Good Grief: Losing My Mom After Her Eight Year Battle with Parkinson’s Disease

Something I can add to my list of things, grieving daughter...

My beautiful mother with my sister and me, circa mid-80s. She loved yard work, a good LL Bean sweater, Sperrys, and so much more.

My mom died a little over a month ago. It feels like last week, or a year, or sometimes just yesterday. I’ll get caught by little moments when I realize: I'm never going to see my mom again. I think those little moments are going to be sneaking up on me from here on out. 

My mom battled Parkinson’s and co-occurring dementia for eight years. My mom, as I knew her before she got sick, was gone a long time ago, and I am desperate for some quiet space and the ability to remember how she was before she got sick. I try to put together full memory sequences - like a movie I can watch - her voice, what she wore, how she was as a mother when I was younger. Basically I want a movie of my life starring my mother.  I have three young children. Quiet space is scarce and it’s hard to remember. 

We knew the end was coming but it came more quickly than we thought. She had a rally and we thought we’d entered a new baseline. My sister left for Chicago to train for a new job. I told her it was fine. That was on Monday. On Tuesday I was calling her to come home. Time stopped and flipped and still kept going. She slipped away that Saturday. 

I didn’t know what to expect and I still don’t know what to expect a month into this grieving process. My mom pulled an Irish goodbye. Neither my sister or I were there, and my dad wasn’t paying attention. I was in the car with my daughter driving back from riding when I got the call. I know the exact spot it happened. My reaction, my wailing, my grief scared my daughter but she also said I sounded like Oprah. (You get a car! You get a car! AHHHH!) I take great comfort that my 8-year-old daughter knows who Oprah is, a high-school after school staple growing up. The kids are alright. 

When I got to my parents house that day, I was immediately struck by how peaceful my mom looked. The pinched, drawn mask caused by Parkinson’s was wiped away. Her skin was smooth, her body at rest. It filled me with awe and relief. 

Two young men from the funeral home came to pick up her body. They were warm, friendly and deeply respectful. They understood the weight of their job. We almost asked them and the sweet hospice nurse to stay for a drink, it was cocktail hour after all, but then we realized they had to take mom’s body. 

Planning a funeral was like planning a wedding - in five days. The line for the visitation at the funeral home was out the door and down the street. My best friend from high school joked that my sister and I naturally fell into our roles - I kept the line moving and my sister entertained people. It was an outpouring of love and an expression of the best of humanity - people from all walks of life, standing together, sharing their sorrow, and being there for each other. It reminded me of all that we are capable of even in dark times. People say “celebration of life” and I’d give us an A+ for execution. 

I wrote my mom’s obituary and eulogy. I’d been thinking about it for a while, turning the words over in my head to make sure it was worthy of her. Here’s how it turned out: 

Today, you are in the presence of greatness because we are celebrating the life of the Greatest Mother of All Time. Tom Brady, Simone Biles, Ronaldo, Michael Jordan have nothing on my mom. THE MOAT! 

My mom is a beautiful person, inside and out. Her brother Peter called her the helper and the healer. My best friend Lizzie said Mimi is the equivalent of five people. All very true. Mimi worked very hard and was extremely organized. She was a commanding and formidable presence. No boyfriend was ever afraid of my dad. They were afraid of her. 

She was also a very selfless person and poured so much into my dad, my sister and me. We are fiercely loved. Natalie maybe a little too much. 

Mimi worked hard so we didn’t want for anything, and ensured we had access to an excellent education. She also upped her cooking game after growing up in Gra-gra’s house, and we always had good food and good drinks. 5 o’clock is cocktail hour, and we stopped on the dot all those years we took Gra-Gra to Siesta Key. 

I have to tell you, mom, my expensive education (Natalie kept a tally, I cost more) didn’t prepare me for the complexities of becoming a mother. You did. There is so much I learned from you that set me up to be a good mom, especially watching you navigate medical situations. You all know the Kendall kiddos have had their fair share, and I had a guide to show me how to advocate for the best care for them.

Speaking of care, I have to extend my deep thanks to my dad, my sister, and my mom’s incredible caregivers these past 8 years. The best and most appropriate words are quite simply, thank you. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. My mom is the caregiver. I can imagine how her patients must have felt to see her walk into their room - beautiful, kind, competent and caring but also not going to put up with any BS. In many ways what happened to her doesn’t seem fair.

My dad would always say life isn’t fair and this isn’t heaven. Dad, write this down because in our house this is probably the only time you will hear the words “YOU ARE RIGHT.” 

No this isn’t heaven, but this is how I imagine it went down when Mimi got up there. After knocking back a manhattan with Gra-Gra, she goes before Jesus, God, and Mary. She addresses Jesus and says, your track record these past several years has not been good. You seem very tired. I’ve made you spaghetti and there is a bottle of Meomi so you don’t have to exert yourself converting any water. There is a lemon bar for you for dessert. Eat some dinner and go to bed and you will feel better. 

She then turns to God and says, you let him get very tired and let things get out of hand here. Lots of bickering on Earth and too much tired talk. There’s spaghetti for you too and extra in the freezer. But the lemon bar is for Jesus. You also need to take a break. 

She then looks at Mary and says, we are in charge now. 

So, Mom, Mimi - THE MOAT! I would say give ‘em hell but you are in heaven. So I’ll say give us heaven, just like you did while you were here on earth. 

The outpouring of love and support has been unprecedented. Thank you.