Above: Image of zinnias by Jeana Bala on Unsplash.
I remember September 1, 2021. I’d just returned from getting groceries and somehow managed to bring in most of the items myself. The night was warm with a hint of crispness in the air. I breathed it in deeply and marveled that I was somehow, caught up. My work assignments for the week were complete. It was the first time since being struck by a car while walking across the street in June that I’d felt really sure I was going to be okay.
The next day, my mother died. No one told me. Nonetheless, tension flooded my apartment, and I snapped uncharacteristically at my children, all of us crying as though trying to process the pain we felt but couldn’t yet name.
The next morning—black dye setting on my hair in my efforts to do what I could to combat the aging process (escalated by early, medically-induced menopause)—I followed my compulsion to check my phone when it dinged. I was getting ready to drive my daughter to middle school orientation, and I was faced with a message from my cousin saying he was sorry about my mom and had just found out. Panicked, grey robe drawn around my bird-like body, I swooped into my living room, where my friend Clinton was helping my son put together a Lego car. I shook the phone in his face and asked frantically: What does this mean?!
He shrugged and noted it probably meant that my cousin just talked to my uncle and realized my mother’s schizophrenic delusions and physical symptoms were becoming worse. I looked at Clinton defiantly and said: No. It means my mom died and that my dad is waiting to tell me in person because he’s overwhelmed and doesn’t want to derail orientation.
I called my dad, who seemed both relieved and shocked that I somehow I already knew both about my mom’s death and his reasons for initially keeping it from me.
As the month progressed, my sense of having it all together vanished.
I began a second wave of grieving my mother. I fell behind on my work. I am in the 2 percent of US Americans who randomly failed to receive the September advanced child tax credit. Insurance temporarily revoked my authorization to receive my prescribed oral chemotherapies. I experienced painful liver inflammation, and my liver enzymes spiked to dangerous levels. My typically optimistic view of living with metastatic cancer soured.
Fortunately, I didn’t give up.
Since changing my diet to give my liver a break, my enzyme levels have come almost back to normal. I’m still struggling, but I have hope.
I’m dedicating the rest of this section to my mother, Susan Hutchinson.
That’s my mom, pictured above with my daughter, 3 years ago. We'd just celebrated my mother’s birthday at Schroeder's, one of her favorite places in Rome, GA, the northwest Georgia town where I grew up and she died.
For nearly 45 years, my mom served the communities of Lagrange, Athens, and Rome, GA, as a nurse—both touching and (sometimes) saving lives. She treasured this work deeply.
She's survived by my father Don Hutchinson, who remained her devoted husband and caregiver throughout her final years. Additionally, she's survived by her father James Yarbrough, her brother Michael Yarbrough, and, of course, me and my two children, Kyra and Valor Karanovich.
While I'm planning to creatively memorialize her, please note that her ashes have already been buried beside her mother, Laura Yarbrough, within a plot near the rural Alabama town where she spent her childhood. Meanwhile, my father has asked that anyone wishing to honor her memory scatter zinnia seeds.
Zinnias have bright, beautiful blossoms and were my mother's favorite flower.
Next, I give you with the words of Robin Williams, as the character Daniel Hillard in my mother's favorite film, Mrs. Doubtfire:
There are all sorts of different families, Katie. Some families have one mommy, some families have one daddy, or two families. And some children live with their uncle or aunt. Some live with their grandparents, and some children live with foster parents. And some live in separate homes, in separate neighborhoods, in different areas of the country - and they may not see each other for days, or weeks, months... even years at a time. But if there's love, dear... those are the ties that bind, and you'll have a family in your heart, forever. All my love to you, poppet, you're going to be all right... bye-bye.
One week before my mother died, I wrote something for Medium’s Writers Challenge that examines both the pain and wonder inherent to our relationship. You can read that here. Since I use this newsletter in part to highlight other writers, I’ll also recommend to you the work of Kelly Torres, whose relationship with her mother is quite different than my own, though nonetheless holds a relatable amount of love and loss within it.
Finally, I’m still pushing forward with Queen of Wands and contributing to Education Without Limits and Georgia Center for Nonprofits, two noble part-time ventures that often manage to bring me hope. I’m also on my ever-evolving quest to make Medium work for me, my latest achievement being my 4 entries into the aforementioned contest, each of which you can find, along with some of my favorite contenders, right here.
And, should you be barred from reading more than 3 Medium stories per month, I strongly feel that subscribing is worth it. If you decide to take this step, please use my link.
As always, sharing my writing and tipping if you’re able is both deeply needed and appreciated. The best method is Venmo. However, other options are available via my flow page, and I can provide my Zelle contact information on request.
Wishing you joy, strength, and hope always,
Kelli