I'm motherless, now what?

Making sense of things in real time, or at least trying.

Hello,

I’ve been a bit quiet here. My mom died 28 days ago — I started this draft on day 11, but it (and I) needed time. It feels weird not to mention this major life event before publishing the pieces I had already planned for this month. I don’t want to skip over it, of course. I’m still so in it that it feels impossible for me not to mention it here. I know she’d want me to carry on and do things that make me happy, which at the moment include creative writing (among other calm and relaxing things), so that’s what I’m doing.

I know I will eventually write something longer and more coherent about what I’ve just experienced, but for now, this is a great way to begin processing it. At some point, I’ll write about the 13 days that my brother and I waited patiently by her bedside, playing Gin Rummy, ordering takeout (pizza, Chinese, Thai, burgers, sushi), asking the hospice nurses question after question to make sure we understood everything and knew what to expect. Watching her breathe and then wondering over and over if she had just taken her last breath. Nope, just a case of apnea. Each night, when we left to get some rest, we thought it would be THE night. The night we’d get THE call notifying us of her passing. We even joked and made bets because, without a sense of humor, how do you keep on going? The call had to come eventually, but once she entered a morphine induced comatose state and stopped eating and drinking, we wondered how she was still going five days later, seven days later, 10 days later. One of the sweet hospice nurses gave her the nickname Amazing Amy.

Amazing Amy passed away on January 1st, 2026. My brother and I spent New Year’s Eve eating Asian takeaway at the round dining table in the kitchenette of our mom’s hospice house room, occasionally looking over at her across the room to see if she had taken her last breath. It was bizarre, but it was nice that we could experience it together. We left after dinner to get some rest, and roughly 90 minutes later, at 8:36 pm, my brother called me. It was THE call, so we hopped in our cars to meet at the hospice house, said our final goodbyes, and saw our mom off.

This year really does feel like a new beginning, but not one with big, lofty goals or a desire to achieve more. Honestly, I’m just trying to survive. I’m not saying I’m not functioning or enjoying my days, but I’m focused on the bare minimum. The only thing I really want more of these days is time. Time for myself. Time with the people I love. Time to process losing my mom. I realize it’s a privilege to not want more of anything else right now, but time is priceless — you can never get it back.

***

I’ve been journaling every morning since September 2024, when I started The Artist’s Way. My morning pages are pretty basic and generally don’t make much sense, but in July 2025, when my mom — who was already four years into her Alzheimer’s journey — broke her hip and sadly lived the remainder of her life in bed, I started writing to her every morning in my journal. Nothing specific. The same old stuff about life, work, how I slept the night before, and so on, but writing each entry to her made it feel different. It felt like I was still able to talk to her, to have a conversation with her, even though in real life, I couldn’t. She could no longer speak, at least not more than a random word here or there. I visited her for five weeks from early July through mid-August of 2025, and when I left to return to my life in Amsterdam, I said goodbye. I told her it was okay if she had to go and that I’d be okay. That I’d make sure my siblings were okay and that we’d all understand if she had to go. But Amazing Amy didn’t listen. I returned on December 9th — a trip I had already planned since April of 2025. This time, tears streamed down my cheeks as I pulled into the parking lot of the memory care facility. I wasn’t planning to see her again, at least not alive. I wondered if she was waiting for me? But I also don’t know if I believe in all that. I was glad to have another chance to see her, to have more time with her, but what a mind fuck. My brother met me there. I cried more when he got out of the car and walked toward me. Seeing him always makes me think of our childhood, a simpler time when we could just be kids together. When the least of our worries was fighting over who would ride shotgun in Mom’s car, instead of two adults in our early 40s navigating our mother’s long goodbye.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I know this is a lot, I don’t want to make it more for you, but I didn’t think I’d see her again, and now this is really hard.” Why was I apologizing? Of course, he understood.

My sweet, devoted brother had been visiting her every day since August, and whenever she was awake, we’d do a WhatsApp video call so I could say hello. But I also called to check in on my brother, to keep him company while he sat beside our mom each day.

She was sleepy and disengaged when I entered her room on December 10th, 2025. She was just where I had left her. In her inclined twin-sized medical bed, facing the TV, her hair combed back into a bun, with white roots and a dark brown ball of dyed hair atop her head. We stopped the salon appointments once she was on bed rest. The alternating pressure mattress gently hissed as each section inflated and deflated, helping improve my mom’s blood flow and circulation.

Over the next few days, she was the same each time I visited. Mostly sleeping, occasionally opening her eyes and physically there, but mentally gone. She had left the building a while ago. I had lost my mom years ago. I thought when she eventually passed away that things wouldn’t feel that different. I’m not shocked by her passing, and I accept it, but it hits differently now, knowing that she is no longer physically here in the world. I had already been living my life without her. Without sharing my day-to-day with her, or at least without her remembering or understanding it. I had learned to love every new version of her, and now I can’t even touch her anymore. I like to believe that she’s somewhere inside of me, though, even if it feels a bit woo-woo.

***

I’ve gone from waiting for the other shoe to drop to handling the admin of death and shopping for urns. How do I choose the right urn for my dead mom?

I never thought I’d be a daughter who keeps an urn filled with one-third of my mother’s remains on my bookshelf (not that there’s anything wrong with it!). But since I live abroad and none of us — my siblings and I — live in the same place, we decided to cremate our mom and split her ashes into three (she didn’t leave us any specifics in her Will). I keep joking that she’s moving to Amsterdam with me, but it’s true, and now she can be a part of the life I’ve built here.

