It’s time to do the harder writing. The processing and grieving and remembering of my mother, Laurie. I’m realizing it will take much time. Perhaps years. Perhaps I will never be done. One day at a time.

The night before her surgery to remove cancer, we had a conversation. She wasn’t speaking by this point, and so it’s a conversation written down on notebook paper. Hindsight I’m really grateful for that, because now I can look at her words and remember. She told me she always wanted a daughter, and was thrilled when she found out I was a girl. Having me in the spring, near her birthday and right before Mother’s Day made it even more special. She would take me on walks through the neighborhood, putting lilacs in my baby carriage. Almost 38 years later, I would take her on wheelchair walks through her neighborhood and pick flowers to give to her. We met in person in a hospital on May 9, 1986, when she gave birth to me. 38 years later, also in a hospital, on May 9, 2024, we said goodbye for now, when she took her last breath. 

I got to live with her for the last 5 months of her life. I hadn’t lived with her since I was a child, and this time, though it was incredibly hard in many ways, was also a huge blessing, and one I am so grateful for. I don’t regret one minute of it, even though my family and I needed to live apart for three of those months. Living with her gave me a window into her heart and life as an adult that I’ve never had before. Often we would have late night conversations with her ridiculous voice to text app. She went with a free one and we got what we paid for! One particularly funny moment was when auto-correct changed the name of her radiation oncologist, someone she didn’t immediately bond with, to Dr. Sunshine. The conversations would range from light to heavy, Enneagram types to the meaning of life. By the way, she was a Two. We bonded over many of the difficulties of the cancer season, though we each had a very different side of the same coin. It was very two-sided, as she would often ask me questions and listen so well, as she was known for doing. 

I saw how brave, strong, fierce, resilient, vulnerable, emotional, broken, and beautiful my mom was those last 5 months. Something I hadn’t seen as a child. She certainly wasn’t perfect. In fact, if she were here, I would guarantee you that she would be uncomfortable with all the praises and assure us that she had faults. She wasn’t afraid to admit the ways she had screwed up, or messed up. In fact, she often could see the broken parts of herself easier than she could the beautiful ones. That humility to be able to admit her weaknesses and failings, to apologize for when she hurt me or someone else, the desire to learn and grow, is one of the things I am most grateful for about her, and one of the things I got to thank her for before she died. I hope she understood how valuable her humility was. She was the one I could be completely honest with, and know I wouldn’t be judged. She would listen, she wouldn’t try to solve a problem or put a bow on a painful situation. She would be there for you when you were ready, and be there with you no matter where you were. One time, as I was sobbing on her lap post-surgery, is when I felt she was most present with me. She just held my hand, and said, “I see you. I see your pain.”

My mom took bullet after bullet in this cancer journey pursuing health and life. I saw her suffer and endure more than I’ve ever seen another human being go through. Even in my cancer caregiver support group, hearing the stories of other loved one’s cancer journeys, while they are all difficult and horrendous in their own way, Mom’s was particularly challenging with the nature of her surgery, the trach, the loss of speech, and the PEG tube. Many other patients had faculties that Mom had lost. We would watch other cancer patients come in for treatment, and Mom would note how many people are dealing with cancer. I would note how many of them could walk in and out, talk to their Drs, eat a meal on their own, etc. Mom was walking to and from treatment for awhile, but in April she lost the energy to do so, and was never able to talk and eat on her own. It was a rough road. Yet I never heard her complain. She would grieve, she would question, she would share how she missed food, and how lonely it was sometimes to have no voice. That’s where our evening conversations were so valuable. Even though it wasn’t something audible, she had a voice, and she still does. Her writings gave many people windows into her heart and life, and we were told multiple times how much people appreciated hearing her perspective.

We knew it was hard. We knew this could go either way. We knew the doctors could only do so much. They gave her odds, but also acknowledged they couldn’t predict how this would go. Each patient is different. They could see patients who looked terrible who would make it, and patients who looked great but then died. We knew we couldn’t figure out the end of the story, but simply walk each day out and find whatever God had planned. Mom knew and acknowledged she could die from this. She was never afraid of it. Often, due to the suffering she was going through, she wished for death. She told me once she had done much in her life, eaten so many varieties of food, raised her kids, lived her life, that she wasn’t sure what else she had to give. Perhaps you, like me, can think of millions of reasons we and the world needed her. She wasn’t so convinced. Again, it was easier for her to see her faults than her strengths. Then the next day I would find her making plans for buying a house, planning to counsel in cancer care support groups, looking at tickets for another concert, finding something else beautiful. Though death looked attractive in ways, she never sought it or gave up on life. She pondered the meaning of her life deeply, and bore the suffering of the last 7 months with incredible strength.

