It was snapping, crackling and popping around here July 4th. Despite the pleas of 
law enforcement, “so-called” adults (okay…idiots) were setting off fireworks, the illegal kind, in backyards and on street corners. Not to mention the big official fireworks shows nearby in Culver City and Marina del Rey. A cacophony of sounds set the air on fire. I heard blasts like gunshots, whoops, hollers and dogs. Howling, howling. I felt like howling too. “Make it stop…make it stop.” On July 4th I want to hide in bed and pull the covers over my head. And that’s where I was when the call came that my mother just passed away.
Earlier that day, the sunny board & care home where she spent her last months hosted a grand July 4th barbecue. Families, friends, neighbors converged in the backyard to chitter-chatter and fill our plates with grilled goodies. I sat with my mom and cajoled her to eat as I happily inhaled yet another hot dog and scoop of homemade potato salad. She just poked at her food then put her fork down. But chocolate is another matter. It’s always been the food of last resort. I emptied a handful of baby Hershey bars on the table, carefully unwrapped the foil and placed a little slice of brown heaven in her hand. She took a tiny chipmunk bite and put it down. Hmmm.
And she would not look at me either. “Mom, I’m over here. Let me see your beautiful face.” She’d glance quickly my way and even more quickly the other way again. I found this odd enough to mention to my husband. For the last two weeks it seemed she was dropping deeper into the land of dementia and unlatching from this mortal coil. It’s only now that I’m beginning to put two and two together.
After the party, the caregivers put her back into her Lazy Boy in the living room, in front of the big flat screen. She was holding her beloved stuffed puppy in her arms as I leaned in to kiss her. “Bye Mom. I love you.” Her reply? “I know.”
A few hours later she died in her sleep. The doctor had given her a clean bill of health only a week before. There was no frantic trip to the emergency room. My husband took me into his big warm arms and then we drove to her home. I stood over her body and studied her face. It was free of anguish. It looks like she died peacefully. We should all be so lucky. A heart attack, a stroke, a something that is quick and done.
The mortuary dude arrived quickly too. Probably July 4th is a big night in the undertaking business. I watched him drive away, with my mother in the back of his van, the red taillights disappearing in the night. Fireworks exploded nearby turning the sky smoky blue.
And just like that my “tormentor” was gone. She was 93 years old.
As you can imagine I am experiencing a cascade of emotions…and a whole lot of nothing. Those of you who are familiar with my story know that my mother had borderline personality disorder. She could be so kind and inexplicably cruel. Unfortunately, my father and I were her primary punching bags. Mom was a registered nurse, a clinical specialist, who went back to school in midlife to get her degree, which is quite an admirable feat. She prized her profession above all else and would interject the list of her accomplishments into any and all conversations. In her world there was little room for anyone else. It was only the last couple of years when dementia stole her memory and Zoloft balanced her moods that we actually had something resembling a loving relationship.
She is so much a part of “my story.” What happens to our story when a main character dies? For me, this is complicated by the specter of mental illness. I could write a book. This woman threatened to kill me. That would be a couple chapters right there.
And yet… One evening many years ago, for a few moments, my mother emerged from her mental prison into lucidity. She was standing by her front door, sobbing. “I’m so afraid I’m going to push you away” she sputtered through her tears. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it. I can’t help it.” She talked about hearing voices.
You know, I had always thought she could help it. I thought I could “fix” her. And then she’d be nice to me. But at that moment my view began to change. Albeit not enough to stop the suffering that would continue for decades—for her and me. I can only hope that today she is free.
Flash forward… I am talking with funeral-director-guy in his office at Pierce Brothers Mortuary, which is conveniently located at the final resting place of so many Hollywood stars. My parents had a pre-paid, no-frills cremation plan on file. I am deeply grateful that they did this. They bought this plan twenty years ago for $695 each. Funeral-director-guy can’t freaking believe it! He shows me what the same plan costs today. Whoa! Dying is expensive, folks… While he is imputing the information into his computer I wander around the graves and headstones. A couple tourists, distraught women, are doing some kind of emotional catharsis in front of Marilyn Monroe’s crypt, otherwise I would have taken a picture. But I do snap a few. My mother loved cemeteries. It’s feels so Zen to me—you know, that laughter in tears and tears in laughter stuff.
