It’s Actually True: My Mom Is Dead

*Update: I originally wrote this in the Summer of 2018. I needed to write it in order to process. I usually process out loud, but I couldn’t speak these words. Today, the 2 year anniversary of my mom’s death, I feel better than I did when I wrote this. I sleep well, and the Lord has freed me from the burden of guilt I once felt so determined to carry. The absence left behind, though, has not quite filled. The opportunity of restoration with my mother is gone, but I still trust God and the plans He has laid out. God is good, even in this.

My mom is dead. It’s been about four months since I found out, and I’m still processing that she’s gone. It never doesn’t hurt, but most of the time it’s just a dull ache in the background of my daily life. I see a sappy Facebook post about moms and I think, “My mom is dead.” I remember one of the handful of good memories I have of my mom, and I hear, “My mom is dead.” A memory will pop into my mind that makes me angry at her again, and I’ll tell myself, “My mom is dead. I can’t be angry now.” It doesn’t seem quite real, and my brain won’t stop playing this sentence in an incessant and macabre loop. My mom is dead.

How I Found Out

Karen, my mother, died from cirrhosis of the liver, and, yes, that was a result of alcoholism. She died on January 18, 2018 in hospice care. Her last days were likely painful, fearful, and alone. You see, Karen denied she had any children, and I only found out about her death because my aunt saw a newspaper advertisement online seeking next of kin for my mother. The person being sought was me, but Karen no longer acknowledged me as her only child.

She did not give my name when she made a will (if she had one), when she was in the hospital for about month, or when she was placed in hospice. The medical facilities that dealt with her will not and cannot tell me much because Karen didn’t put me on an information release form. They’ve told me more than they technically should, I think, because my husband and I kept calling. They probably wanted us to lay off and told us enough to make us go away. The majority of what I know is from speaking with the coroner’s office and the leasing office of her apartment. Each place I called had the same reaction. Complete shock. Karen has a daughter???

Some Unwelcomed Out-Of-State Errands

She lived with her brother until his death two months prior to hers. Through our inquiries we discovered that she had him cremated, but she never picked up his remains. My husband and I went to the funeral home to collect him, and the kind employee looked aghast as we shared the few details we had about my mother’s death. The funeral home employee told me she had been in my mother’s apartment to make arrangements for my uncle, and Karen looked right into her eyes and told her she had no children nor did her brother. False. My uncle, indeed, has a daughter. The employee’s eyes looked at me with confusion, pity, and compassion. I’m positive I’ll be a story she tells throughout her life.

I failed to mention that all this was going on in Louisville, KY. I lived in central Illinois, so most of my experience was done over the phone. My husband took a day off work, and, after dropping our four oldest kids off with a sitter, we drove the four and half hours down to Kentucky with our infant son to tie up some loose ends. The first stop was the funeral home in order to pick up my uncle’s remains. The kind woman we spoke with made me feel more relaxed, and I needed it for the rest of the trip.

Getting Evicted

The next stop was my mom’s apartment. The leasing office was evicting her. You read that right. They were evicting my dead mother for nonpayment. We were there because we could go through her things as they put them on the street. Honestly, I wanted nothing. My husband, however, thought I should go and at least pick up the pictures. Despite Karen’s denial of me, she had boxes of photographs of me. I wonder if she ever looked at them and missed me. I wonder if in moments of sobriety she remembered that I was ready and willing to stand by her side when she was ready to get sober.

While at the apartment, the ladies from the rental office filled in some of the details about how her last months unfolded. I won’t write what they said, but I will say that it was horrific and truly the stuff of nightmares. In fact, I’ve had nightmares ever since. I’ve been so filled with guilt and sadness that I’ve had to pull over while driving because I suddenly began to hyperventilate. I’ve been so angry at her pride and stubbornness that when my mind wanders I imagine telling her off. Then, I feel as small as a person can be. Who daydreams about yelling at their dead mom? A monster?

Too Much For Me

The next order of business was possibly to go to her grave. My mom was given an indigent burial. All that really means is that she was put in a cheap coffin and cared for by a local funeral home. Then, she was placed with other indigent graves and marked with a numbered stick. I couldn’t go. Sure, physically I could have, but I couldn’t emotionally see that. She didn’t have family or friends saying goodbye as she was buried. She would never have a tombstone. No one who knew her spoke about her life before she was buried.

I didn’t get to see her before she was sealed in a coffin, so I feel like my relationship with my mom has no closure. Standing in front of that pathetic grave certainly wasn’t going to button everything up for me. So, I told my husband I just wanted to go home.

I Prayed For A Different Outcome

I almost lost my composure at the leasing office, but I managed to hold it together throughout our entire trip to Louisville. So, I did what any person does who grew up in a home like mine…stuffed it deep down. I laughed about the ludicrous nature of the whole thing. I assured others I was great. After all, I had mourned the mother I’d never have years before she died, had forgiven her all the hurt and vitriol she hurled at me throughout the years, and had prepared for the very real possibility that I’d never see her again. I was ready for this reality but had prayed in earnest for a different outcome.

I asked God to make it right and prayed for her to heal physically and spiritually, and I begged for her to see what she needed and to trust Him to provide that need. Some people call this an “unanswered prayer” because it didn’t play out how I asked. That’s wrong, though. He didn’t put my prayer aside for a later date and never got to it. He said, “no.” I just don’t know why.

Final Thought

No amount of stuffing helped me move on. I was having terrifying nightmares, sudden panic attacks, and began shutting down. I could function but was just doing the bare minimum while going through the motions in a daze. Finally, I emerged out of my fog and cried out, “Abba Father.” Like a child who crawls into her daddy’s lap to cry and be comforted, I prayed and sang hymns. You guys, God is good all the time. All. The. Time. I’m still sad about the loss of my mother, but I have peace and joy in my Lord. The relationship I had with my mom requires more healing, but I have a Rock and Refuge in my God. And like so many times before, He’ll see me through this and it will certainly all be for His glory.

Check It Out

A Birthday Letter To My Mom: After She’s Gone

Mother’s Day When You Have A Bad Mom

Image courtesy of Ronni Kurtz via Unsplash.