The words I never wanted to write

but the story is not over

When I wrote my last newsletter, “Your sadness is not a problem to solve,” I had no way of knowing that my mom would pass away four days later. 

She’d been sick for a while, but her death was a shock. We continued to believe she was on a slow road to recovery. The end came suddenly, but she passed peacefully surrounded by family. 

Some of you knew her personally, and others have told me you feel like you know my mom after reading my book. She was so proud, and I’m grateful she saw that dream come true. 

My story began with her. We spent our days outside in the sunshine, and in the afternoons, I took a nap on her bed.

By studying images in photo albums and drawing from my memory, I could paint the scene: My mom was my first safe place. She made every space we ever lived in—apartments, townhouses, a trailer, and ranch-style houses—feel like home. 

My story also began with her vision and dreams for my life. As a young single mom, she wanted more for me. She wanted me to go to college and have a career. She wanted me to have a loving, supportive husband and children of my own. She also wanted me to be able to take care of myself if I needed to. 

“She always said I could do anything. And because she said it, I believed it.”

The catalyst for writing a book was leaving my career in television news. But our cross-country move to Portland, Oregon, several years earlier was an essential storyline. Here’s an excerpt from a turning point scene in the book and in our relationship. It was the moment when Mom realized that she wanted to leave Portland.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked. 

She sucked in her breath. I wrapped my arms around her, and she buried her head in my shoulder and let out a muffled sob. 

Finally, she looked at me and said, “I want to go home.”

I felt a rush of relief. This relief, I sensed, was a deep knowing that staying in Portland wouldn’t be good for her. Going home was exactly what Mom needed to do. 

“Mom, if you want to go home, go home! You can quit your job, pack your bags, and get out of here. You don’t have to stay.”

I’d never questioned my Mom’s idea to move to Portland with me. If she moved to Portland with me, I could keep her close. If I kept her close, nothing would happen to her. But I was no longer a child, clinging to her legs, trying to protect her, trying to make the bad things stop.

“I can’t leave you here,” she said. She was still trying to save me, too.

“Yes, you can. I’m going to be fine.” 

“I feel like a failure. I’m quitting on our plan.” 

“Mom, it’s OK to turn around and go back.” 

Mom had poured her unrealized goals and dreams into me. I’d held on to her, not knowing who I was or what to do or be in the world without her by my side. Now, it was time to untangle ourselves. She needed to go home. I needed to stay. We had to face this part of the journey on our own.”

Now that my mom is no longer in the world, this scene takes on a whole new meaning. 

For the past seven months, I showed up for her, still trying to save her, always forgetting that saving her was never my job. But it was my job to be her advocate and her voice in times when she was too sick to speak for herself. I’m so grateful she spent her last two months at home, with her devoted husband of 32 years by her side, the only place she wanted to be. She’d just celebrated her 68th birthday and made it to Dillon’s graduation. She is forever young and finally free from the physical pain she endured for many years. 

She didn’t leave because she was ready to die, and I certainly wasn’t prepared to let her. She left because it was time. 

You can speculate about certain things but can’t really know how something will feel until you experience it. I’m in a new life stage where I must learn to live without her, but I also know certain connections transcend time and space.

I’m in a season of deep grief and mourning, but this story is not finished. There is more to say, more to share, more work to do. A life and legacy don’t end when we leave this world. To be continued. 

You can read Mom’s obituary here.