one year later: a reflection on the anniversary of my mom’s death

One year ago today my mom was still breathing. It was labored, but her chest was still rising and falling that morning when I left my parents’ home across town. I’d taken a short shift watching and caretaking so my dad could get some rest. But none of us were resting.

We were waiting

—all of us, for the next package of medication to arrive on the front porch. My brother to travel home for school, hoping our mom might peacefully pass before he had to get back for classes. My dad awake through the night, remembering times long-ago, spent with other family as their breathing changed and slowed, too, looking for these same signs in his wife of 38 years. My husband by the phone to come home early from work and switch spots with me for our kids, so I could be with my dad when my mom finally breathed her last.

I wasn’t there, but I drove back over after, bleary-eyed, and sat with my dad for more waiting. Hospice to confirm her death, the funeral home to retrieve her remains. The rest of the week is blurry. Tyler took the kids with him to our church’s Wednesday evening service that night and I took a bath and cried as loudly as I needed to. I pushed myself too hard and numbly attended Good Friday communion and prayer. I led worship on Easter Sunday; only the Holy Spirit knows how.

Most of what I felt last year was relief, relief that she was no longer suffering, that my dad was no longer a full-time caregiver, that I didn’t have to worry or wait any longer.

My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at 54 years old. She was symptomatic at least a year or two before that. Based on her cognitive assessments at the time, doctors estimated 10-20 more years for her. She was only 59 last March. She lived fewer than 6 years post-diagnosis.

But with each passing day, she lost a little more of herself, and so did everyone who loved her. That last goodbye wasn’t easy, by any means, but we’d said thousands of goodbyes over those 5 years as she lost thousands of memories—faces, places, stories, and the ability to communicate—death by a thousand cuts, in a way.

Cruel and incremental, Alzheimer’s seemed to steal my memories along with my mom’s because she faded so slowly. Who was she before this?

So when she was really gone, we breathed deeply, the heaviness lifted.

Several weeks ago, I walked into a pastor/leader training and realized it was the first time I’d listened to or sung “King of My Heart,” since singing it with my brother for our mom’s memorial-celebration of life service.

Tears welled in my eyes as the room sang these lyrics:

You're never gonna let, never gonna let me down.

This week, Tyler and I traveled to the Santa Cruz area for a retreat. It was the first time back there since releasing my mom’s ashes into the Pacific in September. We stopped at the same coffee shop in Watsonville on our way home. The weather was similarly unseasonably hot. Some of that day came back to me as today’s anniversary approached.

As I’ve come closer to this date, I am feeling the full range of emotions rather than just relief. I am remembering how we deliberated last February over whether to attend events and retreats, serve at camps, or go on vacation for spring break because my mom had just started receiving in-home hospice care. Everything was tenuous and uncertain. In moments of waiting throughout this last year, I’ve felt in my body all the anxiety and fear I felt last year. In waiting for our house to sell (after 109 days of owning two houses, we finally closed escrow earlier this month, hooray!), I felt the sense of foreboding, the unknown, the limbo, the liminal state come rushing back.

It might seem easier to forget all that I’ve shared here today, but I don't want to feel only relief anymore. I don’t want to say goodbye anymore. I want to take back every memory possible that Alzheimer’s stole. I don’t have a time machine and I can’t erase those awful years, but I want to start a journey today of remembering. I want to remember Trisha of my tree-climbing elementary years, Trisha of Vacation Bible School craft-master-extraordinaire, Trisha of my teen years, firm but compassionate, Trisha of dry humor and quiet wit, Trisha of strength and resilience and strong opinions and beliefs when they mattered, Trisha of grace and mercy, Trisha of wisdom and prayer. I can’t erase the years of a thousand goodbyes, but I’d like to say hello again to all she was before. Because the sum of her life isn’t defined by those final moments or the waiting that led up to it.

I miss you mom, every version of you, and I always will.

For me and every other heart that breaks in the loss, agonizes in the waiting, and fumbles to remember a time before this, God be the comforter and restorer of all.

If you have memories of my mom for me to collect, please leave a comment or reach out to me. I want to know all her stories.