Pictured: some flowers a friend sent after Mom died.
Today marks the first anniversary of my mother’s death. This was a very difficult loss because she was a narcissist and made our lives very difficult. Mom was 92 years old. Her life was fraught with chaos. She wanted a better life but went about it the wrong way and destroyed her relationship with me and my brother. I plan on going into more details in future posts. Right now, I want to talk about the days, weeks, and months leading up to her demise.
My mom took very good care of herself. Her mind was sharp. She was living in a nursing home but maintained her social life. She loved to spend money, often money she didn’t have. She demanded attention. My brother, Steve, and I never went no contact with her. We were there even though she treated us with disrespect. My brother lives in the town we grew up in and was thus, very involved in her care. I moved out of state two decades ago but helped out as much as I could. I’d visit once or twice a year. I called her almost every day. I tried to ease the pressure she was putting on my brother. Being a narcissist, she lied, used people, and tried to pit us against each other. It worked throughout our lives, finally ending when I convinced him that I was not the enemy she had made me out to be.
On her last birthday, in September, Steve took her out to lunch. She had a nice time. After that day, she began to go downhill quickly. It started with a fall. She had epic nose bleeds that sent her to the hospital several times. She wasn’t the best patient—rude and demanding—known as a drug seeker. Her heart began to give out. There was a fundamental change. She began obsessively biting her nails down to the quick. She lost her appetite. She became confused. Finally, Steve told me it was time to come home and see her. So, at the end of last October, my spouse, son, and I went back home. Mom was much worse than I could have ever dreamed.
On my last day before leaving, I spent the entire day with my family and my brother’s family at the nursing home. Mom was put under hospice care that day. My mother was an absolute mess. She was frantic and panicky. She kept saying her stomach hurt and she felt sick. She moved around from bed to chair to sofa, unable to find comfort. The nurses didn’t know how to help her. They couldn’t give her any more medication. I just sat there, alone in her room, watching her come apart. She was biting her nails and shaking all over. I tried to help. I called a nurse when she wanted to move. I brought some hand lotion with me. I thought I could massage her hands but she wouldn’t let me. It was the saddest, most desperate thing I had ever seen. In the moments before I left, she had settled into her chair and I sat face to face with her. I wanted to say “I love you”. I wanted to hug her. Nothing felt right or natural. I ended up quoting Dr. Seuss. “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened”. I don’t know why I said it. I think I was trying to trick myself into thinking I’d probably come back to see her one more time. I walked out of her room having not shown any affection. That was the last time I saw her.
When we arrived back home, I got a call from Steve. He told me, right after I left, that she had had a massive GI bleed. He had found a hospice facility that would take her. He and his family spent some time there with her, though, she was heavily medicated. They weren’t able to converse. He called me at work to tell me she was calling out for her sister who had died a few years back. One day, a hospice nurse, unable to get a hold of my brother, called me to get permission to give her more medication. Even though she was on so much already. She was still agitated and trying to get out of bed. She never found peace before her death. This has haunted me.
On November 6, 2025, I received a call from Steve around 4:00 am. There were not many words exchanged. I said, “hello”. He said, “yep”. That was all that needed to be said. I knew what had happened. She was such a big presence. She was demanding, controlling, and mean our whole lives. She died alone, distressed, afraid, in an unfamiliar environment. I feel the guilt of never being enough for her. I feel the sadness of never getting an apology. I feel the pain of not being there to say “good bye” or “I love you”.
Today, I am just reflecting on her life. I miss talking to her. I miss having parents and a home to go back to. I regret that things couldn’t have been different. I am trying to be strong. I am trying to be the best mom I can be to my own son. I have forgiven her. Sadly, she could have had a wonderful relationship with us but chose not to. Steve and I have talked today about the strange grief that comes along with being her children. We have felt a sense of sorrow and anger. That’s a strange mix. It’s a lot to take in. It’s a lot to grieve. We’ll muddle through just like we always have.
