Nostalgia

2026 started off with a big old pile of suck.

After almost six years of struggling with cognitive decline from ALS and dementia, my mother passed away. Losing a parent sucks; I know this from experience. However, losing a parent under these circumstances is weird. My mom and I had a very strange relationship. I felt more like her parent than she was mine. For most of my childhood and even my adult years, she didn’t really like me. I’m sure she loved me and my sister to the best of her ability, but she didn’t like me. Part of my grief was grieving the mom I always wanted. The mom who cared about my day. The mom who didn’t yell hateful things at me and then buy my forgiveness with toys, while I waited for my sister to come home and give me the hugs that offered me the comfort and security I longed for. Part of me longed for those moments as an adult where we felt like friends. We could have conversations and watched TV. It was nice, and sometimes I’d call her phone in the hopes that she’d answer and we could talk about reality TV and Jeopardy.

My grief took a backseat to arrangements, phone calls, and the realization that people who should care just didn’t. As I comforted my children and worked out details with my sister, I waited for the phone calls from her siblings that never came. I was offered flimsy excuses and I was told to protect my peace, but I don’t feel peaceful sitting idly by while they treat my mom’s passing as a headline they don’t care about. It’s stupid, but she used to tell me she worried they wouldn’t even care if she died; she was right. I guess that hurt as much as her passing. There’s something so sad about knowing someone’s worst fear is a reality and you’re just watching it happen.

But mostly, I find myself just sitting in a world of memories, trying to make sense of how I feel about this loss in my life. Am I relieved that my role as caregiver is over? Am I devastated that we will never have a normal chat again? Or am I glad her pain is gone? I don’t really have an answer, so I throw myself into work and memories of times that felt better than right now.

Sometimes I’m seven years old and sitting in front of a red panda cage at the zoo. It’s summer and I spent months asking to go. My mom is overwhelmed; three young kids alone at the zoo, especially when one didn’t want to go can be a lot. There’s that moment where I desperately wanted a plush red panda, but she couldn’t afford it. I didn’t understand then; all I knew was that my mom was a big meanie who didn’t want me to have a red panda of my very own. The years passed, and I was a single mother myself. I remember the times I would have to say no to movies or treats, or that I would have to miss things because I had to work to keep us cared for. I’d lay in bed at night covered in guilty tears and I’d think about how mad I’d get when we were so poor and I just wanted normal experiences and I thought about how she must have felt the same way.

Sometimes I’m 14 years old and I had to miss a day of school to go to court. The social workers said mom had improved, and two years of society wardship was almost up. I was so sure that she’d find a new townhome and we’d go back to live together. Instead I found out she had agreed we would become wards of the Crown. We would never be a family again. Not in the same way. I felt so angry and rejected and sobbed on my bed. My foster parents explained that sometimes the best thing a parent can do to express their love is to allow their kids the space to grow up safe and happy. Sometimes that means understanding that they aren’t right for the job. I didn’t understand that then, but I do now.

Sometimes I’m 21. I’m pregnant. I’m covered in bruises. Three of my ribs are broken. I’m scared to tell anyone what’s wrong. I meet my mom for coffee and I muster up the nerve to explain what’s going on in my life. Before I do, she tells me how relationships take work and you can’t just break off an engagement for any old reason, so I say I slipped on ice and that’s how I broke my ribs. I go home, feeling hollow and empty, wishing I had a mom I could confide in.

Sometimes I’m 36 and it’s my birthday. I went for my run and I’m enjoying the quiet. My mom gives me a phone number of her pharmacist’s son. Apparently I’ve been single for too long. “I just want you to be happy.” I give up trying to explain that I am happy. I have my kids and fitness and my job. But we have good conversations now, and it’s nice sometimes.

Finally it’s November. I haven’t spoken to her in a few weeks. Mostly because she’s not there. Every conversation made me realize that she doesn’t know me; she doesn’t know where she is. Gone was the quasi friendship we found as adults. There’s just a void where a person I knew used to be. But my phone rings and it’s my mom. She asks about my wedding, about my kids. We talked about sports and it was like she wasn’t sick anymore. It was a normal chat. When it was time to hang up, she said “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” I promised I’d visit her in April and bring her chocolates from her favourite chocolatier here in town…

…but six weeks later she was gone.

Everything after was a whirlwind. Maybe I’ll be able to grieve next month when my siblings and I scatter her ashes. Or maybe I’ve been grieving since her stroke and never knew. But I like to think she’s with my dad; finally happy and at peace after a lot of years of struggling and regret. Maybe it’s that thought that helps me feel at peace. It also helped me realize that it’s so important to plan ahead, because it’s hard to grieve when you’re dealing with a bunch of arrangements and you don’t know what you’re doing and you just want your Mommy to be there, even if the memories of her being the kind of mommy you wanted are fleeting and rare.

But I’ll take solace in that last chat. She knew I’d be okay because I have my children, my husband, and my wonderful friends and extended family. No matter how dark things feel, I have so much warmth and light to guide me.