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“Mourning my mom’s death is not just about missing her — it’s also about grappling with how to grieve such a tumultuous relationship.”
The rabbi at my mother’s funeral could have passed for a character actor — his thick Brooklyn accent and unorthodox delivery could’ve potentially scored him an Emmy if this was an episode of “The Sopranos;” but ultimately, he was just offensive.
“The greatest mother and the luckiest daughters,” he said. “Diane really was one of a kind. She was not a PC. She was a Mac. User-friendly! She loved to dress her daughters up as dolls. Remember, Taylor and Tara? No pants, just dresses. Oh! And that smile, let’s not forget about that warm smile.”
I had absolutely no idea who this “user-friendly” person was or who these lucky, dress-wearing daughters were that he was preaching to. His ability to conjure up make-believe scenarios of my mom’s personality and reputation was top-notch, albeit slightly delusional. Who the hell was this stranger talking about? Did he even care to know the truth? Did anyone?
It’s always bothered me that when someone dies they tend to be idolized. Praise leaves little-to-no wiggle room to recognize flaws, of which my mom had many. It is impossible to condense the complexity of her existence into a few recyclable positive statements. She just wasn’t that simple. Four years and a ton of failed therapy later, here’s a rebuttal to the rabbi’s feeble attempt at a eulogy. Hopefully, I can do my mother’s life a bit of justice by honoring the truth, not burying it.
On Memorial Day weekend 2017, my mom died in a freak accident. I was in my early 20s and on vacation with my now ex-boyfriend in Florida when my dad called me to relay the news. My mom had passed away in the middle of the night from asphyxiation after trapping herself between her car and a gate while trying to enter my grandmother’s assisted living complex. A story you certainly don’t hear every day and a situation she should not have found herself in.
Then again, my mom was constantly hurting herself in the most careless ways. I can’t count the number of times her fingers were bandaged after shutting them in her closet door. She’d fall while standing still or touch a hot pan without wearing oven mitts. One time, she even broke her toe while putting on a pair of jeans.
“It’s always bothered me that when someone dies they tend to be idolized. Praise leaves little-to-no wiggle room to recognize flaws, of which my mom had many. It is impossible to condense the complexity of her existence into a few recyclable positive statements. She just wasn’t that simple.”
Her klutziness was endearing, as were the other quirks that set her apart from my friends’ moms. My dad and her separated early in our lives, so it was primarily the three of us living in a fantastical whirlwind adventure. My sister and I would wake up on a random Tuesday morning to find our kitchen decorated in balloons and handmade signs that read “Happy Tuesday.” The “Birthday Fairy” would visit us too, with thoughtful, decadent decorations displayed around the house. On my 10th birthday, she started a food fight during my sleepover party. We stood on chairs and sang into wooden spoons while we blasted show tunes from “A Chorus Line” and “Hair.” She was our biggest fan at every play, sports game and school function imaginable. She’d take us out of school and drive us to Six Flags to ride the Nitro roller coaster repeatedly, just because. She did whatever she could to give us the best life filled with belly laughs, good food, dance parties and deep love. My sister and I were her world, and we felt it.
But while her highs were high, her lows were equally low. Some days she’d make me cry with laughter. Other days she would just make me cry. I loved it when she was one of the kids, rambunctious and full of joy, but I began to dread her other side, which was intense and explosive. She was a firecracker; you never knew what you were going to get — or how close it was safe to stand.
There were days when she would lock herself in her room until 4 p.m. Once she emerged, she would sulk around the house, while a dark cloud hovered over her. She became irritable, cruel and hypersensitive. She told us she hated our family. She would cry and scream and then later realize she didn’t remember what had bothered her so much in the first place. Once in a blue moon, she’d wake me out of a dead sleep, screaming that I should be so grateful to have a mom that loved me as much as she did. Some nights she wouldn’t sleep at all. She’d stay up for days at a time cleaning and reorganizing the house: cabinets, closets, furniture, you name it. The lack of sleep sometimes led to hallucinations and paranoia. Once she didn’t sleep for two days because she thought the light from an apartment across the street was from a couple spying on her. I was forced to pack a bag and leave our apartment at 1 a.m. We sat in our car for an hour before she deemed it safe to return. I had a geometry test at 9 the next morning.
“But while her highs were high, her lows were equally low. Some days she’d make me cry with laughter. Other days she would just make me cry.”
