death – The Misadventures of MHC

This year has broken me down in so many ways and it just keeps on going.

Four months and 23 days after losing my mom, my mother in law passed away after a long battle with Parkinson’s. While my relationship with my own mother had its peaks and valleys, my mother in law could only be described as the most wonderful lady in the entire world. Some of my fondest memories as a young girl were having dinner with my husband’s family, and his mom spending the entire evening chatting with me, complimenting my hair and clothes and telling me about some new product she bought. I had never seen a family like theirs; so full of love and respect, like a sitcom family, and she was the figurehead of this magical group of people I longed to spend time with. She was this beacon of joy and light. As I grew, she’d still treat me like I was her favourite person when she’d run into me on the street. I wasn’t treated like a random girl her son used to date; I was always welcomed like an old friend she was delighted to run into. When I’d talk to my husband on the phone long before we took a step towards a future, he’d always make it a point to tell me that his mom asked about how I was and I’d always reply with “awwwww I love your mom so much!”

Years later, I finally got my wish to join this family. I was so excited because I got to be her daughter in law. Unfortunately, by then her illness had advanced, and my youthful dreams of us wedding dress shopping and chatting up my friends on the dance floor at my wedding remained locked away in my imagination. But we had a chance to spend time together and in those times, I was treated with the same warmth and love.

Every time I look at my ring, I remember how much she would fawn over it and tell me how much she loved it

This grief is different. This grief is laced with longing for moments that didn’t happen, a photo together, and the overarching guilt that comes from wishing things had worked out earlier, and feeling like you’re disrespecting the family you’re blending by feeling that way. There’s also the sadness and helplessness that comes from watching your husband feel the weight of grief and knowing there’s nothing you can do to help him other than just be there.

It just seems like the never ending spectre of grief refuses to leave my home. He just lingers, stealing the people we love most slowly, chipping away at their faculties until they leave us physically. Every time I pull myself up from under the weight of it, a new thing pulls me back under. My sister has a health scare, my beloved cat Peachy starts showing signs of cognitive decline. The darkness that has enveloped my family this year seems to have taken permanent residence here, at least for now.

However, in the wake of all of this sadness, I search for silver linings. Those silver linings will guide me through the fog of sadness that haunts my home. I love my new job. I feel challenged, and even scared. I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone for the first time in a long time. Sometimes I feel very overwhelmed and scared that I’m not going to do well, and that feeling helps me focus and push myself. I can’t remember the last time I really had to push myself to succeed and it’s so empowering. Maybe that sounds crazy, but I can feel my confidence growing. I feel myself taking accountability when something doesn’t work. But more importantly, I feel myself becoming someone better than before. That person will find her way and become a success.

Also, I started at a new gym. My daughter and I started doing HIIT and it has been so much fun. My weight has been an issue for some time, and it bothers me that I don’t feel…hot. So I took a huge step to improve. I may be the oldest and fattest, but my daughter and I are doing something together. We laugh and have fun. It makes me so happy to just go and do these silly workouts with her and just enjoy each other’s company. And I feel better. I feel healthier and I can’t wait to see results as we go.

I look at where I live and I do my best to be grateful. I have a beautiful home with a magical view. I have a wonderful blended family. I have my health. I have an amazing sister who I love. My husband and I have each other. I have so many good friends. I have my beloved cats. Most of all, I have the knowledge that my mom wouldn’t want me to live my life under a shadow of grief. She’d want me to live a happy life with my husband and try to enjoy being a newlywed.

Sometimes when things seem dark, the only way to move forward is to remind yourself of those silver linings and use them to propel you back into the light. It seems silly, but sometimes those silver linings can be a lifeline that will guide you through whatever storms come along; which I’ve learned can feel sometimes never ending.

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.

Tag: death

Hit the wall