Living With Choosing Not To Go

A personal essay by Saya Hillman about making peace with her decision not to go to her mom during her final days

I chose my Costco armchair and The Real Housewives over my mom’s trembling voice asking me to visit. A blemish now stitched to my heart. A forever fact.

No matter how many people tell me she knew I loved her or how many times I tell myself she knew I loved her. Or the poetic aftermath, like what I wrote her sisters: “I’m sad. Relieved. Sad. Relieved. Didn't do enough. Did what I could. Wish we had more time. Glad her time is over. Sad. Relieved. Can't believe I won't see her again.”

Her phone call was Monday. Mom died Thursday.

I could’ve seen her Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. I chose not to.

She’d been reactionary in the past and after mere hours, apologetic and change of tune’y. “I’m doing better now. You don’t need to come.” The mom who cried wolf.

I didn’t want to set a precedent that I’d drop everything whenever she reached out. Or a nurse reached out. Or a social worker. Or a business manager. Or a landlord. Or a friend. Or a listserv member. Or a doctor. Or a different doctor. Or the automated “A staff member or patient has tested positive for COVID” voicemails. Or the hospital. Or the police.

I’ve eternally hated the phone. Hate became hate-dread. Very few people have my number. Now, without my blessing, too many people had my number. “She fell.” “She had a blood transfusion.” “I need you.” “I need you to…” “She’s late with rent.” “Please call back when you can. It’s nothing serious.” “She wants you to…” “Please call ASAP.”  

I had dropped everything five months previous when after five years of no contact, rooted in tense disagreement about communication, finances, and familial expectations, she had reached out with “I’m dying. Can you help?” My husband, my three aunts including one who flew in from Denver, and I sat with her in her darkened coach house bedroom, in shifts, for a week, making sure someone was there. She didn’t die. That was good. But also exhausting.  

I drove Chicago to Evanston, Evanston to Chicago. 

I learned she had a stroke a few years before, hadn’t eaten or been outside in a month, could barely stand, utility bills were unopened and unpaid, and she had a court date for an eviction. We went over her will, password locations, PIN numbers. We called utility companies, paid past dues, investigated cremation services, bought ginger ale, toilet paper, and adult diapers, sent a “Debbie’s dying” email, transcribed an instructions note for whomever found her. We met with hospice. I juggled self-employment; I moved around clients and wrote apologetic emails. I held her surprisingly soft hand. I cleaned her house. I cleaned out her house. I stuffed and unstuffed the car. I gave away her treasured bike and buggy. I took her computer to wipe and sell. I went through file cabinets and banker boxes of paper. I filled tubs with my childhood artwork and writings, and with her journals, letters, and legal documents. I created a “Mom obituary” note. I created a “Mom death” spreadsheet — expenses; contacts; to dos. I celebrated the worst birthday I’ve had in my forty-four years. I cried in front of her. I cried alone.

She uncharacteristically oozed appreciation for our presence. Her barbed wire retracted. Glimmers of what our relationships had been beaconed. I became hopeful. But upon talking next steps, the balance shifted. She refused professional care and re-entered narcissism-mode. We couldn’t give her more. We said goodbye-goodbye. Turned out, it was just goodbye.

Much of what Mom said on the phone that Monday exasperated me, as was pattern over the previous fifteen-ish years — 

“The doctors and healthcare system are playing us… It’s just about money to them.” 

My tone vacillated between fed up, conflicted, empathetic, and searching for the right thing.

“I don’t know how I can help,” I said. “I don’t know what you want…”  

“I don’t know, Saya. To feel loved?” 

The simple act of sitting in a worn cushioned chair arm’s length from her was the help.

Simple, yet not.

The reasons to not go were there.

But that’s the thing — there aren’t any reasons.

When there’s suffering. When there’s fear.

When you’re fatherless. When you’re an only child. When someone’s alone.

When it’s family. 

You go.

Unconditional love.

Blood is thicker than water.

She gave you life. 

You’ve been given a second chance.

You’ll regret…

I was feeling the weight of the four phone calls from doctors I had gotten on vacation.

Months of all hours of the day texts, emails, and calls.

Years of a splintering relationship, followed by years of no relationship.

Those no years being fine, better even. Freeing.

That she never rode in our new CRV, heard about our trips to Japan, Chattanooga, and Nova Scotia, saw SIX or our home improvements, or knew about her sister’s wedding or my husband’s bike accident.

Not hearing “Hi Kiddo, it’s me” voicemails or her “I bumped into…” updates.

Her possibly becoming unhoused.

Boundary-setting around topics, money, and lifestyle.

Child-parent role reversal.

Friends losing their parents, who would give anything for more time.

“I feel better just having talked to you, having vented. You don’t have to come.” Her voice sounded as if she still wanted me to come. “I’m sorry if I didn’t show you love in your life.”

“I’ve always felt loved, Mom.”

“That’s good. I love you…” she said, through tears.

I hung up. And chose to sit in my Costco armchair, remote in hand.

Wednesday, I dialed into her care plan meeting with her doctor, social worker, and therapist at her “people with no money” skilled nursing inpatient facility, or as I had forcibly learned, her SNIF. I mostly listened.

“I don’t want more tests.” [on and on] 

“How can we support you, Debbie?”

“I want acknowledgment that the system is broken.” [on and on] 

“But Debbie, remember how good you felt after the last transfusion?” [on and on] 

Her combative tone clawed my insides. But at least it was epitome strong spirit, strong willed Debbie. It meant she was on the mend and there was a future.