So many things remind me of her. Every time she saw a flower, she would stick her nose in it to inhale any scent it might have. As my sister-in-law says, she had a great taste for “smelly” things. A nose like a bloodhound. Our kids know “Grandma’s smell” because of her perfume or her wall scents. She loved things to match. I remember when I would need to help her dress, that she would insist that everything she wear match, even down to the color scrunchie I would put in her hair. I somehow did not get that gene from her. Which is probably why she’s bought me jewelry, purses, and other accessories I simply wouldn’t buy for myself. She loved beauty, and you could see that as soon as you walked into her home. You may think a dish was just a dish to eat off, but to Mom, it was a piece of artwork to visually enjoy as well. She decorated not only for Christmas, but every season, and would take videos of anything she enjoyed to replay those moments again when she was back home. We would watch BeeGees and Beatles documentaries. Mom seemed fascinated by human stories and biographies. The last one I watched with her was a biography of Bob Ross. Whenever we watched a movie, she would wonder what the actors’ real lives were like and often google them. I remember I introduced her to the TV show Friends in the last 5 months, and she was so saddened when she found out Matthew Perry had passed. Apparently Chandler was her favorite. 

As a child, she was my safe place. She was steady, present, self-sacrificing, giving what she had to her children. I could always count on her. She fostered my love of words and reading. As I was going through her apartment, I found my library card from Rochester, MN public library. She saved it. Something I used so often that the image is burned in my brain. One of my favorite memories as a young child was when I got my toy kitchen. I felt so proud, cooking my little meal in the family room when Mom was cooking her meal 20 feet away from me in the kitchen. Even at that point, I wanted to be like her. She was my teacher, my example. Whenever I wanted to bake something, she would encourage me to. I’m sure I made a mess, as children do in the kitchen, but I don’t remember her saying no. I remember her telling me to go ahead and try. 

Sometimes we clashed. I didn’t understand parts of her. She would be willing to try things, sometimes to a fault, and I was more cautious and a rule-follower. While I love beautiful things, I am a minimalist, and my mom seemed never to be satisfied with a little. I saw inconsistencies and didn’t know what to do with them. It was hard to grow up, as I felt my mom wanting to hold onto me longer than I needed. Yet this is also something she recognized later on, and when I brought it up to her as an adult, she owned it and apologized. In her last 6 months, she saw the excess in her life and was eager to simplify, making plans but never having the opportunity to do so. Again, she set the example for how to parent: not perfectly, but humbly. 

I will never be able to say enough about my mom, and what a precious person she is. I only offer one perspective on the woman who was Laurie, and I know each of you who knew her have a piece of who she was. There is no replacing her. Every day I will miss her love for others, empathy, compassion, fire for life, humility, snarky faces, love for beauty, hugs, a listening ear, her beautiful hair, cheering on the Packers together, goofy voices reading to our kids. I never got to take her back to Hawaii like we were planning. I never got to take her to a Lambeau football game. We never got to take another tap class together. We never made it to the tulip festival this year. There were so many things I wanted to talk with her about as a grown woman. She won’t get to see her grandkids grow up. She won’t come to our house to decorate Christmas cookies and have a nerf gun fight. I can’t send her flowers and see that look on her face when she smells something so good. I can’t text her pictures of my kids or the next beautiful thing I saw. I can’t walk with her, hold her hand, ask how she is doing. She died so young, and none of us were ready to say goodbye. There was so much more life to share together. 

As the pain many of us feel is so deep, Mom would be the first person to acknowledge it and sit with us in it. She wouldn’t rob us of that precious time we need to grieve. She wouldn’t encourage us to put a smile on because she’s no longer suffering. She would sit with us, hold our hand, let us cry, and tell us, “I see you. I see your pain.” She knew not everyone could sit in the uncomfortable space of pain without trying to put a positive spin on it. But she could, and if she were here, she would want to do that with each of you. So here I am, encouraging us to lean into our grief. In honor of Laurie. It’s okay that we’re hurting. Sit with that. Mom knew the way out was through, and she bravely faced all the feelings and all the darkness that came her way. Yes, her suffering is done. Praise God. I believe with all my heart she is with her dear Jesus, the one who is acquainted with our grief. That’s wonderful. However, we’re not there. We’re still suffering. It’s okay that it hurts right now. I hope and pray we can walk through our pain so bravely like Mom did, and someday to see and experience the light she knows now.