My mother could have been a stand-up comedienne. She was hilarious and loved shocking people with her ribald observations about body parts. We had this conversation a few months after my father died when I asked if she had thought about “like…going out on a date? What are you looking for in a man?” She answered so quickly and precisely that it was apparent she’d been mulling this over for a while.
“Yes. He’s got to have three qualifications. First he has to be funny.” What that means is he has to think SHE is funny.
“Second. He has to be smart.” Which means he thinks SHE is smart.
“And what’s the third one mom?” I can hardly wait to hear this one.
“He has to be impotent.”
“Uh…do you mean important?” I ask…
“No. Imp-O-tent.” She stresses the “o” so there is no doubt what she means. Or wants.
There is a moment of silence before I offer some real world advice…
“Mom it’s so hard to find the perfect guy, you know. Would ‘two out of three’ work?”
She ponders this briefly before acquiescing… “well okay, he doesn’t have to be smart…”
Not long after that my mother spiraled ever so slowly out of control and eventually lived like a bag lady in her own home, refusing to let people in, refusing help, refusing to throw anything away. There were no boyfriends.
At the end of my visit, I hand funeral-director-guy her brown velour pantsuit. My mother was not a girlie-girl. She dressed like a Russian soldier. Then I give him the stuffed puppy she adored the last few weeks of her life. She and her polyester pooch and brown velour will go out in a blaze together.
My mom did not want a funeral or memorial. Nothing in the newspaper. This blog is it. She did not believe in heaven. Or hell. Not an afterlife nor reincarnation. One and done. She was the mistress of fireworks, this one. Sometimes it was quite a show and you couldn’t look away. But mostly I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide. That said, I know that my mother did the best she could with her one precious life.
I called her best friend with the news. They knew each other since they were teenagers in Washington D.C., giggling about the new boy down the street. This woman cried softly on the phone. “Your mother had a good heart, Cali…”
In time the stories soften around the edges and eventually fade away, but one thing remains: Our mother carried us in her belly for nine months and brought us into this world. Whether she had the stuff to be a good mother. Or not. How can we ever say thank you, thank you enough, for this astonishing gift? For our big messy life.
I received an avalanche of emails in response to my last blog about my mother. “Police Pursuit.” Stories that are sad, complicated and utterly human. In my blogs I have hesitated writing about my really personal stuff… You have to know that my index finger hovers over the “send” button before I push it down. Should I? Shouldn’t I? But that began to change this year with my mother, the defining relationship in my life. Your responses remind me that our stories connect us, not in our heads, but in our hearts. They give us comfort, like a deep heave-ho.An a-ha moment, perhaps. I’m especially gratified when you leave a message on my blog (WordPress) so others may be gifted with your words. Thank you!
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
Hi Cali, thanks so much for this personal and tender story/experience. What crazy irony that the day she died was the same day we watch all those fireworks.
You write so well, that I really enjoyed reading your thoughts, even though I think they hide a lot of pain and anger. I cannot believe that you never walked away from her, that you continued to be dutiful. That took courage and persistence.
I am glad for you that the pain is in the past as much–as you can leave of it there. You did what you could. From what I read, I think you did quite well these past few years when the dementia and drugs helped subdue your mom. Hopefully, visits were easier for you.
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
SIGH! As your mom’s story ends, you begin a new chapter in yours. I know how much you loved your mom, despite your unique history with her. Somehow, she has to be responsible for your incredible talent, patience, great humor, and joie de vivre and not just your very existence. She was blessed with longevity albeit somewhat chaotic. I hope she passed that characteristic on to you cuz you sure brighten a lot of folks’ lives! Even in the midst of your sad moments, you make me smile and reflect on my own mother’s life. God bless.
Cali’s response:
Thank you for your kind words. We are selling my mother’s home and I’ve spent the last three weeks clearing things out. Both my parents hoarded in their own way. Right now I’m looking at photographs. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds. Old love letters. They saved greeting cards back to the 1940’s. It’s interesting to share time with our parents before they became mommy and daddy. My parents seemed to be so much in love at the beginning and yet in later years I swear they would kill each other. What a life…
I think what I learned from my mother, as an unintended consequence, is compassion. That we are struggle. We are all afraid. Probably all of us want to be loved or acknowledged and just noticed. We want to feel like we belong to someone or something. My mother pushed almost everyone away who tried to love her. What a tragic epitaph. For her and for me.
Anyway, I get to play the ukulele and make music with wonderful people. So it’s still a wonderful life.
