Dear Chaney

It was a year ago today that I got the call.

The day before that was June 21, 2013.  My mother' birthday.  Her 67th.  For her 66th, I sent her a birthday card.  The most beautiful card she had ever received.  I spent 15 minutes picking that one out.  For her 67th, I spent less time because I was sobbing in the card aisle.  How do you pick out what you sense is the last card your mother will ever receive?

For the last 18 months of her life, my mother battled small cell lung cancer.  Yup.  She smoked.  For the last 18 months of her life, I got my mom back.  Yup.  Cancer had a silver lining.

My mother had a mental illness.  No, it's not contagious.  I've checked.  And rechecked.  According to an irresponsible psych professor, my kids would most likely catch it.  Most likely.  I have cats and only one of them demonstrates psychological distress.

[Insert name of mental illness here] made it challenging for my mother to mother.  It made it challenging for me to be a child.  Her healthcare situation made it challenging for her to receive the best help that she deserved and, when she felt fine or off balance, she would stop taking her meds.  So, as an adult child who was too young to intervene but old enough to advocate for herself, I "broke up" with my mother.  For my physical, mental, and emotional safety.  For 10 years.  Or more or less.  I don't really know.  We were geographically divided.  Distance makes the heart grow fonder.  It can compartmentalize memories as well.

I spoke to her every year on my birthday.  Each call ended in tears and I swore I wouldn't do it again.  Until the next time.  I took her calls sporadically.  Read her letters that switched intention mid paragraph.  Always signed by her, her current boyfriend, and the cat- if one was present.  Cards were sent to her for birthdays and holidays.  Generally picked out by my husband.  Occasionally signed by him when merely holding a pen sent me into a tailspin.

Cancer gave us an advantage.  It forced my mother to accept residence in a nursing home.  For rehab after her first surgery.  For help when the chemo was stopped.  For hospice when it was determined the treatment was killing her as fast as the cancer.

For 18 months, my mom had structure and meds and her own village.  Her intake file was intimidating but once she was regulated, the people at the home saw a quiet, funny, gentle, compassionate Chaney.  The mom I remembered from my earliest days.  For 18 months, I flew between her new home and mine with my husband or Chaney's sister.  We advocated for her in person, by email, by phone.  We bought whatever clothes she wanted at Target and I waited until she wasn't around to cry at her ravaged body.

For 18 months, we talked.  WE talked.  Both of us.  She actually asked me questions about my life.  And listened.  And remembered.  She called once and cried asking if she was the reason I didn't have children.  I told her the truth- there were many reasons why I didn't have children and when I think back on our Wonder Woman Raids the Cookie Jar adventures, she showed me the kind of mom I'd like to be.  On a call after that, she told me how happy she was that things were the way they were meant to be.

I called her on her 67th birthday and couldn't get through.  She was sleeping a lot.  I left a message with the nurse and asked her to tell Chaney that I called to wish her a happy birthday.

I was finalizing my plans to travel out of the country for work.  My mom knew this.  To the best of my knowledge, one of the last things she said to hospice about me was, "I do not want Suzie to see me like this.  And she has important work to do in Mexico."  She was proud.  I was frustrated that I couldn't get through and annoyed that I didn't fly down for a quick 24 hour visit.  A breeze rustled the trees in my yard and I was struck by the dark green against the bright blue.  I said, "Happy Birthday, Mom.  I love you.  It's OK to go."

I got the call the next day.  My mom stopped breathing and they respected the DNR.  I don't know if she ever opened my card.

A year later, I'm once again communing with nature.  A perfectly blue sky has clouded up and the temperature has dropped.  It's a reminder that change is inevitable but the ocean still breathes in and out.

I want to thank my village for its support.  Thank you to my inner circle for reading my emails/texts/IMs for 18 months and supporting me from a distance when I wouldn't let you do so up close.  Thank you to my officemate and lunch bunch for the medicine of laughter.  Thank you to my supervisor who made it OK for me to take care of myself when that was something foreign to me.  Thank you to my peer coaches for listening this week and "holding me" with care.  Thank you to my family for loving and not judging.  Thank you to my husband for accepting.

Dear Mommy, 

Thank you for bringing me into this world with love and leaving it the same.