“You don’t know how much you love your daughter until she rubs your a*s with Bengay.” Those were my mother’s last words to me before I kissed her goodbye, not knowing at the time that those would be our final moments together.
My mom came from a troubled household—though, honestly, who doesn’t in some way? Her own mother was an incredible provider. We never went without meals, clothes, or a roof over our heads, but love and affection weren’t freely given. I remember my mother telling me as a young adult that she had to consciously force herself to hug me and offer compliments, because it hadn’t been modeled for her. She wanted to be a better mother than she had been taught, and she truly was. I say this not to diminish my grandmother, one of the hardest-working women I’ve ever known—she practically raised me.
She raised me because my mother battled a drug addiction she could never quite shake, though this isn’t a story about overdoses—well, not exactly. Like many, she endured life-shattering hurts and tried to numb them with opiates. My childhood was a rollercoaster of promises of recovery, broken promises, and trips to “New York,” our euphemism for jail. I remember telling friends that my mom was away on business whenever she missed birthdays or school events. I learned early to care for her in moments of binging—showering her when she was high, shielding her from my grandmother, locking the bathroom door to keep her safe from herself.
It sounds bleak, but there was hope. After multiple trips to “New York,” time on a farm, and the prayers of her father—the most faithful man I’ve ever known—my mom recovered. Around age 13, I finally got the mom I had always longed for. She became the kind of mother I had only dreamed about: my confidante, my best friend. Over the years, our bond deepened, stronger than I could have imagined.
Even then, I felt the need to protect her, but differently. My parents had an on-and-off relationship after their divorce, and my father wasn’t always kind to her. Like many children of divorce or neglect, I developed my own coping mechanisms, marrying and divorcing early, and eventually facing depression and PTSD after my ex-husband’s military service. But through it all, my mom and I faced life together—every triumph, every setback. I fought to overcome my depression for her, because I had seen how heartbreaking it was for her to watch me endure pain she once knew herself. Slowly, I reached a place of happiness I had never known.
By then, my mother had developed rheumatoid arthritis, high blood pressure, and a string of non-life-threatening ailments. Flare-ups were common, but this time was different. She was in constant pain and couldn’t sleep, so we took her to a clinic. The doctor gave her medicine to dull it, advising an MRI to see the full picture. At the ER, they said it needed to be scheduled through her doctor, and all the while, her doses increased. I joked to the doctor, “If you gave her elephant tranquilizers, she’d take them,” because she was in a wheelchair and still so good at finding light in the darkness.
We spent the last days of her life together. I brought her to my apartment so she could rest without constant demands, drew her a bath, helped her climb in, dried her off, and we watched movies—Bridget Jones for her beloved Patrick Dempsey, 8 Mile for the joy of Eminem’s rap battles. We sipped coffee together, just talking like we always did. Later, I took her home, gave her medicine, rubbed her legs (and yes, her butt with Bengay), and kissed her goodbye. I told her I loved her, and she said it back. I had no idea it was the final time I would see her alive.
The next day, I tried calling to hear her voice. My brother said she was resting. Later, the call came that no child ever wants: “I don’t think Mom is breathing. I fell asleep and I don’t think she’s breathing.” I called 911 and rushed to my childhood home. She lay on the hardwood floor as medics worked frantically, but I knew—deep down, I had always known. When one finally said, “That’s it, call it,” my heart shattered. I had to tell my younger brothers that our mother was gone. Friends and family came to see her, and I dressed her with a dear friend by my side. I sang to her one last time, the song she had always sung to me: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…
It’s been about a year now. Though I miss her every day, I take comfort knowing she is at peace. We never discovered what took her life, but I know this: I had a mother most girls would dream of. I got her for only 20 years, but they were 20 years filled with the purest, fiercest, most unconditional love. She fought through hell to be my mother, got clean for me, gave her life for me.
Since her passing, I faced a choice: let grief consume me or honor her legacy. I chose the latter. Using the tools and love she left behind, I returned to school to help women heal, find purpose, and truly live. Today, I coach women one-on-one and through Instagram at @NYA_wellness—Not Your Average—because our stories, and our healing, are anything but ordinary.
