Essay from “Moms Don’t Have Time to Write”
The sadness was more than I could handle at times, but it was a gift to be able to say goodbye to her.
https://medium.com/moms-dont-have-time-to-write/caring-for-my-mom-in-her-final-days-1d7dce5ec83e
In my magical Mom’s garden
“It’s time. You should come.” My older sister’s voice, usually so comforting and full of life, was dark and quiet. I knew immediately what that meant. Every time the phone had rung in the preceding weeks, I had dreaded picking it up. I did not want to hear what I knew she was going to say. My beloved and magical mom was dying.
My mom was the profound center of our family. She gave me courage when I didn’t have it and light when I was too dark. When I was twenty-one, she insisted I travel around the world with my first boyfriend. I was hesitant to do so, but she gave me the nudge to go on what ended up being an adventure of a lifetime. She was fun and wise and made me feel so loved. She was my home.
When the call came to my Manhattan apartment on a warm Saturday morning in May, night descended upon me. I immediately booked a flight for later that day. I packed a few things, tightly hugged my two little boys, and collapsed into my husband’s arms crying. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered to him. How could I possibly say goodbye to my mom, my guiding light, my home?
He told me that I would survive this. I had never been away from my two sons, not even for one night, but there was no question that I should go. I had to be by my mom’s side, both for her sake and for mine.
Originally from Sweden, I grew up around the world, living in Nigeria, Austria, Italy, and France. I changed homes, schools, and friends many times over, but I had always had my parents and two sisters. Together we were home wherever we were.
I learned to appreciate feeling at home in more than one place and enjoyed having friends scattered around the world instead of along the same street. I saw the beauty of diversity and new experiences. It was comforting knowing that we are all more alike than different.
When I was seventeen, my dad unexpectedly died. One day he was there and the next he was gone. It was a heartbreaking loss, and my life from then on was shaken and shaped by his death. I learned to see every day as a gift to hold my loved ones close.
I talked a lot about loss and death with my mom; she even wrote a book about grief called Embracing Life Again. My mom was the steadfast light that I returned to and relied on. And now it was her turn. I had the terrible feeling that I had been here before.
I arrived at my mom’s house in Florence and walked into her garden. Surrounded by tall cypress trees and an enormous cedar of Lebanon, I smelled the delicate perfume of blooming pink roses, took a deep breath, and knew I would somehow find the courage to be here now.
My older sister walked ahead of me into my mom’s bedroom while my younger sister, having just arrived from London, sat by her bedside. This was not the reunion we wanted.
My mom was curled up on the bed with her eyes closed. I leaned over and held her frail body, feeling her bony shoulders. She opened her eyes and looked at us. Love filled the room.
Over the next few days, my mom regained some strength. She was able to sit up and go outside in the sunshine and eat a little. She asked for ice cream and champagne. “We might as well enjoy the last moments together,” she said. We talked, cried, and even laughed. Her mind was completely lucid.
At night I slept by her bed on her pull-out chair, comforting her when she was anxious and giving her water to drink or a towel for her forehead when she needed it. Being there felt right; there was so much love, and I felt so at home that I could have stayed there forever. I missed my kids, but I knew they were fine. This was something I needed to do.
Over the next few weeks, I made difficult visits and calls with my mom, listening to her dearest friends share their love and their grief as she said goodbye to them. My sadness was more than I could handle at times, but I was amazed at the light and courage that was born out of the pain and suffering.
I wanted to be strong for Mom, holding her hand through her last days. By holding her, she held me. Her body started giving up though her mind was clear and mostly unwavering. Her love and light were even stronger.
I was able to go back to New York for a day to pick up my two boys, and together with my sisters and our kids, we gathered around my mom’s bed. We surrounded her with love and she surrounded us as she took her final breaths. In the midst of our immensely painful grief, it was a gift to be with her to say goodbye.
For the first months after my mom passed, I completely lost my bearings. It was as if the earth was unstable beneath me or I had moved to a foreign land. I cried every day for what was and what will never be. I had a hard time doing anything beyond the basics of taking care of my kids.
I still miss my mom and cry at the smallest reminder. My heart was broken by her death, but it also broke open and filled with her enormous love. I am in awe of the miraculous cycle of life, grateful for her and for the pure love that really matters in this life.
Tullan Holmqvist is an investigator, writer, actor, and author of the psychological thriller novel and screenplay The Woman in the Park (with producer Teresa Sorkin). Holmqvist’s work as a private investigator has included global fraud investigations, financial due diligence, and art cases. She has a master’s degree in political science from the University of Florence, Italy, and literature and language degrees from universities in France and Italy. She has studied screenwriting and acting at New York University, Boston University, and HB Studios. Originally from Sweden, Holmqvist lives in New York with her husband and two sons. www.tullanh.com