Death Stalked my Mom

My mom’s life was dogged by death. In that we are alike.

It started for my mom with the not-unusual death of a grandparent. On night, when my

mom was about four years old, she and her two older brothers were loaded into the back of the

family car. No one said where they were going, but because it was out in the country my mom

assumed it was her grandfather’s house. When they arrived, my mom and her brothers were only told, “Wait here,” while her parents went inside.

Mom sensed the seriousness of the moment but asked no questions. She did not know her

grandmother had died, in fact, she did not remember knowing there was a grandmother there at all. Mom pieced it all together only later, by looking at obituaries.

No one spoke of Mom’s grandmother’s death. Even stranger, my mom never heard

anyone speak of my great-grandmother at all. Not her dad; not her aunts or uncles. It was as if

Mom’s grandmother never existed, her name and accomplishments erased from memory like the name and likeness of a disfavored pharaoh. When Mom later saw pictures of her grandparents together, she was struck at how much they appeared to be in love. The obituary also revealed that she was educated.

Was that the reason the family kept my great-grandmother’s memory inside, not because

she was unloved, but because she was adored? I may know something about this.

Now, everyone who could have told Mom about her grandmother, or what happened that

night, is gone. This is in part due to my mom being 91, and in part because death refused to leave her alone.

Years before I was born, death took my mom’s husband. Mom was very young, much

younger than I am now. I would say there was no warning, but that is not entirely true.

Richard was a musician and was playing a gig in a nearby town. Mom had stayed at

home with my sister, who had just turned one. Mom told me that she usually waited up for

Richard, but for some reason that night she didn’t.

Mom was awakened suddenly by an insistent pounding at that back door. Mom told me

she can still hear it now, when she thinks about it. My mom’s first thought a confused, why had

she locked the door?

Mom opened the back door. There was no one there.

Mom saw the time. It was late, too late. Soon, Highway Patrol called. Richard had died in

a wreck. He was 27 years old. My mom was 25.

Did my mom say “no,” and fall to the ground? Did she pick up my sister, or watch her

sleeping? I asked. Mom said she told my sister, “It’s just you and me now.” Then Mom had to

call Richard’s mom.

Mom’s parents came and carried my mom and sister away to their house, her childhood

home. It bothered my mom later that she just let her parents get her like that. She had been an

autonomous adult, a wife and mother. To add to the difficulty, Mom didn’t know how to drive.

Mom eventually took the insurance money and my sister and left California to go to

college in Iowa, where she met my dad. In a way, the possibility of me began the night Richard

died.

Because my dad was uncomfortable about Richard, my mom hardly talked about him.

Dad adopted my sister, and although my sister always knew, I did not know he wasn’t her

biological father until I found out by accident in high school.

Mom had a good run for about twenty years. Then, when she was 46, her father died. He

was 72. He had some health issues, so it was not totally unexpected. But then death just kept

happening.

When Mom was 48, death took her brother Gene, also by wreck. Gene was 52. I

remembered Gene well, as I was only 16 when it happened. Gene was a successful veterinarian,

with a beautiful house with a pool, a vineyard and winery, and a small plane that he parked in his back yard which abutted the Executive Airport. Gene had good dogs, well-trained. I think I

modeled my life on his a little.

When I was a kid, our family drove with Gene and his family to Marin to buy oysters

which Gene and his wife Ann grilled on their deck. Another time my dad and I flew with Gene to

their ranch, with its red dust, vineyards, fig trees, and horses. I watched the ground between the

wooden slats of the floor of the small plane and decided I preferred to be on the ground. At the

ranch, I walked alone along the dirt road to pick figs. My cousin Grant came running up the hill

to warn me of rattlesnakes.

Grant was two years older than I. I remember us as kids riding in the back of some

vehicle, playing the hand slap game. Grant was blonde and charming, effortlessly confident, all

the things I was not. Despite his many gifts, he was kind, like a male version of Princess Diana.

When we grew up, Grant suggested I move to Sacramento.

I moved to San Francisco instead. Moving to San Francisco was the only way my

daughter could have happened, so maybe it was better that I didn’t follow his advice. I have not

answered that question yet, because my daughter died.

Seven years after Gene died, death came for Grant. Again, a wreck. I had just graduated

college. I remember getting the phone call, the shock and disbelief. The sunlight was spilling

through a window across the worn hardwood floors. I remember thinking how strange it was that the light was the same as ever, as if nothing had happened. Grant was 26 when he died. I was 23.

A little more than fourth months after Grant’s departure, a more predictable death came

for my mom’s remaining sibling, her brother Cliff. Mom was 56. Cliff had been in poor health

for a long time.

Eventually, Mom’s mom died too. At 61, my mom was the sole survivor of her little

family of five. A few years older than I am now, she had no one left from her side to help

remember the dead.

Then death turned to the next generations. My little sister’s long-term boyfriend died

suddenly when she was just 39.

In 2008, my then-husband was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, Stage IV. They said

he had two years or so to live. James was never great about following instructions, but 12 years

later he did finally die, after we had long separated. My daughter, Isabel, held his hand. She was

20, I was 55.

Two years later, Isabel died in her sleep. She was 22. No one knows why, besides God. After the coroner took away her body, I went home and sat on the ground in my front yard. It was a perfect spring day. The bees moved from blossom to blossom as if nothing had happened

as I made those excruciating calls to my mom, my sisters and my friends.

I could not speak at Bel’s memorial. I had no words. I loved her too much.

When I was barely pregnant with Bel, my mom and dad came to visit. It was still too

soon to take a pregnancy test. I told Bel’s mom that if my mom said something, anything, I’d

know I was pregnant. I don’t remember if my mom knew we had actively been trying, but I think

not. We met at a dog show. My mom walked right up to me and said, “Hey do you have any

news? On the way down, we saw the most beautiful baby, and I thought….” Sure enough, when I

took the test a week later, Bel was officially present. I wasn’t surprised, because my mom knew.

Isabel loved my mom. Less than a year before she died, Bel went up to stay with Mom

for a few months. Mom lives on 40 acres of lush forest in Oregon, wild with ferns and moss. All

of us kids ran feral there in the summers, catching newts and exploring. I loved that Bel loved

that place too.

We scattered some of Bel’s ashes there in a redwood grove. I tried to find Bel’s favorite

stump, but there were so many, and she never told us which one it was. My mom says she senses Bel there all the time, this from the one who knew she was here before I did, the one who knows she remains when I doubt.

Miles Whitney is a queer, trans, Jewish attorney living in Sacramento, CA. Miles started writing creatively after the unexpected death of his daughter, Isabel, in 2022. This piece was written after a long telephone call with my mother, when I realized how many deaths she had endured over her lifetime.