She ruined my sister’s college graduation with her mood swings. She ruined my first day of college after I told her I was looking forward to being on my own for a bit. She ruined the day I returned from my semester abroad in New Zealand, refusing to look at any of my pictures. “You’ve been gallivanting around the world,” she said, “while I’ve been stuck in New York. You had a good time. I don’t need to see proof.” Mother’s Day always triggered her. She even canceled Christmas once because she thought we didn’t call our grandma enough. She believed that the world was always out to get her.
My sister and I knew when it was coming, like clockwork. We would watch her shatter, only to be left to pick up the pieces.
Without a career, hobby or passion, finding a sense of purpose wasn’t easy for her. Her moods got darker as I got older. When your kids are your world and they no longer want to be pulled out of school to ride roller coasters, you start finding comfort in pushing them away.
Asking my mom if she was bipolar or crazy or both was a very unpopular conversation in our household. My suggestion that she seek therapy resulted in her taking me to a family therapist with her sitting in the room. There was nothing wrong with her, she thought. So there had to be something wrong with me. I was put on Zoloft.
My sister also wanted to see a therapist and started weekly sessions. My mom warily agreed, but on one unspoken condition: she would also see a therapist — the same one as my sister. She made sure to book the time slot immediately after my sister’s appointment. This meant that when my sister came out of her session, our mom was in the waiting room. There was no way she’d let any daughter of hers paint her in a bad light without being able to tell her side of the story. I should’ve known that the only way to get her into therapy would be asking to go myself.
In high school, I bought tickets to the Broadway show “Next to Normal” and asked if she wanted to join me. The show was about a bipolar mom. Coincidentally, the character’s name, Diana, was eerily similar to my mom’s. I remember nervously laughing at the parallels between Diana and my mom, looking at her thinking that maybe she would be able to see herself in someone else’s shoes. I knew there was so much of the mom I loved and cherished inside of her still. I just wanted some acknowledgment that she knew what she was putting us through. I waited patiently for her to acknowledge anything to no avail. Nothing clicked.
“My sister and I knew when it was coming, like clockwork. We would watch her shatter, only to be left to pick up the pieces.”
It seems as if no one acknowledged it, or maybe they were just fortunate enough to never encounter her dark side. Days after she passed, my sister and I came across a Facebook post from one of her former classmates. They shared a beautiful photo of my mom’s 17-year-old self mid-laugh, looking happier than ever. She looked radiant with her platinum blonde hair, freckled face and contagious ear-to-ear grin. “She was the funniest happy-go-lucky girl I had ever known.” “That smile always lit up a room.” “That girl always cracked me up, I’m devastated to see her go,” read various comments.
The rabbi had gotten half of it right, oddly enough. She always had the brightest light within her, but something caused that light to dim. She had been dealing with her own grief, mourning the loss of something, but I could never put my finger on what that something was. Perhaps it was her fear of being unwanted by her kids as we grew up. Maybe it was the lack of personal purpose. Maybe it was her erratic separation from my dad. But I will never get a straight answer.
Mourning my mom’s death is not just about missing her — it’s also about grappling with how to grieve such a tumultuous relationship.
There are days when the loss is all-consuming. She won’t be able to give her stamp of approval on my future husband or meet the kids I don’t even know if I will have. My adult self is nothing but a stranger to her. She doesn’t know me anymore because losing her has changed me.
Other days, I wonder if my life is better off without her. I still fear her wrath when I think about how she would react if she heard me say that out loud. I feel guilty on the good days — when I visualize her above me shocked that I’m not sadder. This freedom I have from her volatility is both liberating and terrifying.
“Mourning my mom’s death is not just about missing her — it’s also about grappling with how to grieve such a tumultuous relationship.”
Over time, this grief has shown me the parallels between my mom and myself. It’s made me understand her more. I find my moods fluctuating, hiding under the same dark cloud that once followed her. I’m often unable to sympathize with others’ — in my opinion — minuscule problems. Especially in the throes of grief, I’ve acted selfishly, and I’ve pushed people away. The person who I’ve deemed to be impossible is permanently attached to me, and from time to time, I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror.
I’m grateful for the flawed woman who raised me, who felt everything strongly, not least the beauty this world has to offer, the Tuesdays. I think about her at any given time throughout the day. I dream about her, I smile. I listen to the Broadway tunes we used to belt into wooden spoons. I continue to do things I hope would make her proud, like following my dreams and not settling for anything less. I feel lucky to have a little bit of her light, that light that often dimmed, and I am learning to live with the hint of darkness.
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