “As our mentor, you embodied the rarest and most transformative type of leadership,” wrote Bonnie. Many of them credited her with making them become more authentic. “Because of our friendship, and the many hours we spent laughing about our own foibles, I am more real as a person,” wrote Lola. Mom saw and encouraged people’s special qualities. “Whenever I’m with you I feel really good about myself in a way that doesn’t happen with anyone else. I think it’s a kind of love you emanate,” wrote Irene.

  It was clear that Mom was going to be missed. Like, really fucking missed.

  “These letters mean so much.” I could hear her choking back the tears. “I knew I’d inspired people, but I don’t think I realized the extent of the impact.”

  It was a good reminder for me. When she wasn’t busy shutting me down or defending herself against my criticism of her choices, Mom had represented something else to so many people—a strong, effervescent woman with a reputation for always being open about her self-doubt and insecurities, which gave her peers permission to be honest about themselves in a way they’d never been before. Yet it still baffled me. How could she be so insightful with others and have so many blind spots when it came to herself? Why was she capable of being so present for other people’s needs and fears and so delusional when it came to her own?

  “I was surprised that so many of your friends were shocked to hear you’re dying,” I said. I couldn’t help calling her on it. “Many of them were under the impression that you’d cured yourself.”

  “I thought I had! I was feeling wonderful.”

  My brows furrowed. “You didn’t know you could feel wonderful and still be dying?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mom admitted defensively. “There were lots of indications that what I was doing was working. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  As usual, whenever the truth poked its head up, Mom whacked it down. It was her story and she was sticking to it.

  * * *

  —

  DURING OUR FIRST week as roommates, Mom and I found ourselves embarking on a marathon of films set in Paris. It started with Le Weekend and kept going. If we could never travel there together again, we could at least visit in the movies. Before Sunset, Le Divorce, Frantic—it was nice to be reminded of the memories we’d made there, like the time we were invited upstairs for tea at Shakespeare and Company, or when Mom spontaneously got us into a Michelin three-star restaurant.

  In the middle of La Vie en Rose, she turned to me and said, “I’m sorry I’m not the best company.” Mom still felt she had to be the life of the party. She’d always been the one to do the heavy lifting in social situations, keeping the conversational ball in the air, making sure people felt engaged and entertained.

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want to be wit
h you.” I tried to lighten the mood, to reassure her that she didn’t have to be anything other than her wonderful dying self. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m the best company either. My mom is dying! I’m miserable, so let’s be miserable together. And if we happen to laugh while watching movies—”

  “All the better!” Mom chimed in.

  * * *

  —

  “MOMMY, YOU’RE ALIVE!” I sang as I entered Mom’s room one morning with my arms outstretched.

  “Rachie, I’m alive!” she sang back, holding out her arms to embrace me. It was a funny little piece of theatre we’d continue to play out, knowing full well it had a limited run.

  We quickly settled into a routine. Every morning I’d open her blinds, make myself coffee, and then sit down on a chair next to her bed. We’d talk for a while, then I’d get out an ampoule of her liquid dope. With a big grin she’d extend her index finger, waiting for her morning fix. I’d squeeze out a sticky drop and then she’d rub the oil onto her gums like a stereotypical dope fiend, bobbing her head up and down in approval. I even prepared her homeopathic potion. I’d count out precisely eight drops into a small glass of water. God forbid I give her an overdose.

  Mom’s appetite was unpredictable. She still mainly wanted to eat one cheese blintz in the morning, but she also started having cravings for things her dad used to make her when she was little. I cooked up fried liver and onions, noodles with cottage cheese and butter. She’d eat only a couple of small bites. Her diet mainly consisted of homemade chicken broth that her friend Arei brought over and a steady stream of kombucha.

  Maymouna, Mom’s personal support worker, would arrive mid-morning to help her bathe and get dressed. She was now coming over every weekday for a few hours. Maymouna exuded warm, loving energy and intuitively knew how to assist Mom without taking over. She was the third member of our core team.

  Mom’s new uniform was just a T-shirt and underwear. Even yoga pants felt too uncomfortable over her extended stomach. For the first little while she still made an effort to put on makeup every day; I smiled at the sight of her propped up in bed, looking in her compact mirror, applying blush to her pale cheeks. She glanced up at me and smiled. “This is what I call dying with dignity.”

  When she started having difficulty getting up from bed, the CCAC coordinator suggested that it was time to get a hospital bed. “It’s best to be prepared, even before it’s needed,” she told me on the phone, kindly trying to soften the blow. Getting a hospital bed was a scary step, but the reality was that Mom needed it. I suppose we could have just told ourselves it was a Craftmatic adjustable bed—“Sleep, watch TV, and relax in supreme comfort!”—but we both knew exactly what it would be: her literal deathbed.

  Mom agreed to it. In dying, at least, she was a pragmatist. When it arrived, she lay down on it to try it out. She could raise or lower any section of the bed with just a push of a button. Holding the controller in her right hand, she sat back and attempted to reposition herself. “I’m going to put myself down now,” she announced before lifting her head to look at me. “I wish!” she added, laughing at her own joke.

