RIP: Joanlee Ferrara

My mother died on 23 January.

Two years after a terminal cancer diagnosis, seven weeks after returning from her last trip to England and starting a steady decline, and two days after becoming confined to her bed and ceasing conversation, she slipped away quietly in her sleep in the early hours of a Sunday morning.

She'd had a good talk and been given the last rights by the local priest, had been with those she loved most most, was never in too much pain (thanks to the morphine) and, most importantly, spent those last days in her beloved house, surrounded by family heirlooms and looking out the broad picture window at her beautiful woods. It wasn't a bad way to go.

Friends who've been through this tell me it probably won't hit me for a while. That grief ebbs and flows, triggered by silly little things, and that once you lose a parent there's a hole that can simply never be filled. That's all still to come. Now it's just a jumble of emotions kept at bay by a "to do" list of staggering proportions. Being an only child has its advantages but not, I assure you, when it comes to sorting out an estate.

Had I had the time and inclination over the past weeks I could have written a score of entries on this whole experience. But this blog is supposed to entertain and inform, not burden you with melancholy, so let me just offer a round up of the most salient observations through this strange time.

Hospice is a remarkable organisation, and all who work within in are on a fast track to sainthood. I don't know what I would have done without these people. They were magnificent, taking away stresses, providing answers, getting rid of all the little worries so I could spend quality time with mom at the end. I particularly appreciated their positive, pragmatic attitude. Death is a part of life. It comes to all of us and, actually, it comes in a fairly predictable way. They removed the gloom, fear and uncertainty, helped us to know what to expect and to deal with each stage as it came. All as part of a natural, if unpleasant, evolution.

Family has nothing to do with blood. Mom's death, as expected, showed where the closest bonds were, and who really counted as family. Her best friend from childhood flew in from Baltimore to be there until the end. My dearest friends from high school stepped in to be the sisters I needed to share the worst of the responsibilities. Her own high school friends, former students and a handful of close colleagues provided frequent support. And my father, her ex-husband, helped her make another kind of peace at the end. Death is, oddly, inextricably bound up with love, because it brings those you love most ... and who love you the most ... together.

People don't know how to handle it. Unfortunately, for every one helpful person there are five who make life more difficult. There are the people who don't know what to say, so inevitably state: "if there's anything I can do, just ask." Don't. I learned early on, this is an instinctive statement, like "have a nice day". People don't really mean it, and if you actually take them at their word and ask them to do something specific, they quickly find excuses and disappear. The people who actually want to help will come up with specific suggestions for what they can do, then come on over and do it.

Then there are the people who can't handle illness. They just disappear. They certainly don't visit. This is a shame, especially when they're really close friends. But you have to give them a break, as you realise they just can't cope with the situation. But it makes those visitors who are uncomfortable with terminal illness, yet fight their fears and come anyway, even more wonderful.

Most difficult for me were the people who wanted to have long conversations about how things were going or, after the fact, how she died and what her last days were like. Everyone handles grief differently, but it certainly did me no good whatsoever to have people weeping at me or talking away for hours, especially when my stress levels were through the roof because of everything that needed to get done.

God bless that inner circle who came over, took tasks off the to do list or simply sat with mom so I could get out of the house for a while. If you want to help someone in this situation, that's the way to go.

Nothing shapes you like your parents. I've always known it, of course, but the past weeks have brought into sharp relief just how responsible my mother was for shaping me. In many ways, it was rebellion. My desire for a tidy desk, my desire for logic rather than emotion in times of stress, my hatred of long phone conversations and my attempts at budgeting (such as they are), are all reactions against things my mother did that drove me crazy. But my love for a beach, my passion for travel, my appreciation for culture and good food ... most of the things that drive this blog ... are all her passions, carried directly through to me. Both my parents always claimed that I inherited the best of them and managed to skip the worst. If I did that with Joanlee, then I'm proud and honoured.

I could go on, but I think that's enough. For those of you who knew her, there will be a memorial service on 12 March in the Villa Duchesne chapel in St. Louis. It would have been her 71st birthday. She would, no doubt, have expected me to be taking her on a cruise or a trip to some glamorous location. Here's hoping a host of saints and angels is doing that for her instead. I wonder if Saint Anthony is any good at mixing up a rum punch?