My Mom Died Yesterday by Zora Foote

My mom died yesterday. No bull, well maybe a tiny bull, by the time you read this it may have been last week, last month, or last year, but I’m pretty sure she will still be dead. I am not astonished. I am not mollified. I am not even a tad bit sad. By contrast, my German Shepherd died four months ago, and I had to be medicated. Our relationship was not a good one, the one with my mom, not the dog. I loved my dog.

Upon giving birth a woman becomes an immediate icon. A tangible embodiment of right and wrong. A beacon of aspirations. A sherpa of self-worth. But what if that icon was miscast? What if that person weaponized your emotions against you?Was a quick shot gun slinger who pridefully woundedyourconfidence?An excavator of the family, leaving them in a heap on a Northern Californian curb? What if that person was your mother?

Godsister: Hey. Sending you and the fam hugs and much support. Let us know if there is anything we can do to support you or Godfather. She is in a better place.

ME: You think? You knew her! She was more horns than wings. I think she is making hell a much more uncomfortable place for the devil.

Godsister:LOL

The hardest part of this death saga is the condolences. What do you say to condolences that are not needed or wanted? Why do people have to commiserate death? Are they under a misconception that it is a random, avoidable thing that only the unlucky fall victim to? Are they truly regretful that the world is short one less asshole? I’ve been told the condolences are less about the person who died than the person who lived, so why bog me down with phony platitudes?

Lynda: Hey babe, heard the news. In lieu of prayers, sending you love, wishes for comfort and understanding. Here for anything you may need.

Me: While you are shipping things-could you send me a dime bag and a therapist?

Lynda: On the way. LOL

Me: LOL? WTF- I was serious.

When my father called me yesterday morning, I was headed to Costco, then to my rental property. I had shit to do. Three days prior, my mother had been given two to six weeks to live. The phone call was not a shock.

“I just wanted to tell you your mother passed this morning,” he said, his voice unlike any time I’ve ever heard it. The sadness of losing his life partner of 53 years radiated from his throat. No matter how diabolical she was, he still mourned. I attributed that to Stockholm syndrome, then added Cheez Its to my shopping list.

After the phone call, I texted my eldest son. The relationship he had with his grandmother bordered on that of storybook witches. They lure you in with baked goods only to feed you resentment, and a belly full of self-supposition.

I asked if he was OK.

He responded with a thumbs up emoji.

I responded with, “Call me if you need to talk.”

He responded with, “Are we still on for Vegas next week?”

I responded with, “Fuck yeah.”

 My second text was to my husband:

Me: Finish this statement: Ding dong the ….

Seconds later I had a Facetime call from him. My husband searched my face for a sign of my well or not so well being.

“I’m fine,” I told him. “Do you need more kiwis, you know, for your keto foray?”

 Being married for almost 20 years he knew not to question my emotions or lack thereof and I knew not to question his unmannerly relationship with the Keto diet.

He said, “Yeah, kiwis would be great and blackberries if they have the bulbous ones.”

My niece texted:

Niecy:You hear the news?

Me:Yup. U good?

Niecy:Yup U?

Me:Yup.

Niecy:We still on for Vegas next week?

Me:Yuuuup.

Niecy:Cool. I got you those edibles you like.

Me: Love ya!

I was determined not to have my day become another victim of my newly deceased parent. However, the flurry of well wishes, thoughts, prayers, and condolences were impeding my Costco run and any ideas I had of sneaking in a Brazilian wax before picking up my youngest son from track practice.

In the checkout line, I go on Instagram and I see my eldest child and my niece posting their feelings, their thoughts, their issues. I get it, but that is not my medium of expression. And now thanks to the live streaming of their internal debate about death, I must field calls, texts, DMs, and emails regarding my welfare.

Philip: Hey Friend! Sorry to hear about your mom!

Me:It happens.

My parents are (were? Half were/half are?) hippies. Real true-life hippies. They fought for civil rights. Protested everything. Marched everywhere. My father famously turned down a role with the Black Panthers because they weren’t on message and more concerned with celebrity than equality. In 2008, my mother had a piece written about her in the New York Times.Then President Bush had offered $50,000.00 to Cuba after twin storms Ike and Gustav ravaged it. My mother offered Cuba the same amount. Fidel declined the president’s offer and accepted hers. Later he, Fidel not George, invited her to his 80^th birthday party (which had been delayed by two years due to his much whispered about health). She went.

So how do hippies do funerals? They pay into something called the Triton Society. My sister and I have known this since childhood. As all parents eventually do, they had detailed their exit strategy as soon as we were old enough to opine about taking them off life support. They had paid in and for the ability to be cremated, then thrown over the side of a ship, I assumed while at sea.

