Ashes to Ashes.

A year ago, I received a phone call that my mother was on life support—brain dead from attempting to kill herself by ingesting pain killers and a bucket of gin. As soon as I hung up the phone, I knew this was going to be an event that would most likely test every survival skill I had acquired until that moment. That it did. However, I did not expect to gain a different, almost poetic interpretation of death from none other than Sandler.

I was not close to my mother. In fact, we had not spoken in years. She did not have a relationship with my children either. She came from a generation who saw people with special needs as a burden—individuals who should be institutionalized and a group of second, if not third, class citizens. She was a bitter person who chose to isolate herself from the world and take a less-than-positive approach to old age. We agreed on next to nothing, but the one thing we did agree on was her never to be kept alive on “tubes” (to use her word). On March 9, 2018, I drove to Palm Springs and asked the doctors to take her off of life support.

After the nurses and doctors left the room, it was uncomfortably silent and ironic that I was the only one by her side as she passed. Fortunately, I am not experienced with sending people on, so I was not sure what to say. I had nothing rehearsed, but it was my time to let her know what was on my mind.

I held her hand and said, “Mom, you’re not dying alone. I’m here with you, and I’m making sure they don’t keep you alive on ‘tubes’. You are an asshole, and you’ve always been an asshole, but I needed you to be one in order to make me the kind of mom I needed to be for my kids. So, thank you for that—Goodbye.”

Within two minutes she was gone, and I was driving home reflecting on the shock of what had come out of my mouth and wondering how to break the news to Bootsie and Sandler. This was the first death of someone they would remember. The situation being what it was, I knew concise would be best. I picked them up from school and waited until they were together to give them the news. I never could have imagined their response. Both looked at me with inquisitive eyes and disbelief, followed by Sandler saying, “Mommy, you know I’m allergic to drunk people, right? So, I guess I won’t be allergic to ‘Gwamma Amy’ anymore.”

That was one of many quotes that helped me through the whole process. Due to the fact that I was the only overseer for my mom, it took over a month for us to get to the final process of her small service (that included only the three of us). We picked ‘Gwamma Amy’ up at the crematory in a town at the base of the mountains over spring break. We decided to make an adventure out of it by heading to Big Bear. It was quite the contrary 'spring break' compared to what most imagine. The three of us were all a little uncomfortable with the less-than-attractive plastic box that came with the ‘package’ but moved on and hosted a rather peculiar ceremony.

It was Sandler, with his no fear attitude, that we had to rely on to get the job done. As Bootsie stood several feet away with me frozen somewhere in the middle, Sandler poured the ashes out, gave an impromptu eulogy, asked for some ice cream, and said, “Mommy, can ‘Gwamma Amy’ die again, so we can come back to Big Bear?”

Yet another reminder of how lucky I am, and whoever meets him, to see the world through Sandler’s eyes. He is the guy who will inevitably make you laugh at a funeral.

- Nikki