My Mom : How I Missed Connections and Found Them Again

My mom was a deeply caring people person whose relationships meant the world to her. More than anything, she loved the connection of a good conversation, whether silly or deep. Nothing could stop that joy, not even her Multiple Sclerosis - which is why it was so tough when we missed connections with each other.

My mom guessed she started having MS symptoms in her 20’s. As a flight attendant, they nicknamed her “Grace” because she tripped a lot. When she went to the doctor, they couldn’t find anything wrong (MRI’s weren’t a thing then). They dismissed her experiences, asking if she was stressed because of a boyfriend problem. She finally got diagnosed at age 50.

My mom loved telling the story of how when she was waiting on a diagnosis - it was either a brain tumor or MS - and how I, with my 18 year old brain, wanted it to be a brain tumor. She thought that was so funny. I wanted it to be something that could be cut out, stopped. She was relieved when it turned out it was MS, she wanted to live a long time with as much of her faculties as possible. Around her illness, this is the first time we missed each other in our thinking, passing like planes in the air.

My mom and I didn’t always get each other. There was deep love and laughter, but our approaches to life felt worlds apart - not just about her illness, but about many things for as long as I could remember. Regardless of the distance in our mindsets and communication, we never stopped trying - all the way to her death.

My mom lived in a nursing home, from 60 years old until her death at 76. When asked how she was doing, living each day in bed progressively losing the use of her arms and legs, she would say she was feeling great and healthy. I would laugh, dumbfounded, and add “besides the MS that is.” Missing each other again.

My mom had a two-year dying process - according to me she did. She would disagree. I saw dying as a longer thing, she considered dying actively dying. We were both right, for ourselves - and missed each other here, too. She was furious with me and her doctor at times during those two years, believing we were making something more dire than it needed to be. And she was right - it’s ridiculous to even think otherwise -because it was her life. Who were we to tell her if she was dying or not? This is the woman who lived in a nursing home for 16 years and continuously put mind over matter and was happy.

In the months leading up to her death we missed each other one more time, and then found each other in a beautiful and mysterious way.

I walked into her room one day and we ended up having a pivotal conversation. She was feeling sad that she didn’t have any money to leave us, so she told me to make sure to get her gold teeth out of her ashes and sell them.

I’m going to let that sit for a moment.

I was in shock. What is that going to look like, me asking the funeral director for those gold teeth so I can get a few dollars? I told her I just couldn’t do that. It felt like it undermined my love for her and also would look really, really bad. She was pissed.

I told my Naturopath this story, stunned and grasping for help to bridge the gap with my mom. She responded with a question - what would your mom want you to do with that money? She affirmed I wouldn’t have to do what my mom asked, even if I agreed to, but I was missing a point of connection.

I went back and asked my mom. And she said to buy a piece of jewelry for myself to remember her by.

I made a compromise with her - that I would buy a piece of jewelry with my money while she was alive and be able to show it to her, and then pay myself back with her money once she passed. She agreed.

I ended up buying a ring - silver, shaped like a feather with tiny diamonds in it. I chose the feather because I went into a weeklong Zen retreat, holding the inquiry of how I stay connected to my mom after she died. After a number of brutally long, quiet days I was doing walking meditation and the phrase “love is light like a feather” came into my mind. I shared the idea and ring with my mom, and she approved.

But the story isn’t over.

A few days before she died my mom had been less present in this world. She had been agitated and having visions, but still knew me and knew when I was there. I walked into her room on the day and time I would usually visit - it was a Wednesday around lunchtime. I saw a black little lump on her chest. Worried it was a scab and I would hurt her if I removed it, I got an aide and he picked it up gently. It was a gold tooth.

Pausing here.

This woman could not lift her arms. Somehow, the tooth fell out of her mouth, onto her chest on the very day and time I usually visited. She didn’t swallow it. It didn’t fall on the ground. It was right there for me.

She was reminding me - you said you’d do it, so here it is.

I have the tooth still. I’ve thought about dipping it in more gold and wearing it on a necklace - but I don’t for fear of looking really weird. It’s not a short or easy story to explain. And it’s too vulnerable to say I want that last physical part of my mom close to my own physical heart.

Her tooth is one of the most valuable things I have. Not because of the gold. It’s because it’s a symbol of how my mom and I found each other.