When my father reminded me of my mother’s post death plans, I asked, “When does the boat leave?”

He said, “I think in a couple of weeks.”

“Aren’t you going to be on it?” I asked.

“No,” he said with disappointment, not due to the missed voyage but because clearly I hadn’t read the literature he sent my sister and I every new year.

 “So, it’s like a floating Uber for dead?” I clarified without response.

Tosha: Z-just heard about your mom (Taylor’s Facebook post). I obviously don’t know the details, but I realize things have been difficult with Kinnie. Doesn’t necessarily make it easier…. And unfortunately I know that all 2 well. I know all the things that need to be done when someone passes. Can I help with anything?

Me: I hadn’t seen that woman in 13 years. No funeral, no memorial. They will pick up her body to cremate then throw her in the ocean (or river). Hope the fish don’t choke.

I eventually waded through the death notes finding the time to pick up my youngest child. As he got in the car, I said, “Your grandma died.”

 He asked, “Which one?”

 I said, “My mom.”

He nodded and said, “You don’t seem upset.”

 I nodded and said, “I’m not.”

 He said,“Cool.” Then tuned back into his phone, then without looking up asked,“Everyone is still coming to Vegas, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

After a contemplative silence on my part, I added, “I do not expect this response from you when I die. I want full on histrionics.”

“And a full bar at the funeral,” he said.

“Hosted bar,” I corrected, “we aren’t tacky.”

“Cool,” he said, then he went on to tell me about the lockdown the school had after a riot erupted in the cafeteria.

During the rest of the day my doorbell rang with the perfunctory efficiency of online orders. Pastries wrapped in well wishes were delivered in an alarming manner. Lemon iced Bundt cakes and well wishes confuse me. Did you not wish me well two days ago? Why didn’t you wish me well when the abhorrent parental figure I had was alive? That’s when I needed it. It’s like giving a homeless person a five-dollar bill after they win the lottery. And when did Bundt cakes become synonymous with grief? I’ve never heard of anyone crying into their Bundt cake. Or the magical healing powers of the fluted dessert. Are Bundtcakes the oysters to grief? Both resulting in a stimulated effect and dramatic release?

Zelda: Hey. I know your mom was a proper bitch, but she made you so there’s that.

Me: And then Bob’s my uncle?

Zelda: Cheeky cow! U still coming out next month or should I sell ur Burna Boy ticket?

Me: Over my dead mother’s body!

Zelda: How very un British of u-ur American is showing

Because social media has no bounds, my happy place, a place I share no memories with my mother, has now become tainted. London is my second home. I fell in love with the city a decade ago, with the misguided vote on Brexit I was able to purchase a home in West London. W12! Go Queens Park Rangers! Because Londoners were asleep when my niece posted her explicative filled post about her grandmother, I am now faced with a new wave of gallant accolades. My neighbors, my local pub, my real estate agent, my British “Fam,” have all sent inquiries regarding my welfare after such a ‘traumatic loss.’

How do I say ‘eh, it’s not so bad.’America’s financial infostructure is crumbling! A two-week war is celebrating a perverse eighteen month anniversary! They are discontinuing Salted Caramel Lay’s Potato Chips! Things could be worse.

The British speak only in politeness. To tell them the truth would be a brash, irreparable, vocalization, ending in my kind removal from the Thorpebank Road WhatsApp chat. Instead, I pretend that I had a mother who baked cookies with no consequences. The lie hurts way more than her death. I am who I am because of those emotionally arsenic laced cookies.

Kem: Praying for you and your family.

Me: Too late. She’s dead. And we are still fucked up.

I adore the curious characters I have gathered in my life. My friends and homemade family signify my success as a person worthy of love and acceptance. I don’t want a sugary snack or two paragraph text. I need people to respect my space to feel very OK with death, with the loss of opportunity, with the loss of a normative relationship.

Eventually my equally damaged, only sibling reached out. The true joy in having a sister isn’t in baking cakes together, or sharing secrets over lattes, it’s trauma bonding. Having a fellow inmate who endured what you did for 18 years stops the mind from romanticizing our tragic childhood or glossing over the unsavory parts. The reinforcement of the past is what makes us sisters, the reminder we serve to each other is what keeps us apart. I’ve seen her twice in the last 15 years. After the initial awkwardness, we spent 45 minutes discussing how amazing we were for mitigating our childhood, then spent the next 15 minutes discussing what our responsibilities were in death. After playing Ro-Sham-Boto decide who would fly to California to support our father, we both deemed ourselves too selfish to go and sent him a first-class ticket to Vegas.

Zora Foote

Image by Michaela, at home in Germany • Thank you very much for a like from Pixabay – bundt cake on a lace doily