  * * *

  —

  ALTHOUGH MOM HAD said she preferred notes, she did write back to a few of her closest friends to let them know she’d be up for a visit. It really mattered to her to say goodbye, but it was also draining. “I have difficulty getting people to understand that I have very little energy. I can fake it for a while when lying on the sofa,” she told me. “But I get tired very quickly.” Mom wanted to keep her audiences short.

  After a few visits, we developed a routine. Mom would lie down on the purple couch. I would put out a selection of French cheeses and artisanal crackers on the glass coffee table next to the Kleenex box. When her guest arrived I’d greet them, offer them a glass of Sancerre, and then show them to the armchair facing Mom. Then I’d excuse myself and head up to the roof to give them alone time. The roof was only two floors up, but it felt like a world away. I’d relax on a deck chair or go for a quick swim in the pool. The cold shock of the water felt good, like a jolt to the system. I might have cried. Who knows—it was all wet.

  About twenty minutes later I’d come back down. I’d take a deep breath before opening the door, anticipating the invariable backdraft of emotion. I’d usually catch Mom’s friend wiping away their tears. I could feel the sadness in the room like a heavy blanket. The cheese spread was never touched.

  My premeditated return would give Mom an opportunity to wrap things up. Sometimes she’d ask me to get out her worn brown leather jewellery box so that she could give away a piece—a parting gift of sorts. It was killing me, day after day, watching one dear friend after another leave with tears in their eyes, the door shutting behind them, always for the last time.

  “How do you do it?” I asked Mom one day after a friend had left. “Isn’t it torture having to say goodbye to all the people you love?”

  Mom’s voice became solemn as she delivered the simple truth of the matter: “It’s better to be able to say goodbye than not.” I agreed.

  She continued to make her way through her letters. “Here’s David’s,” she said. “ ‘I will always treasure the intensity of our love and regret that it went astray. Tin Pan Alley wrote a lot of true songs about such stuff. I am emptied at the thought of your spirit being still. I would love to see you.’ ” Mom started to cry. “I was really fed up with him at the end, but this is lovely,” she laughed through her tears.

  David came over. When I came back down from the roof I sat with them for a bit, happy to see him again. He begged her to get blasted with high doses of chemo (he’d just met someone who’d done so and her tumour shrank). Where were you five years ago?! The man who once insisted that herbs worked “just like chemotherapy” was now singing a different tune. The next day Mom called David to give him shit. She still had energy for what mattered.

  As Mom’s executive producer, every morning I’d go over the day’s agenda with her—who was coming to visit, what supplies we needed, an update on the business of her death. (Teddy had agreed to be the executor of her estate and was going to arrange her cremation. Josh was in charge of her memorial bench.) There was a revolving door of visitors. Teddy, Josh, Melissa, and Little Molly visited every few days. Plus there were personal support workers, the palliative care doctor, Pam the reflexologist, Elizabeth the death doula, Arei with chicken broth, and still more friends coming over to say goodbye.

  When Mom’s friends emailed me asking what they could do, I told them to send flowers—peonies, lilacs, snapdragons—bouquets that looked “more wild than cutesy,” as per Mom’s instructions. She was not a fan of sunflowers, daisies, or carnations. Mom’s dying world was continually stocked with fresh flowers. We always had a minimum of five vases going at a time. And then there was the friend who brought flowers from her organic garden—or rather, just the green buds. (“Some people bring me chicken soup, others bring marijuana!”)

  Between the many visitors and the flower deliveries, we were constantly buzzing people up. The concierge was getting a workout downstairs. I wondered what she must have thought was going on. Mom was one very popular new mystery tenant.

  I was no longer part of the living; I was in Mom’s dying world. I’d become something of a hermit since everything went down with Jian, but this was next-level. I wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t seeing friends. I wasn’t going to shows. I put my weekly chess match on hold. I put my whole life—even my relationship with Molly—on hold. Being with Mom was the only place I wanted to be. If I went too far out of range, the tick tick tick of my anxiety would go off.

  During the day I’d only ever leave the building to run errands: pharmacy, bank, Whole Foods to replenish the kombucha stock. Driving around Forest Hill in Mom’s silver Chevy, I started connecting to Top 40 pop songs like never before. Ed Sheeran, who normally made me gag, was suddenly giving me all the feels. I w
asn’t going to cry on the job, but alone in the car I could loosen the faucet a little. Mostly I managed to keep my emotions down by keeping busy, but even just stopping at a red light could allow my sadness to surface. My tears were now jumping like lemmings, and I wasn’t even trying to hold them back anymore.

  Mom got into the habit of reading the obituaries on her phone first thing in the morning. “It’s really interesting,” she said. “You get a personal story with each one.” They were also short stories—Mom didn’t have the energy to read for that long anymore.

  Before she started to slow down, Mom would plow through several books a week. Now she’d been plodding through the same Ram Dass book for a month. The American spiritual teacher formerly known as Dr. Richard Alpert had been a psychology professor at Harvard in the 1960s, where he’d experimented with LSD with Timothy Leary before taking off to India in search of enlightenment. After returning with a new vision (and a new name), Ram Dass became an icon for a generation of hippies with his 1971 bestselling book Be Here Now. Mom was reading the more recent Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing, and Dying, about Dass’s struggle to accept his physical limitations and altered life after suffering a stroke in his sixties. It gave him a new perspective, a new humility, that was resonating with Mom. “It’s about learning to accept dependence,” she explained. “It’s useful for me.”