By Caitlin Kelly
Long-time readers here know my mother and I were estranged for the final decade of her life. I won’t repeat all those details. She died in her chair, watching TV, on Feb. 15, 2020, my best friend’s birthday, in a nursing home in Victoria, B.C.
Her friend and executor was kind enough, at 2:00 a.m., to say Psalm 23 over her body, a gesture I’m really grateful for.
She was cremated and I was to have gone to B.C. — basically impossible thanks to Canadian border closings and quarantine demands — to scatter her ashes there.
Now they’re in our living room, in a nasty plastic container they arrived in (for now) and it’s oddly comforting.
Because our relationship was so difficult for so many years, we usually lived very far apart — I in her native New York, she in my native British Columbia.
The closest ever? I was in Paris on a journalism fellowship and she lived in Bath. We had a few very good visits, until the week I was to fly back to Canada for good, and she ended up in a locked ward of a London psychiatric hospital.
So there was always tension and fear and anxiety for me with her.
A cliche, but true — her death has released me from this, and for that I’m very glad.
It has also, thank God, lessened my anger and frustration over the behaviors and decisions that cost us thousands we couldn’t really afford, over her unwillingness to address her alcoholism, even to acknowledge my annual Christmas cards and newsletters, including 2018, when I got early-stage breast cancer. (She had had a mastectomy.)
But, to my absolute shock, she left me a significant sum of money.
I would never have imagined this.
I assumed she was, by then, broke.
I assumed whatever she might have had would go to someone else.
That money is now in my bank account and I keep flailing about emotionally, alternating between guilt (it’s unearned) and gratitude.
It’s even enough to buy a small house, although — as one friend said — not in a place I would actually want to live!
I spent a lot of years, decades, dreading the next argument or insult or unwanted phone call alerting me to some fresh chaos. I left her care for good at 14.
She never taught me to cook or dress or wear make-up or how to handle money.
Even my minimal sex education was a booklet she left on a table.
What I did learn was how to be independent.
How to make and keep good friendships.
How to confidently and effectively manage my own affairs.
Only in a recent conversation did I finally, belatedly, understand something fundamental about her that I had always taken too personally.
She did not invite or enjoy intimacy.
Her alcoholism and bipolar illness and tough personality all made sure it was very difficult to get close to her.
That kept her safe.
It hurt me, but with hindsight and distance I now see them as coping mechanisms.
Better late than never.