I remember when my father-in-law died. It was on Valentine’s Day, thirteen years ago. He was eighty-nine, and in relatively good health, despite the fact he’d had one of his legs amputated several years earlier, because of diabetes.

Earlier that morning, Don’s mom had called us because Walter had fallen while they were preparing for church.  (Yes, he like my dad was named Walter). They lived just down the street from us in Lake Havasu City. Don immediately went over to his parents’ house. One of my in-law’s neighbors had already gone over there to help, and Walter insisted he was okay. Don decided to call the paramedics, just to be safe. When they arrived, Walter again insisted he was fine. But one of the paramedics, believing Walter’s coloring looked off, decided to give him some oxygen.  Seconds after putting the oxygen mask on, Walter closed his eyes and died. Just like that.

Don says that’s how he wants to go when his time comes—surrounded by loved ones, pain-free, and peaceful. 

For my mother-in-law, Doris, she didn’t quite see it that way. She wasn’t prepared to lose Walter so suddenly. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

While I can understand Doris’s sentiments, I’ve experienced the long goodbye—with both of my parents. And while it gives us time to say goodbye, to come to terms with losing them, it can also be excruciating.

Over thirty years ago, Don and I uprooted our family and moved to Havasu to help take care of my father during his illness and manage their business. Less than two years later, Dad passed away. Mom and I were by his side when he died. 

My mother’s long goodbye has taken longer—and in some ways is more painful than my father’s. For one thing, Dad didn’t have dementia or any memory issues. And while his personality did change toward the end, because of medication and the illness, it was different from what I am experiencing with Mom.

I don’t recall crying as much with Dad. Oh, I did cry. But it was different.  I remember, it was on Mother’s Day, and Mom and Dad had traveled to Utah for experimental treatment for Dad. Don and I were at Havasu Palms with the kids, keeping an eye on the business. We received a call from Mom, telling us Dad had taken a turn for the worse, and he probably would not make it through the night.

At that point in time, I was like Doris. Not ready to say goodbye. I climbed into my parent’s bed at Havasu Palms and began to sob. I cried all day. Don was worried because I was a wreck. I couldn’t stop crying.

Dad didn’t die that day—or that week. After a few weeks—or days—(it’s all a blur I can’t remember exactly) they returned to Havasu Palms.  Dad lived another 18 months or so. I don’t think I cried again. Don says I did, but I don’t remember.

I wouldn’t say Mom has lived with us since dad died—it’s complicated. Don and I built a house in Lake Havasu City after Dad passed away, so our kids could go to school there, while we still worked at Havasu Palms. Mom eventually built a house in our neighborhood. After Havasu Palms’ lease expired, we were all living in Lake Havasu City.

Mom eventually sold her house and moved in with us, because we were all planning to leave Havasu. We then sold our house, and we all moved into a rental, while we looked for jobs in another state. But Don and I ended up going into real estate, and we stayed in Havasu. Eventually, we bought another house in Lake Havasu City—one with two master suites—added on a sitting room for Mom, and a swimming pool for all of us.

Doris eventually sold her house, and we built a guest house on the back of our property for her to live in. Don and I joked we had both moms with us because we wanted to get into heaven. Mom and Doris were the same age, got along well, and kept each other company. But Doris passed away suddenly about two years later. Mom started going downhill after that—but I refused to notice. 

At the end of 2019, Mom suffered a stroke.  She had weeks of in-home rehabilitation, with caregivers and physical therapists coming and going.  Not long after her in-home care was over, our country was in the midst of the covid pandemic. Because of this, her doctor visits were conducted by phone.  During one such appointment the doctor asked mom what county and city she lived in. Without hesitation, Mom said, “Covina, Los Angeles County.”  Mom hadn’t lived there for over fifty years.

The doctor suspected Mom was in early stages Alzheimer’s, but after seeing a specialist, Mom was diagnosed with vascular dementia. By this time, I was no longer in real estate. I had left the business eleven years earlier and my writing career had taken off. I was working at home anyway, so I became Mom’s fulltime caregiver. One of the most notable changes, Mom was no longer able to beta read my books. She had always been my main beta reader, but she could no longer follow the story. At first, she would listen to the audiobooks, but eventually, those were also too difficult for her to follow.

Because of the pandemic, we couldn’t get outside help for Mom, it was too risky. During the pandemic, Don and I made the decision to finally leave Havasu and move closer to our kids. I contacted an old friend of mine who sold real estate in Oregon, and with her help and our son and daughter-in-law’s, we ended up buying our new home—seeing it for the first time when we arrived during the fall of 2021.

Mom stayed with my sister, Lynn, for almost a month while Don and I packed up our home and headed up to Oregon. Lynn and one of her friends drove Mom up to Oregon from her home in California. After being separated from Mom for almost a month, I noticed changes in her that I hadn’t seen before. Or more accurately, changes I had ignored. 

Before leaving Havasu, I learned I needed a knee replacement, something I put off until after our move. Initially, I intended to find someone to care for mom in our home while I went through recovery, yet eventually realized—with some tough love from my family—that it was time to find a care home for mom. They say the caregiver is often the second victim, and I didn’t want to do that to my family. 

I moved Mom into the care home on May 1. I cried for the next two days. Then after surgery on May 3, I stopped crying. I suspect it was the drugs.

It’s been seven months since Mom moved into the care home. I visit her once a week. I stay for about four hours, lay in bed with her, hold her hand, and chat.  She tells me she is lonely, but then I remember she told me that when she was still living with us. I understand her loneliness. Her circle has gotten much smaller. Most of her friends have died, and all her siblings and first cousins have passed on. We try to Facetime at least once a day.  

These days, I find myself crying again. Maybe because it’s almost Christmas, and Christmas time seems to be when the changes are more profound.  It was that way with Dad. I remember his last two Christmases; it was as if he had already died. 

A few weeks ago, Mom asked me how we were related. When my sister visited a month or so ago, Mom didn’t quite understand who she was. When she was still living with us, in our new Oregon home, she would constantly ask when we were leaving, or I would find her packing up her belongings, because she “didn’t want to leave them here.”

I used to tell people Mom came down with dementia after her stroke, but I know now, that’s not true. Not long ago I searched through old text messages between my sister and me. In May of 2016, about four years before her stroke, she was visiting with my sister. Lynn messaged me, saying Mom was losing her short-term memory and it was freaking her out, causing her major anxiety.  

I must have totally blocked that out. Refused to acknowledge what was happening. Looking back, I remember how annoyed I would get at Mom because she had become so disorganized, that her messy room drove me crazy.  But it wasn’t her fault. I just wanted to be annoyed at Mom instead of facing the fact she was slipping away.

Now that she lives at the care home, I see things more clearly. I recognize this long goodbye has been going on for much longer than I was willing to admit. I finally understand why I cry more these days, often breaking into tears if I just talk about Mom. Quite simply, it’s because I am grieving for the loss of my mother.  I miss her.

(Mom and me during our last visit, December 2, 2023.)