The Particular Sadness of Paper Towels

Another meditation on grief

Traveling alone made my mom nervous, especially all the way from Kentucky to California. But twice in two years, she braved a full day cramped in economy class, plus a layover all by herself, just for us. The week of Halloween 2022, she flew into San Francisco instead of Sacramento, since it was cheaper and she’d never seen the city. My heart swelled upon spotting her at the airport curb with her quilted Vera Bradley bag and tidy dyed-red hair—now a plump 72-year-old woman in a pumpkin shirt that read “LOVE fall y’all,” with a huge smile and the warmest hugs for me and her two grandchildren.

She didn’t really give a crap about seeing San Francisco, as it turned out. That had been my idea. I tried to find a nice spot to walk around and have lunch, but it was dirty and unwelcoming. The highlight was taking a photo of her by the bridge with her grandkids. She was terrified of all the traffic during the hour-and-a-half drive home, and of the way I navigated it like I was trying to earn the high score in Cruisin’ USA.

Mom was not a high-speed lady. She loved safety, a clean house, antique dolls, the fall (y’all) with its cinnamon-roll-candle smells, watching Judge Judy, shopping, all things Christmas, strawberry milkshakes, Elvis, snuggling under blankets in winter, and most of all, her family. We were very different personalities, my mom and me, but always very close.

At times, her boundless drive to give, protect, and soothe felt smothering to me. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let me go, even when her anxiety begged her to; even when I begged her to. She loved me through so many eras when I couldn’t even love myself. Loving was all she wanted to do; she was so good at it! I alternately basked in it and took it for granted. And during that autumn visit to California, besides playing board games with the 5-year-olds and handing out Halloween candy, all she wanted to do was take me to Costco and buy me a bunch of bulk essentials.

“Mom, we really don’t need anything,” I told her many times, because she kept bringing it up. “I’m in my late 30s, Mama. I swear I’ll buy something if I need it.”

“Well, just let me do this,” she pleaded. “I never get to do anything for you anymore. Just let me do something for my baby!”

She loved calling me her baby, so I always indulged her. I hand painted cards for her when I could, and she had framed her favorite beside her bed: a watercolor mother holding an infant, that read “I’ll always be your baby.” That day, while the kids were at school, I understood how much joy she would get out of buying me household staples, so we drove the 20 minutes and trolled the cold grey aisles, leaving with the very computer I’m writing this on, a 2-pack of Cerave face cream, and what seemed to be a lifetime supply of trash bags, toilet paper, and—only because she insisted—paper towels.

Back at home, I hoisted the cumbersome plastic-wrapped palate of Bounty on top of the dusty refrigerator in the garage, taking one out to put in the kitchen, while my mom, known as Nanny to my kids, sat on the floor and read a them a book.

Mom’s last visit to California

That was October 2022. Mom stayed a week, and then life went on in my house. The kids had Kindergarten and we spent weekends in the snow in Tahoe and made Christmas cookies. The kids learned to ride bikes in the new year, and had playdates. We did a lot of painting at the kitchen table. I talked to Mom on the phone nearly every other day, as I always had. Most of the time, it was the most boring conversation imaginable.

“What’s going on?” I’d ask, knowing the answer would always be “Not a thing! Just how I like it!” When I ran out of stories about my kids or my own doings, she’d utter a singsongy, “We-ell…” with no further comment, and I’d say “I love you,” and get off the phone quite quickly, sometimes rolling my eyes at how Mom didn’t ever have anything new to tell me. And yet, any time there was a pause in my day—if I was at a stoplight, or taking a walk—my first instinct was to call her, just for the comfort of knowing she would always pick up with that sweet voice.

There were other types of phone calls. If I was in a pickle, stressed about the kids, having an argument with my husband, or feeling down about myself because I hadn’t “achieved” anything lately and felt like a waste of flesh, I would call her in tears, and her words would wrap around me like a hug, telling me everything was going to be okay, or that’s just how men are, honey, and they mellow out with age, or you are the most talented person I’ve ever seen, and such a good mother to those little ones. I’d hang up fortified, and not feeling alone.

We also had fun conversations, which always centered around the news from Harlan, where we grew up. I’d think about someone from the periphery of my past, and wonder what had become of them. I’d call and ask Mom, and she always knew their whole story, and loved to tell it. Even when she moved away from our small coal-mining town, she stayed connected, and we’d go down the list, from the sordid romance history of an old friend to the whereabouts of a former hairdresser. She loved those calls, too, and before we hung up, she’d say, “I just love when we’re able to talk like this.” I did, too.

By March ‘23, we were so tired of winter. The kids skipped school and I took them to Florida where we shared an Airbnb with my visiting mom and her sister. Aunt Rosie pulled me aside to talk about my mother, who seemed depressed. We brainstormed ideas about how to get color back in her cheeks: she needed someone her own age to talk to; should she move to Florida to live with her sister? She hadn’t had much going on in her life since my dad died in 2019, and lately her energy was very quickly depleted. If our activities required a lot of walking, she’d sit it out.

Back in California, my family’s days passed in a bloom of spring flowers, music from the living room speaker, visits from friends, books before bedtime, and packages from Nanny full of clothes, toys and candy. As spring turned to summer, my phone calls with her were getting shorter and less frequent.

