Why toilet paper and unfolded laundry make me cry
By: Susie Taylor
Tags: Grief And Loss, Mothers, Cancer, Death And Dying, Family

Ellen M. Evans Feb. 22, 1936 — Jan. 9, 2020 (Photo provided by author)

The other day, my husband let me know that we’re out of toilet paper, and it took all the control I had to not break down sobbing. I have the same reaction to unfolded baskets of clean laundry. And it’s all my mom’s fault.

My mother, 83 years old and the best caregiver I have ever known, died in January after complications from her chemotherapy for colon cancer. What is it “they” say? “If the cancer doesn’t kill you, the chemo will.” She had lived with my family for the past year or so — 467 days to be exact. She was diagnosed in November 2018 a couple months after she moved in. She and one of my sisters were building a house together and she needed to sell her house for the down payment. She never got to move into that new house.

After she moved in, she took over what we called “the boys’ bathroom,” and my middle son’s bedroom. By the time she had been with us for a few months, those rooms had become “Grandma’s.”

We stored all the extra paper products in her bathroom closet, so when we got low, I could always count on her to remind me that we needed more paper towels, or tissues, or bathroom cleaner, … or toilet paper. So my husband’s innocent comment was a knife to my heart. It was another reminder that she isn’t here.

We also got into the habit of her folding our laundry. I did the laundry, including hers, but she wanted to feel useful, so folding the laundry became her job. Now when someone brings a clean basket of clothes up from the basement, just the sight of it gets me teary-eyed.

There are so many things that remind me of her. Her desk is piled high with binders that held her important papers. Her computer is collecting dust. Her stacks of plastic milk crates with some kitchen supplies still block my way to the 30-gallon fish tank. Her bottles of meal replacement drinks, ginger ale and fruit drinks have been moved to one of my kitchen cabinets. I shred her mounds of junk mail nearly every day.

I still come across some of her clothes in those unfolded baskets of laundry. The closet in her room is piled high with clothes, shoes, tote bags, Christmas gifts that she was never able to use. When we don’t know what to do with something, we just add it to the ever-growing pile in the closet. At some point, I know I’ll have to face it, but not now.

A few weeks after she passed away, my son (whose room she had borrowed) decided it was time he and his girlfriend move back in. Since we didn’t have anyplace to store my mom’s furniture, they are using it until we have a place for the bed, dresser, end tables and recliner to go. Like when that house is finally finished.

As I watched them carry box after box of her belongings to our basement, I couldn’t help crying. I didn’t mind that my son moved back in. It made total sense since he and his significant other had been living in our camper behind the house and the winter nights were getting pretty wintery. But it did bother me to, once again, be reminded that she isn’t here.

I go to bed at night, close my eyes and see her that last time, in an ICU hospital room with doctors and nurses running in and out, taking turns doing CPR while they tried to get her heart started again, machines beeping and screaming. A nurse quietly explaining everything that was happening. The hospital chaplain holding my oldest sister’s hand. My other older sister on the phone with our two younger sisters telling them they need to get to the hospital.

Then, when it was all over, asking the nurses to please take the breathing tube out of her mouth before our younger sisters got there. And please close her eyes. And please make her look better — not so — dead. It was tough realizing that she was getting colder with every passing second.

Then walking toward our younger sisters and our brother-in-law as they got off the elevator and headed down the corridor. Uttering, “She’s gone.” Watching them crumble. Listening as my oldest sister called our brother as he waited for news at his home in Jacksonville, Fla. A phone call at 3:45 a.m. is the confirmation no one wants to get after being awakened with news of a loved ones sudden decline at 1 a.m.

I am finding it very difficult to go to sleep. I used to listen to nature sounds or music. Now, I need voices, words that I don’t need to actually understand. Just something to focus on so I don’t watch my mom die every night.

Everywhere I look in my house, I see her. Even her two cats, who have finally stopped looking for her, are a reminder. While some siblings have looked outward with anger — the doctors, the oncologist, the nurses, the hospital, the cancer, the medicine, that damn house — I look inward. What if … I had MADE her drink the magic mouthwash when she said she didn’t want to. Would that have helped with the sores in her digestive tract? Would that have stopped the bleeding? What if I MADE her drink the diarrhea medicine even though she said it made her want to vomit? What if I just gave her food and water and told her to eat and drink instead of letting her say she wasn’t hungry or thirsty. What if I had insisted she stay at the hospital when we went to the ER before Christmas when she had her first episode of GI bleeding? What if …?

She was in my home, and I was supposed to take care of her. And she died.

She wasn’t perfect. She could make me so angry at times. She could be stubborn. But she was my mom, and I will forever be grateful I got to spend the last 467 days of her life with her. I wish there were more. Instead I have so many reminders of her everywhere I look. I should be grateful for that, right?