Exasperated and drained, again. We’d wait till Friday to see her test results. They thanked me for coming. I said “Bye.” I didn’t know it was bye-bye.

I am tiny soothed by our last togetherness, six weeks previous. After a couple of hours, she wheeled with me to the lobby and said, “Thanks for coming, kiddo. Give me a hug.” She rose from her chair and squeezed. I squeezed back. I didn’t know that would be our last touch.

Now I’m forever untethered. I have my life back. Because my mom lost hers. Is this what I wanted? 

I wrote in a social media post “Do everything you can to avoid…” I deleted it. Because that was advice I didn’t follow myself.

“Before you regret…”

“Before it’s too late….”

We say those things. But I’ve learned sometimes when given eight paths, it’s the ninth you should walk. Mom showed me that.

Saya and her mom.

She was a single white parent, raising a black-white child. The Northwestern University temp job where her water broke ended up being her last 9 to 5. She laid out her skills and circumstances, and figured a way to make money off of both whilst also giving her what she desired most, autonomy and being home with me in my formative years. This led to pre-computer age typing PhD dissertations for Northwestern students on her clickety-clack typewriter, crafting dried flower arrangements in garage-sale frames with wildflowers she picked from the Greenbay Trail, woodworking as a carpentry apprentice, and teaching herself species names, weeds versus plants, sun and water requirements to eventually become whom she was most of my existence, a word-of-mouth gardener. 

She gave birth to ten-months in the womb me at home, in the bathtub, alone, on purpose. She didn’t name me for a year, wanting to get to know me. She made my clothes. She built our furniture. Without a license or a car, she biked us everywhere, pulling me in the buggy that flipped between child-carrier and plant-carrier. She hid mini chocolate eggs around the apartment for me to find Easter morning and inevitably would forget where numbers 17 and 25 were, which we’d find months later. She introduced me to the musical wordsmithery of Gilbert & Sullivan, provided overflowing shoeboxes of second-hand art materials, engaged in epic matches of Stratego and Connect Four, read me Pippi and Anno, and took me to the library so I could play Oregon Trail and Carmen San Diego.

She bartered for my Montessori education. She badgered Stephen in Financial Aid to ensure I could attend Boston College. Upon hearing I had been fired, she was immediately understanding, unruffled, and unwavering in her belief in me, and now I’m twenty years of blissful, “you do what?” self-employment in, where quality of life is my North Star. 

Debbie taught me to connect others, connect with others, be on time, take public transit, read maps, wear flow’y pants, get dirt under my fingernails, stay away from debt, learn to ride a bike without the crutch of training wheels, glare at leaf blowers, and ask to speak to the manager not only to complain but also to compliment.

It’s because of her that I prefer side streets over the highway, my grammar and spelling are (chef’s kiss), I applied for (and received) a scholarship I knew I’d never win (that paid 75% of senior year Boston College tuition), I took a risk on a pricey dream home that opened copious doors to goodness including meeting my husband, we had an almost 100% bartered wedding, and I have a drawer of empty “just in case” containers that are just too perfect to throw away. 

It’s because of her that I do, I don’t worry about doing.

I take a step even if I don’t know where I’m going.

I believe in, value, and love myself. Like, a lot.

She had a one outfit wardrobe years before Steve Jobs “discovered” capsule outfits.

She was a community activist before Barack made community activist a noble role.

She humiliatingly brought her own canvas bags to the grocery store. Who brings their own bags to the grocery store?!

She declined a Preferred Shopper Card because she didn’t want the government knowing her shopping-habits. Who’s worried about privacy issues?!

When I just wanted to see RENT again, she frustratingly got NYC spring break tickets to see some weird off-Broadway play no one had ever heard of in some basement where three men used a mix of technology and drums and weird items to convey social messages. The men were dressed in black, their bodies painted blue. I mean, Blue Man Group? What even is that?

      

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So you could say Debbie was a pioneer. 

Composting. Female armpit and leg hair. Impossible to spread, oil on top organic peanut butter in lieu of Skippy. Tom’s of Maine instead of Aquafresh. Thrift stores. Plant-filled windowsills. Coworking. Co-living. Yoga. Farmer’s Markets. Freedom prioritized over “success.” Coffeehouses as a third place. A say yes and figure it out as you go mentality.

A woman in pants, a woman in trades, and a woman with pockets.

She fought for equality, women, indigenous people, democracy, the little fish, the environment, and access for all.

It’s now a forever fact that I didn’t go to my mom when she asked for me. I exist in a brain versus heart teary-eyed state of giving my past, current, and future self permission.

Permission to — 

Not set everything aside.

Not just let it go.

Not answer the phone.

Not drop everything.

Not worry about what others will think.

Not jump at the second chance. Or third chance.

Permission to — 

Love conditionally.

Draw sand lines.

Be angry, curt, petty.

Choose Real Housewives.

Choose “human” and “self” over “family” and “daughter.”

Truly believe she knew I loved her and that it’s ok.

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Called “Accessible Oprah,” Saya Hillman's run her lifestyle business Mac & Cheese Productions℠ since 2004, helping others adult well. An Evanston, Illinois native, Montessori and Boston College graduate, and Chicago resident, Saya’s an accidental entrepreneur and a joyful and self-assured wallflower turned wildflower. She was one of Brazen Careerist’s Top Twenty Young Professionals to Watch, has been featured in Forbes and The New York Times, and is a TEDx speaker and an in-progress memoir author.