For the kids sixth birthday, we had a huge blowout party with a backyard inflatable waterslide. My mom Facetimed with the kids, smiling and excited for them, but it was obvious she was not feeling well, and she told me she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong with her. She had appointments weekly with every kind of doctor, getting tested for everything.

My birthday was a week after my kids’, and Mom’s the week after that, and I took the kids to see her. Her light seemed dimmed; there was nothing she wanted except to find out what was wrong with her body. I touched up her red hair dye for her, as she still wanted to look like herself. But she rarely came out of the room; the kids and I had to meet her in the bed if we wanted to spend time with her. “Mom,” I said in a last ditch effort of tough love, “I feel like you don’t have anything that’s bringing you joy, and you’re not even trying. There are so many things you could do that would make you feel better! Like, eat healthy foods, or go back to yoga—you liked it, right? You need friends. You have to try. We love you.” That didn’t work; she heard it as an attack, and we both felt sad and helpless. About a month later, one of the appointments gave her an answer in the form of an ALS diagnosis, which had been her greatest fear.

We flew back to California, and fall came. I cut my hair into a stupid bob that I regretted, and put nervous energy into the band. The kids started first grade and they weren’t enjoying it. A malaise fell over us all. I was already grieving, already feeling my mom slip away.

In November, Kai and the kids came with me to Kentucky. During my past two visits, it had happened without my realizing it: my mother and I had switched roles. Now there was no denying it, because it was the first time I made Thanksgiving dinner, without any help from her. It was a quiet visit; we took a lot of family photos, and, when it was time for us to leave, I treated each goodbye hug like it was the last. I still remember her childlike eyes, trained on me until I was out the door, as if she was trying to memorize me; because I was doing the same with her.

Our Christmas in California came and went again, and I shoved aside my heavy heart as much as possible, focusing instead on the details of gifts and festivities, all while slogging through endless rain. I didn’t think my mom would still be here in January 2024. I was mostly out-of-body, crying in violent spurts in the car or the shower. My band had been planning a mini-tour for months, but I felt like, if anything, I should go see my mom again while I still could. But I had been looking forward to the tour, and the venues had been painstakingly scouted, the other bands confirmed, the hotels booked. I went, and had a good time, though beneath any quiet moment was a chasm of grief I was apt to fall into.

Right after the tour, I went to see Mom alone. It was the longest I’d ever been away from the kids, and that was hard. For a week I lay beside her in her adjustable bed as she read the Bible and looked at her iPad. Sometimes, she’d talk, her voice strained to a near whisper, and say all of the things that she wanted to say to me. She still listened actively to my rants about society, laughed, joked, and talked about the good old days. She talked about my dad, and, in a quiet moment, she asked me if I ever “forgave” her for adopting me. I told her that her love was the best thing that ever happened to me, and that I was sorry about the times when we couldn’t understand each other. I treasure that week; it felt like an otherworldly realm where all was presence and love.

Back in California, it was my least favorite time of year. It was cold, and the sun set at 4:30. I did my best to stay well, focusing on the kids, writing songs, starting a new job, making new friends. I broke down sometimes in the kitchen while doing the dishes or making dinner, and my kids would notice. We’d talk about why, and they’d comfort me as I blew my nose on a paper towel. It was then that I noticed: there were only a three rolls left from the Costco run my mom had taken me on nearly 16 months before.

This is when I began to associate the remainder of the paper towels with the remainder of my mom’s life.

I would make bacon for the family, tearing a couple rectangles off to catch the grease, and I’d think, There goes another one. I’d think, that day in October 2022 was officially the last time your Mom was ever able to take care of you, and this is all that remains. I’d want to call her, so badly, and I’d refrain because I knew it hurt her to talk, so instead I’d record a voice memo for her and send it on Messenger. She’d reply in text, and I’d imagine the words in her full voice, as warm as cornbread.

The months went by and I lived my life as fully as I could, but no one but me was aware that I was living in Limbo, crying at the rip of a paper towel. I spent each day on pins and needles, awaiting a bad news phone call that kept not coming, hearing how Mom was not eating much and losing weight, how she was having a hard time breathing, how she needed my sister to help her in the bath—and all I could do was clean little handprints off the mirrors and wipe up muddy footprints with the dwindling paper towels, remembering how flippant I had been toward the help Mom had so desperately wanted to give me, and how I would do anything for it now.

I thought of all the things I’d used the paper towels for in the last year-and-a-half. Cleaning up the errant flour, sprinkles, and spilled milk from two years of Christmas cookies I made with my kids. Smearing hot pinks, blacks and greens, off the table and their little hands as they painted pictures. Using the roll of paper towels as napkins for the pizza at the kids’ epic summer birthday party. Taking them on camping trips. Sopping up Taika’s nosebleeds during allergy season. Wrapping them around Rice Krispy treats we made for the neighbors. Life had been here—just here—and I could catalogue it with every mindless rip, wipe, and toss.

I kept sending the voice memos, just as if I was talking to Mom. As if nothing was wrong and I just wanted to share my day-to-day. Her text responses, too, got shorter and shorter. The kids and I went to visit again at the end of April.

Summer came, and the last roll of paper towels ran out without fanfare. The kids turned 7. I turned 40. Mom died just after my birthday and before hers, when she was to turn 74. It was a relief in many ways, not to be funneling so much energy into the worry and guilt of living my life while she was suffering.

But then began a new chapter of my life: one where my only choice is to be my own safety net, my own guarantee, my own quicker-picker-upper.

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