The Heartbreak and Inevitability of Saying Goodbye

If I could take anything from my mom, it would be her pathological optimism—the optimism of a single woman with a kid, a cat, and a German shepherd who pulled herself off of welfare by selling insurance on a bus. Later getting all the initials after her name her paper cards could hold.

About two and a half years ago I moved in with her and gave up my small, junky, beach-adjacent, rent-controlled apartment. But being “over the hill” in Los Angeles two blocks from the ocean just might be why they came up with the saying “location, location, location.” I am slightly embarrassed how many nights I cried myself to sleep in this really nice condo that my mom worked hard to buy, and as far as accommodations go, it is a vast upgrade.

People talk about dishwashers but for me the ultimate is the in-unit washer dryer. Who cares that it was on its last leg and you could not hear anything or anyone over the shaking and dying sounds of a geriatric motor. It was easy peasy. When that spin cycle started, you just held up a finger or hand—the international sign for “Wait. Don’t even bother until this is over.” This year it would break and need replacing, as did almost every major appliance in the place. (The dishwasher broke too, but, being only a decade old, it could be repaired.)

It hasn’t been all sadness and four-hour waiting windows for repair men. We had adventures.

Allow me go back to the time right before I moved in. The condo flooded and she had to leave. At first, they paid for a really swanky hotel in the Marina and mom had this amazing room right next to the breakfast room which overlooked the marina. I would wake up early and jump in the car and join her for free breakfast almost every morning. Gazing upon the water and the wildlife—one morning it was a seal playing around in the high rent area of the polluted marina. After the insurance agency told her money was running out for lodgings she came and hunkered down in my spacious single beach apartment. Spacious is a small lie…not a full one bedroom but still not as small as some I’ve seen. I think that time with mom was my favorite. We were so close that we had to be close. We were near the ocean so impromptu rides up the coast (her favorite thing to do) were always on the agenda. And I was still in “my home.”

Eventually I got used to being here but it will never really feel like this is where I am supposed to be. And who knows where I will end up. I cannot take the heat of the basin of Los Angeles; I feel like a sloth without the charm and climbing skills.

Throughout her life her optimism has been just short of delusional. But it worked for her. She just always knows it will work out. And you know what even for me it usually does but unlike her I have to torture myself first. Her way is better. I don’t think I’m textbook pessimist but I definitely go toward the darker “what if” scenarios too often. The last few years have been especially murky as all my work has become scarce, I have reinvented myself more times than seems feasible…even this last year, starting a substitute teaching career, only to find out LAUSD has no work for me. But as Gloria Gaynor’s iconic disco hit states, “I Will Survive.” The truth is I really cannot leave her alone now. The world might be ending so what is a little extra debt?

I am so grateful she got to see me lead a band and sing the kind of music that makes her the happiest. She exposed me to the Sweet and Hot Jazz Festival in Los Angeles and this last weekend was the Hot Jazz Jubilee. That was the first festival I was invited to sing at. The proudest moment for my mom, which occurred in a ballroom (larger than most), was the set where all the female singers at the festival took over the biggest room and we each sang a tune. The talent in that lineup was deep. Far better singers than myself.

But when it was my turn, I had something to prove. I got up and gave them my best “After You’ve Gone.” The reaction was not what I expected. The place went up and it even inspired a few patrons to get to their feet to continue the clapping. (It’s not a standing ovation unless more than fifty percent stand, right?) That performance inspired the Pismo Beach Festival to offer me a guest slot. One day maybe I’ll get to bring my band.

Right now, Mom is in her room and I asked if I made her some chocolate pudding would she have some? My mom has always been a foodie. After she could no longer cook and host, she would still scream out to the kitchen, “Don’t forget to add the wine!”

Her answer to the pudding was, “When I get better, I will want it.”

She won’t get better. The cancer is everywhere. She is still mostly all there…no eating, only sipping her protein spiked beverage. She knows she is terminal but her semi-refusal to accept what is the ultimate bad news is both lovely and isolating for me. Getting old sucks and it’s expensive. What are those diapers made of truffles? Thankfully we handle it all with a smidgeon of dark humor. For the first time in probably seven years, I have a head cold and I am trying to stay out of her bed but like she said, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” The chilliest, most positive thinking, woman—my mother—is dying and there is (she admitted tonight) a bit of anxiety. So, there is no choice; we will watch the TV and cough together.

And here is my selfish confession: Her positive thinking in the darkest of days makes me feel even lonelier. I cannot help but leave her room and break out in sobs. I do not know what I want other than to not feel this horrible pain, but that doesn’t mean I want to take away her comforting thoughts.

It’s all I can do not to scream through my tears, “Please don’t do that now. Don’t leave me alone before you go!”