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
Cali, this blog is a classic. I will save it. It must have taken you a great deal of time to write and rewrite these thoughts about your tormented relationship.
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
Thanks for sharing some of your mother’s story and your dealing with her moods and problems. Wow! Quite a childhood you had to deal with, but you managed somehow. And you found some good memories among the difficuolt ones. I’m impressed with your efforts to relate to your ailing mom . How fine that she could tell you she knew you loved her. Did that feel like some kind of victory? Most of us complain some about our mothers, but after hearing your story, I think we didn’t have much to complain about. Look how you turned out – a loving, caring, kind, inspiring human – smart too and good at understanding people and good at what you do.. Brava, Cali! Enjoy you life!
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
I just read that your mom has passed and what I hope that you remember is what a wonderful daughter and person you are.
We talked a lot about our mom’s. both the good and mostly what awful mother’s they were. Even knowing that your mom couldn’t help it, it still impacts who you have become. I hope her passing give you peace and the willingness to let go and appreciate YOU. My mom has been gone since September and I have never felt so free and excited about my new life now without her. I was a good daughter, I did what I could and now I am onto taking care of me. A friend of mine sent out an email asking her friends to give her ideas as to things to do as she is turning 60.
I started thinking about the options and realized that what I was suggesting to her were the things that I want to do so I am doing them.
I going to a uke camp that offers singing. Singing, me? I want to dance more and even take Hulu lessons. I just have a new lease on life and encourage you, after your mourning period, to think about what you want and do it!! You are such a special person and share your talents with the world. You are loved and appreciated by so many, including me. Take care and know that you are loved and cared about. Stay well.
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
I’m so proud of you for putting into writing and making some kind of sense of the crazy rollercoaster ride of this life we live as daughters to our parents. You have conveyed your sense of loss, not just from your mother’s death, but from what could have been, what should have been, but wasn’t in your relationship with her, and yet how you have somehow managed to make peace and come to some sense of closure. This piece reads like Part 2 to the haunting Police Pursuit blog that touched so many people and helped them come to terms with their own stories and fractured relationships with their mothers. With both pieces of writing, sharing your own story has helped other people see that they are not alone, that we all endure the same craziness in our families in one form or another. In spite of everything, you were a good daughter to your mother, and she would have loved that you made her the center of attention and immortalized her through your writing. I think she felt some sense of peace at the end, and I hope that you, too, are finding your well deserved peace.
Cali Rose
From Anonymous:
I loved reading your blog about your mother. Borderline Personality Disorder is so complex and so misunderstood. People with this fly through life and often don’t even know what they’ve done to destroy the lives of others. I’m sure that she did have a good heart, how else could there be you and the joy you bring to others. But it is very brave to go out in the world and talk about how tough it has been.
Others will benefit from you talking about it. Living with someone like that is really hard for people to understand. It’s crazy making. You never know when the weather will change and you had nothing to do with it when it happened.
May your mother’s memory be a blessing.
Edward Doherty
So sorry for your loss Cali. My 95 year old mother also departed this life just 6 weeks ago. I know what a void it leaves when the person you knew from the very first second of your own being is no longer be there so I offer you a share of the peace, solace and condolance that others have given to me.
Cali Rose
Thank you Edward and here’s wishing you a soft landing too. The mother-child thing is so primal and complete. We grow in their wombs. But this life is about embracing and letting go. No way around that.
Don Price
Dearest Cali…
I want to “ditto” almost word for word what Peggt Calvert wrote to you.
Both you and Peggy expressed yourselves in such a heartfelt way.
Thinking of you…
Be well
Cali Rose
Thank you Don. Being embraced by my dear ones, my ukulele tribe and by music is making this time, well, “present.” Even in the face of loss (and joy), I want to be present for my life…
Dan Moreau (HonuPicks)
Sorry for your loss, Cali. Your are a remarkable woman and touch the hearts of all with your words ands music. “The good, the bad, and the ugly” experiences in our lives influence who we are. It’s a choice to become, good, bad or get real ugly through it all. You choose good…and I for one, thank you for it. We need more good in the world.
My father-in-law just passed a few days ago after suffering from dementia for about 10 years. It really takes a toll on family and often pits them against each other. I get where you’re at right now. May God bless you and keep doing what you do!
