The Grief of a Lifetime: My Mother’s Death

Today marks 20 years since my mom’s soul left this earth.

I was 18 then, just a baby, days away from leaving for college. I’m 38 now, just 5 years younger than she was when she passed.

I’ve been alive without her for longer than I was with her. And yet it’s a complicated day for me.

I’ve been at peace with my mom and her memory. I’ve been at war with her and the damage she left behind.

Some days I’ve blamed her. Some days I’ve forgiven her. Some days I’ve hated her. Other days I have longed for her, also knowing she could never truly give me the love and presence I deserve. Some days I miss her. Other days I know my life is easier without her.

Before her death I had a very complicated relationship with my mom. I was estranged from her for a couple years and had only recently welcomed some contact back into my life.

Less than a week before the beginning of her end I was at work and having a really bad day. I had gone outside to get some fresh air and was crying. Out of nowhere my mom was there. She came to see me at work, and they had told her I was outside and she found me. Even though I was hidden…she just knew where I’d be…by the water. And I let her hold me and comfort me and I soaked up a moment I had wanted from her for so long. I ached for it.

We got the call on July 31st, 2006, that she was in the ER and to get there as soon as possible.

When we got there we were brought to a small room — the size of a closet. We were told she had a massive heart attack and died. Moments later a nurse came in to say they had revived her and she was heading up for emergency surgery right now and we should say goodbye now, in case this was it.

The surgery for her heart was successful, but her brain was too damaged from being without oxygen for too long. She was never going to be herself. She was brain dead.

My sisters (16 and 23 at the time) and I had to make the decision to take her off life support. An unbearable and heartbreaking decision. The weight of which was crushing. All the “what ifs?!” Praying for a miracle from a God I wasn’t even sure existed.

Eventually, gratefully, my mom was moved to Hospice. Away from the chaos and coldness of the hospital and with nurses who were so kind and gentle with our broken hearts. She was well cared for during her final days, and I did not leave her side beside bathroom breaks. I slept in her room and was the only one there when she took her final breaths.

We found out days after the heart attack that it was caused by a Cocaine overdose. I hadn’t known. It added another layer of pain. I also wondered if it wasn’t self-inflicted and I wouldn’t discover the answer to that until several years later. I knew she was struggling, in large part due to her husband who she was trying to leave for the umpteenth time.

The same man who sexually assaulted me when I was 12 years old. The same man she defended. The same man I am convinced killed his first wife in an unresolved hit and run. The same man she chose over me again and again and again.

Hence our complicated relationship. My mom was a whirlwind. She could lighten up a room or bring the storm.

Her smile and laugh were exuberant. Her mood swings and anxiety were constant. She was a rebel and a rule breaker. She was a free spirit and wild. Her clothes rarely matched. She marched to her own beat. She loved the ocean, dolphins, butterflies, and anything sparkly. She loved music and dancing.

She was one of my greatest sources of pain. She was one of my greatest teachers.

I believe her soul is at peace now and that’s enough for me. I know she has been doing her soul work and that’s enough for me.

I honor her and the woman she was — Carolyn Hali Lustig.

I think of her today and I think of the woman I am because of her and in spite of her.

This is the first time I’ve ever publicly shared about her so openly and honestly. I own my past and story. It felt necessary to get out and off my heart. It has taken me 20 years to share these words calmly and with ease. From an empowered place, and not from a wound. Not from a need to be understood or prove myself.