I’m just not sure what type of urn to use for her. Should it remind me of her the instant I see it? Should it fit in with my home decor? Should it be inconspicuous so I can slot it into my bookshelf and hope that no one ever asks me what’s in it? I don’t know.

I keep thinking of the scene from Meet the Parents when Ben Stiller’s character pops a bottle of champagne, and the cork knocks the urn of his future father-in-law’s mother’s remains off the mantle. It cracks open, and then Mr. Jinx, the cat, uses it as a litter box.

Fortunately, we don’t have pets. But could you imagine???

My recent Google searches include things like:

“floral urn”
“hydrangea floral urn”
“orchid urn”
“magnolia urn”
“sunflower urn”

And, “Can you travel with a person’s remains?” (In case you’re curious, you can, but you need to have their death certificate and/or a crematorium certificate.)

My mom loved flowers. Growing up in the suburbs of New York City, we had a magnolia tree at the edge of our circular gravel driveway. You could see it from our kitchen, TV room, and her bedroom. I remember how happy she was each year when it bloomed, with its light magenta and white petals. She’d cut a few flower branches and put them in a vase inside, replacing them as needed.

By the end of each spring, the grass surrounding the magnolia tree trunk was covered in a bed of soft pink flower petals. Eventually, they’d turn brown, decompose, and return to the soil, preparing for the following spring.

In Hanakotoba, the Japanese language of flowers, magnolias represent¹ a love of nature, mobility, perseverance, and dignity. Due to their strength and endurance, magnolia trees also symbolize everlasting connections.

I answered my question while writing… It’s got to be an urn with some type of magnolia flower design.

A longtime friend of mine offered to make an urn for me in her upcoming ceramics class, so my next creative endeavor is to put together an inspiration board for my mom’s magnolia urn. Good thing I love projects.

This Magnolia Tree Painting by Deborah Alastra is making me so happy right now.

***

One night this December, my mom’s caregiver had messaged my brother to say she was coughing, so I stopped by to check on her after dinner. She was fine when I entered the room, and wide awake, something I hadn’t experienced in a while. Something very special happened during that visit. Here’s what I wrote to her the next morning in my journal (the excerpt has been lightly edited for brevity and clarity).

December 13th, 2025 - Ocala, Florida

I came to see you last night around 6:30 pm. I’m glad I did because you were awake. We listened to music, and I looked through some things you had there, including your address book. It’s interesting to see how you organized the information. I found a piece of paper where you had written down our birthdays (the kids). That was your attempt to make sure you didn’t forget to call us on our birthdays, but the problem was that you never knew what day it was. It’s really sweet and also quite sad. It’s a sign of your struggles and attempt to hold on.

Once I turned off the TV, you were a bit more engaged. And you even tried to say a few things. I’m not sure what, but you moved your lips and whispered. Later, before leaving, I asked if you wanted me to kiss your cheek. I don’t recall whether you mouthed “yes” or nodded your head, but you let me know you wanted it, so I kissed your cheek. Then you made a kissing sound and pursed your lips, so I put my cheek in front of your lips, and you kissed me. And it made me so happy. I laughed and told you how sweet and nice it felt. Then I kept doing it. I leaned over your bed, kissed you, then put my cheek in front of your face, and you kissed me. We did it at least 10 times. It felt a bit like you were my mom again for a second, but also like you were a baby responding to positive feedback. It was bittersweet. But since you can’t move from your head down or talk, I was surprised when you knew how to kiss me. I guess it’s a basic, intuitive, human action, but since you’re not really able to do much else anymore, I didn’t think you’d process it and do it. It’s interesting, actually. I think I’ll keep visiting you in the evenings because then I actually get to have some time with you. I should bring some photo albums from my brother’s house. I think you’d like that.

***

Four days later, on December 17th, my mom had another drastic decline, due to a mini stroke, which I’ve learned can be common in patients with dementia. Six nights after our sweet kisses, on December 19th, she started hospice crisis care. From then on, there was a hospice nurse at her bedside 24/7 to administer morphine as needed. It’s what they do when someone is actively dying to help ease the pain and calm their breathing. At first, I couldn’t wrap my head around the term “actively dying”. She was dying, period. Why did it need to be “active”? It felt like a way to make it sound better.

The next 13 days of “waiting” are something I’m not ready to write about. I’m still processing it. Still reflecting on it. So much happened, yet time stood still. It’s hard to explain. I learned a lot about the human body. It’s built to survive. It’s amazing, just like my mom, Amy.

I’ve felt motherless for a while, but now that she’s really gone, I’m finally able to fully grieve and mourn her loss. I’m finally able to move forward and figure out this new phase in my life. This new beginning. In a sense, we’ve both been set free. I feel sad, but I’m also relieved. Sometimes I feel guilty about that, but I know that she wouldn’t want me to. I’m relieved that she and I are no longer stuck in limbo, in the world of ambiguous loss, and in a constant state of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for THE call. I tend to move quickly through hard times. Move forward and keep going, I tell myself. I’m still keeping on, but this time, something’s telling me to take it slower. To give myself time. To finally take a fucking break. So, thank you, Mom, for helping me see how precious time is and how everything else can wait.

Thanks for reading,

Alexis

P.S. Coming soon, I’ve got an interview about money and retirement with Pauline from Money Feelings (she also interviewed me, read it here), I’m answering a reader’s question about dating after divorce (+ insights on the topic from relationship and sex therapist, Kate Engler), and much more… stay tuned!

1. https://hananokotoba.com/mokuren/