Cali Rose
Thank you for sharing your story Dan and I’m sending you and your family a cyber-hug. It’s awful to watch someone with dementia lose a little more of themselves everyday. I hope from there point of view, it’s not so bad. But everyone suffers in the scenario I think and so I’m grateful that my mother is free. And I know she did the best she could. But it was ongoing drama with her and it’s very interesting how quiet things are now. Good luck with the family angst. That’s got to add a few more levels of bad feeling. I hope the passage of time eases what can eased. All my best to you.
Mike Shainline
Losing a parent takes us to a different level in life. If we’re lucky we gain insight and grow. If we’re not, it can send us spiraling downward. Thanks for sharing your insight, Cali, and helping us all grow.
Cali Rose
Thank you Mike. You have certainly experienced a world of loss in the last few years. I bet the bike rides help, and the guitar and your friends and family. There is no escaping this stuff, but as you say, if we are lucky we can choose how we respond. I think dealing with death cracks us open in ways nothing else can, leaving us the potential to bring a little bit of “the mystery” into the light of day, into our lives. A big, big to you!
Noel Gould
Cali Rose!!! Thank you so much for sharing your story in such a beautiful, touching, and heartfelt way! You’re a sensitive, lighthearted, and caring spirt, and whatever torment your mother put you through, you turned out just fine. I’m grateful we’re friends, and if there’s anything you need, please ask. xo, Noel
Cali Rose
Thank you Noel for your kind words. And here is wishing you all the best in your precious life!
Betty Joblin
Thank you Cali for sharing your experience and the process of healing that is evolving for you. My thoughts continue to be with you as well as feelings of kindredness!
Cali Rose
Thank you so much Betty. When people ask me what I “believe” I tell them that I believe in kindness. But I should add to that “process.”
Jack Jameson
My condolences Cali Rose. I could relate to much of what you described in my own childhood. We are all called to rise above the cards we had been dealt…to that higher love & forgiveness. You clearly have. You bring your gifts of music and joy to many. Sometimes loss can be a portal to self discovery…to wisdom. May it be for you. Prayers & blessings to you and your family during this time and always.
Cali Rose
Thank you Jack and I completely agree with you–that the loss of a parent is something so big and deep that it can crack us open in ways that nothing else can. And therein lies the potential for profound insight…and freedom. The “rising above” stuff you mention is a moment-by-moment excursion for me. 🙂
All the best to you!
Shirley Orlando
Hi, Cali.
My mother, too had dementia in her final years. It was heartbreaking to lose
her before she died. She was tenderhearted and sweet. She was uncomplicated, and simple. She balanced my Dad, the gregarious and colorful “man of the house!”
I’m sorry you did not have a close and loving relationship with your Mom. It has to be a constant ache in one’s heart. Thank you for passing on YOUR affection and love to all around you. My condolences of your loss…before and after.
Cali Rose
Thank you Shirley. Like you, music and my musical family helps get me through it. And find such deep joy in this moment!
Dennis Schachter ............from the Culver City Senior Center
You are so direct and amazing. May the Universe rest her soul. And may the Universe
rest yours also. With love.
Cali Rose
Thank you Dennis. May we all move through this world with love!
Anita Jaskol
Dear Cali!
You are free, now, Cali! Your mother was fortunate to have given birth to and raised a loving, loyal daughter. And she somehow passed along to you your talents, strengths, and loving qualities. Although you struggled all your life to love her, as you would have wanted to do, she too was struggling within herself to be that loving person worthy of you. She gave us a gift: She gave us YOU! The world is a better place because of your mother.
Love, Anita
Cali Rose
Thank you Anita. I know my mother did the best she could, as we all do, and as you observe, the great gift is that our mothers deliver us into this world and hopefully we move through our lives with kindness and compassion.
Annette
Cali,
I am so sorry for your loss. I know that may seem like an odd comment given the relationship you describe. But good or bad, losing someone who has occupied everyday of your life is a huge loss and a huge change. I hope as the pain fades, more and more you will carry the memory of the mother who had a wonderful sense of humor. I have known Bernice for almost 4 decades as a neighbor. I knew your dad as a neighbor and fellow board member. I can’t say we were close, but I admired your dad for his intellect and appreciated your mom for her bawdy humor. She loved to shock. She was always kind to me. She did one thing perfectly. She raised a daughter who stood by her side through the tough times. You know I lost my husband last year after several years of suffering from Alzheimer’s. I started mourning his loss years before he died. Now, a year later. I’m done crying. What gives me comfort is that I did all I could for him. I know you standing by your mom in her declining years will give you comfort as the pain declines. Sending you a loving hug. If I can do anything for you, I’m here.
