What We Say in Grief

How to mourn a complicated parent relationship

My mom died a few weeks ago.

She’d been sick for so long that I’d half expected her to stay alive and unwell forever. But, of course, that’s not the way of things. In the end, she succumbed to complications from pneumonia. She was 77.

In our blind and urgent grief, we co-authored an obituary patched together from memories and recollections of her long-ago self. An obit is a public-facing account, so not really the place to include less varnished stories, like how Mom used to steal money from my purse or how she repeatedly told me I was ruining my kids’ lives.

Still, if we’re really lucky in this life, we’ll have the chance to care for a loved one in their final days, even when that love is complicated. My mother was a broken, beautiful human. Large-hearted and vindictive, full of rage and occasional mirth. She lied and gaslit and laughed and gave us money for our birthdays except when she forgot our birthdays, which in these past few years was often.

I had the opportunity to share remarks at her funeral. And I worried a little. What do you say to honor the passing of a complicated parent? What do you leave in? What do you keep out?

In the end, I decided a church service was not the place to litigate the past. My mother, like all of us, contained multitudes. So I celebrated her better qualities. Mostly.

There are people who always know the right thing to say to make you feel better, who look at you with generosity and magnanimity and like you are the most important thing in the world.

My mom was not always one of those people.

My dad was one of those people. But my mom would look at you and say, “Turquoise is not your color.” Or “Wearing your hair like that makes you look pregnant.”

If you went to a restaurant with my mom, she’d accidentally insult the server. Or she’d send the coffee back. “Make me a fresh pot.” I saw her do that twenty times.

My aunt Christine remembers how at holidays, we had to give my mom a fake time. “We’re eating at 3:30, Anna Marie.” Because at 3:30, my mom would be wrapping presents at home and thinking about baking something. She’d roll in at about 5:45 which was probably when they actually wanted to eat anyway.

So my mom could be late and preposterous. And when I was a teenager, she had the wildest rules. I remember I wanted to drive to the junior prom. My date didn’t have his license yet, so I asked my mom if I could have the car. And she said, “No. Girls do not drive to the prom in high-heeled shoes.”

So I said, “No problem, Mom. I’ll wear sneakers.”

And she said, “No. Girls do not wear sneakers to the prom.”

So I said, “Mom, I’ll change my shoes when I get there.”

And she said, “Girls do not change their shoes when they get there.”

So she could be preposterous. Maddening. But if you thought my mom was awkward or maddening around adults, she was magic when it came to children. [...]

She taught three blocks away at the Nurtury preschool for twenty years. And she was magic there. She taught herself Spanish. She’d go around the house saying, “Azul. Arcoíris. Verde. Amarillo.” She taught herself Spanish, so she could teach kids Spanish. They had a dress-up closet and Play-Doh, and she held apple tastings. She would give you a red delicious, a yellow delicious, and a Granny Smith, and she’d ask you to choose your favorite, and she’d make charts on the wall and teach math through apples.

But my favorite thing was the leaf rambles. Every year in the fall, she’d ask the kids to make a prediction: “What color leaf will you see?”

They’d say: “Mrs. Kelly, I’m gonna see an orange leaf.”

And she’d say, “You will.”

“Mrs. Kelly, I’m gonna see a brown leaf.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Kelly, my leaf is gonna be verde.”

And she’d say, “Yes, verde.”

And then they’d say, “Mrs. Kelly, what color leaf will you see?”

And my mom would say, “I’m gonna find a black leaf.” Or “I’m gonna find a purple leaf.” Or “I’m gonna find a magenta leaf with gold filigree.” Those children didn’t know what the word ‘filigree’ meant. My mom was always doing that, right? She’d use giant words. Crossword puzzle words. She was so smart.

And then, like magic, they’d go outside, and every child would find their leaf. You would find your yellow leaf. You would find your green leaf or your amarillo leaf. And my mother would find a black leaf or a purple leaf or a magenta leaf with gold filigree. She was like living inside a fairy tale.

She taught children that everything was possible. And when they were having a bad day, my mom knew exactly the right thing to make them feel better. She’d get down on their level and look at them like they were the most important thing, and she’d say, “I’m so proud of you.” And “You’re doing such a good job.”

And if you thought my mom was magic with young kids, you should have seen her with moms and babies. [...] My mom would take a crying baby from this church or from a restaurant and she would say, “Sh-sh-sh,” and she would bounce around and she would end up walking on the sidewalk and that baby would fall asleep, safe in her arms. My brother called her “the Baby Whisperer.”

And my neighbor remembers coming back from the hospital overwhelmed by the notion of raising twins. And my mom brought her soup and salad and onesies for the babies, but also fuzzy slippers and jammies for their mom, and she said, “I’m proud of you. I know you can do this.”

And she did that for me. I lived twelve hours away when Katie, my oldest, was born. And my mom made that drive in ten hours and forty-five minutes. She could not wait to meet her granddaughter. She did the same thing when Lizzie was born. She drove 326 miles across the state of Pennsylvania and around New York City just to hold that baby. We lived closer for Henry, but she still nearly got a speeding ticket on 271. And she raced to see your babies and your children because my mom was magic with young people and with moms and with babies.

My siblings and I were talking. We thought our parents would live so much longer. They were so healthy and active. My dad did ten pushups and twenty situps and he walked every day until he got his stage four brain cancer diagnosis. My mom did yoga and aerobic dancing. The two of them took social dancing classes. We celebrated their anniversary right down the street. Our whole family learned a dance for them. They were so young and active. And, of course, they played tennis.

At one time in this town, you could be in preschool with my mom, and then you’d grow up and take History with my dad, and they would coach you on the tennis team, and then you would get married and your kids could go to preschool at the Nurtury where my mom taught and they would grow up and be in my dad’s History class. They had children of children on their tennis teams. Thousands of kids grew up with my parents as their surrogate parents, and we still hear from them. They’ve worked in the White House. They’ve lived in France. They’ve been all around the world.

But nothing is given. So if you’re looking for a way to celebrate my mom today, you could send your coffee back at a restaurant. Absolutely. That’s what she would do. But better still, find a baby to kiss. Find a young person and tell them, “I’m so proud of you.” Find a teenager and let them drive to prom. Find a surrogate parent, someone you love, and tell them, “I see you.” Get down on their level and say exactly the thing they need to hear.

In that way, maybe my parents’ legacy will live on in all of us, those of us who knew them, who shared their stories, and who’ve become the people they wanted us to be. Because they loved us so much. They loved all of you so much. And how lucky we were to be so magnanimously loved by them.

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Because our world is digital and strange, you can actually watch my mom’s funeral on YouTube. We did this for older relatives who could not make the trip to Ohio during such miserable winter weather. I suppose eventually we’ll take it down, but in the meantime, maybe this will bring comfort to others searching for ways to honor their own complicated parents.

There are 1001 ways to mourn. Another way I’m moving through this strange loss is by traveling. When you’re a caregiver, it’s so difficult to go anywhere. You have to arrange for extra help and get to the pharmacy to obtain your mom’s prescription refills ahead of time. So there is a gentle freedom now. I feel less tethered. I can fly away.

If you find yourself daydreaming about international travel or longing for a new view from your writing desk, then maybe my upcoming Paris writing retreat is for you. We’ll write in gardens and cafes and explore that remarkable city. And we’ll wander the boulevards with a notebook in hand as so many writers have before us. If you’ve been looking for an excuse to travel and deepen your writing practice, join us to chase that light.

However and wherever this lengthy note finds you, if you made it all the way to the end here with me, thanks.

Keep creating and be well,

Annmarie