We had 2 funeral services for mom after she died: one in Columbia, SC and one in Vicksburg, MS. I had lots of things I wanted to say and things I wanted people to hear, so I wrote them and read them at both services. Here is the text:
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I called her Maudra, because she called her mom Maudra. She called me Daudra, because her mom called her Daudra. The fact that I shared a birthday with her mom made that all the more special to me.
Every day I am so thankful that I was born into the family that I was born into and raised by the incredible Patricia, David, and Christopher Reid. How lucky am I? The most hilarious and kind people to ever walk the earth, and they are MY family? I can't count the hours we used to spend just laughing together. They are why I am who I am, and I couldn't have asked for a better childhood and friendship with my family.
After we lost dad in 2007, a huge hole was left in all of our lives. But his death caused mom to lose her compass, path, and anchor. For the first time in her life, she was truly rudderless, with no partner, kids to care for, or the challenge of being a caregiver to occupy her time. And unfortunately, though mom truly and deeply loved her family and friends, she did not love herself. So she tried to escape the torture of her body and mind. With a series of mental health issues, addiction issues, and physical pain plaguing her every moment of every day, she was desperate for any respite she could find.
We tried our best. Many of us did. When her home on National Street became unsafe for her, we moved her to Wisconsin Cove. When her home at Wisconsin Cove became unsafe for her, we moved her to Christopher Towers in South Carolina to be closer to family. When Christopher Towers became unsafe for her, we tried to move her again and again but she fought us for a long time. Just a mere three months ago, she finally relented, and everything lined up for her to move to a newer facility in Columbia called Merrill Gardens . There she was happy for the first time in ages. She had community again. She was eating food again. She was making friends. She had purpose. And then, shockingly, only one week later but hopefully while being truly content for the first time in a long time, she left us.
Caregiving someone with such extreme issues is so terribly hard, and when you live across the country from them, or in Christopher and Katie's case for a few years--across the globe from them-- it's almost impossible. It feels completely hopeless, with no way to actually provide any comfort or care. Christopher, Katie, Fuzzy, and I sacrificed so much of our lives to ensure that mom was healthy and safe. But it was never enough. It could never have been enough. It was literally impossible to have been enough for what she wanted and needed. So she suffered. WE suffered. We tried. We succeeded sometimes, but more often than not, we failed.
Last year, I had a change in career and became a death doula--someone that helps people and their families sit with death, grief, and dying. This is truly my life's work, inspired by caring for dad throughout his illness and learning what is helpful and not helpful when living with grief and being a caregiver. But no amount of training will prepare you for when it happens to you. The grief I am feeling over the loss of mom is so intense and so complicated. I am angry--at everything and everyone. The medical system. The lack of support for mental health from the government. The isolation of people and illusion of community in small towns. I took a class a few years back with NAMI--the National Alliance on Mental Illness--and one module talked about how people with the dual diagnosis of mental illness and addiction issues are likely to develop Tardive Dyskinesia, the condition that mom had that forced her to always be shaking and took away her ability to chew and talk. I was FLOORED. I was enraged. It was printed right there in the text, and this was YEARS after we got her diagnosis, which was a shock at the time. It was not curable, but to learn that it was preventable was devastating.
Mom was no angel. Well, she used to be, in my opinion, but these last seemingly eternal years were a challenge. They were hell, actually. But knowing that she finally has some peace and is free of pain and the plagues of her depression and torment comes as a huge comfort to me. At our private viewing of her at the funeral home in Columbia, mom was so beautiful, peaceful, and still. It was like looking at the mom we used to know.
Looking back through her lifetime's worth of photos this week, I was reminded of all the love we had and still have in our family. It's because we loved Mom so intensely that we never gave up on her. I can only hope that as time continues to advance that the pain and trauma I have that was caused by her will melt away and be refilled with memories of her humor, wit, generosity, care, and love.
But here's the thing--these hard years have also shaped who I am as a person and how I view the world, and I honestly think for the better. I have a better understanding of how to help people in crisis and how to prioritize my own mental health and safety when under extreme stress. I wish I had gained these skills in a different way, but that's not how life works. I must also take a moment of gratitude for Christopher, Katie, and Fuzzy, without whom I would not still be standing. I'm so thankful every day that they are my family.
I will continue to do my best and carry on mom and dad's legacy by being kind and respectful to people and sitting with them in their times of struggle, pain, and need. And I hope that you are all called in your lives to carry on this legacy as well, to be kind to others of all ages, races, genders, sizes, shapes, orientations, and belief systems, and that you approach all things with curiosity and compassion. And please know that your lives are important and each of you is worth fighting for. If anyone hearing this is struggling in any way, please ask for support.
One of my friends and colleagues in death work, Rel Brender, said this to me the day that mom died:
You offered your mom something that very few people get.
Now, I think she finally did something generous and thankful for you and Christopher in her final act by letting go.
It really might be her way of saying thanks.
I believe that to be the case.
I love you Maudra. Thank you for doing your best. I hope you and dad are giggling away while snuggling with all of your cats, dogs, and birds in Heaven. I will try to carry your spirit with me as best I can in all things in the future.