Love,
Annette
Cali Rose
Thank you Annette and I send a bow of admiration to you because you grab life with gusto and gratitude! My mother had a magnetic presence and people found her hugely entertaining. Whether she was cursing someone out or telling a naughty joke, she managed to sear herself into people’s memories. But it’s a mighty think plank that doesn’t have two sides. Sometimes I wanted to pull the skin off my body to get her toxic energy out of my body. I remember when she threw a temper tantrum in Trader Joe’s because a customer rolled his cart into hers. She was possessed, raging with red-hot anger you could feel it in the air and shoppers moved away from her like a bomb had exploded. I watched this from afar and thought to myself…yes that is how it is with her. Walking on eggshells was my mantra around her. I’m glad your experiences with her were warm and engaging. That’s true about her too.
J. Dude
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and hopes amd fears.
Cali Rose
You are very welcome. Thank you for taking the time to read this very long blog.
Shirley Torstenson
Dear Cali,
John & I send you are sincere condolences.
Huge hugs to you. (I wish I could hug you now in person!)
Such is life.
Take care of yourself and try to focus on those rare moments of happiness that you were able to share with your mom. Also, revel in that you are both free now. However bitter some memories, she was a part of shaping you into the beautiful, warm, generous, loving and gifted person that you are. Love to you.
Shirley
Cali Rose
Thank you Shirley. I’m staying busy doing what brings me joy–anything music or writing. I am glad she is free and not suffering anymore. It’s got to be awful to go through life pushing away the very people who are trying to love you. Who’d sign up for that? I don’t think she had a choice. But I do. One of the folks in my ukulele class says this: Be kind and clean up your garbage.
Anne geffner
Now, is the time to take really good care of you. For me the death of my parents left me physically and emotionally drained . Rest helps. And quiet.
The words about your mother are so beautifully expressed, and your words give comfort to my losses. Thank you for all that you give. I read something in a hospice article how loosing a parent requires us to be reborn again. Here are the words. Author unknown. The management of grief is, in essence the management of self. Grief is a passage, a lonely pilgrimage ….. It is a birthing process where we are reborn into new identity, new life, and new hope. As in our first birth, we have no choice, Love to you Cali.
Cali Rose
Thank you for your kind and wise words. I’m trusting the currents of life to float me down the river. The less thrashing about the better. 🙂
Peggy Calvert
Cali, my condolences on the death of your mother. Your story sparkles with crystalline honesty. Thank you for risking, trusting us your readers, with such honesty. Your huge heart is so vividly displayed here. As older adults, we can look back and sort out what we never understood even as 20 somethings, or when we were 30 ish or even with the wisdom of 40. It takes a brave, big hearted woman to share the pain you experienced, and to find value in a salvaged, though short lived, third act. May you continue to learn and share your wisdom and joy!
Cali Rose
Thank you Peggy for your kindness and kind words.
Ralph Wilson
Thanks for this great blog, Cali Rose, from another kid of a very difficult mom. You got it all in, the good and the bad. Mental illness is so tough on all it touches, and sometimes compassion is all we have to cope with it.
Cali Rose
It’s the work of a lifetime, to separate what is mom’s from what is mine. It’s so easy to get tangled in their stuff and lose a little bit of who we are. It really helps to know there are others who get through this and find their own way, their own autonomy. Thanks for getting through it Ralph. Your words have inspired me.
Alison Cameron
Oh dear Cali, such a very poignant post about your mother’s death. I am so sorry. It is hard to lose your mother, especially a difficult mother. At least her great fear didn’t come to pass – you never did push her away, although you must have been tempted. That is something to hold on to. That, and that she couldn’t help herself. Her words – your words – made me cry, for you and her both.
I am so sorry.
Huge hugs – Alison
Cali Rose
Thank you Alison. Actually I did push her away. And visa versa. We had long stretches of estrangement because I had no choice. It was the only way I could survive. A narcissist will suck you dry. The tragedy is mental illness. Untreated year after year after year. It poisoned every one of her relationships. My solace is that my mother is no longer suffering. Please take care!
gary grossman
Very touching and well written, Cali!
Cali Rose
Thank you Gary. It was very cathartic to write this. I sure believe is process. Slow, plodding process.