Have you ever said or done something that changed the whole dynamic of a relationship? Something you wish you could go back and change?
For years, I tried to reimagine a phone call with my daughter, Chelsea. She called the day before our family gathering at my sister’s house on Thanksgiving Day 2016. Chelsea and I talked often. She loved to call with all the news of her life, and I was her best listener and cheerleader. But this one time, she told me she was getting back together with an old boyfriend, and I lectured her about the pitfalls of returning to a troubled relationship. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I had made. Of course, Chelsea was 33 at the time, a young adult … but I was highly critical of her decision.
When Chelsea angrily responded, “Mother, this is my life. I need a little respect.” I knew I’d gone too far. I tried to back-peddle, but it was too late. She hung up with a sulky, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next day, Thanksgiving, Chelsea arrived, (with the boyfriend,) sat on my sister’s white sofa with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.
If you knew Chelsea, you know this was nothing like her usual outgoing self. You see, when Chelsea stepped into a room, all heads turned. Every person thought she was there just to see them because she would remember what they’d talked about the last time they were together and ask questions about it. She’d carry drinks and food to everyone, playing the host, even when it wasn’t her home. People around her were always laughing and talking in an animated fashion because she brought out the best in everyone.
Seeing her sitting demurely on the sofa? Felt devastating. It was my fault. I felt guilty because Thanksgiving was Chelsea’s favorite holiday. She loved that there were no gifts to buy or forced jolliness. Thanksgiving was all about family and gratitude over a shared meal. She loved that. But this year was different.
By the time dinner was served, Chelsea’s energy started to pick up. She had slight smile on her lips as she insisted, as she did every year, “Now it’s time to say what we’re grateful for this past year.”
We all moaned around the table as usual, but we each took turns. It had been a good year for all of us.
I could see Chelsea softening toward the end of the evening, and when we said good night, she hugged me and quietly said, “I love you, Mother.” I told her I loved her, too. And she left.
I knew that in a week or two, she’d be on the phone crying in her fake baby voice, “Boo, hoo, hoo, I just want to talk to my mommy.” And then she’d tell me all about her latest music gigs, or boyfriend woes, or whatever was on her mind.
We’d be okay. I just needed to give her a little space, apologize, and let her know I respected her decisions.
What I didn’t know that night, was that our Grumpy Thanksgiving would be the last time I ever saw her alive.
One Week Later, I stood in front of a burning building in Oakland, the word Ghostship scorched on the front… not knowing if Chelsea was trapped inside or had escaped.
Flames shot out of windows. Smoke billowed up into the sky. Firefighters hauled hose lines back and forth, shouting to one another. Police yelled, “Get back!” There was an ambulance at the end of the street, lights on, motor running, waiting for victims. Emergency trucks and Fire engines rumbled and clanged. The noise was deafening!
And then I heard Chelsea’s voice, soft and twinkling, whisper in my ear, “I see you here, Mother, but I have to leave. I have work to do elsewhere.” And then, whoosh! The voice was gone, and the chaos continued.
Three long days of waiting left me hopeful Chelsea was still alive. First 9, then 24, and finally 36 bodies were uncovered in the rubble. No Chelsea. It wasn’t until the fourth day that her body was identified, and I fell into a black, tarry pit of depression.
It took several years before I could face my grief. Writing about it was my therapy. One day I tried to recall everything that happened the night of the fire, and that’s when it hit me! That whisper in my ear was my phone call! Chelsea always told me what she was up to, and she did again that night. From the moment I wrote those words in my journal, I knew - Chelsea wasn’t angry with me when she died. She called!
I may have wished our last day together had been the perfect expression of our love for one another, but it wasn’t. It was the perfect expression of a growing mother/daughter relationship. I’m glad Chelsea asked me for respect. I wouldn’t change that. She taught me that mistakes can lead to growth and I’m a better mother and grandmother now because of it.
And each year, on Thanksgiving, we toast Chelsea’s joyful memory and share our gratitude for this precious, imperfect, fragile life.
For years, I tried to reimagine a phone call with my daughter, Chelsea. She called the day before our family gathering at my sister’s house on Thanksgiving Day 2016. Chelsea and I talked often. She loved to call with all the news of her life, and I was her best listener and cheerleader. But this one time, she told me she was getting back together with an old boyfriend, and I lectured her about the pitfalls of returning to a troubled relationship. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I had made. Of course, Chelsea was 33 at the time, a young adult … but I was highly critical of her decision.
When Chelsea angrily responded, “Mother, this is my life. I need a little respect.” I knew I’d gone too far. I tried to back-peddle, but it was too late. She hung up with a sulky, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next day, Thanksgiving, Chelsea arrived, (with the boyfriend,) sat on my sister’s white sofa with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.
If you knew Chelsea, you know this was nothing like her usual outgoing self. You see, when Chelsea stepped into a room, all heads turned. Every person thought she was there just to see them because she would remember what they’d talked about the last time they were together and ask questions about it. She’d carry drinks and food to everyone, playing the host, even when it wasn’t her home. People around her were always laughing and talking in an animated fashion because she brought out the best in everyone.
Seeing her sitting demurely on the sofa? Felt devastating. It was my fault. I felt guilty because Thanksgiving was Chelsea’s favorite holiday. She loved that there were no gifts to buy or forced jolliness. Thanksgiving was all about family and gratitude over a shared meal. She loved that. But this year was different.
By the time dinner was served, Chelsea’s energy started to pick up. She had slight smile on her lips as she insisted, as she did every year, “Now it’s time to say what we’re grateful for this past year.”
We all moaned around the table as usual, but we each took turns. It had been a good year for all of us.
I could see Chelsea softening toward the end of the evening, and when we said good night, she hugged me and quietly said, “I love you, Mother.” I told her I loved her, too. And she left.
I knew that in a week or two, she’d be on the phone crying in her fake baby voice, “Boo, hoo, hoo, I just want to talk to my mommy.” And then she’d tell me all about her latest music gigs, or boyfriend woes, or whatever was on her mind.
We’d be okay. I just needed to give her a little space, apologize, and let her know I respected her decisions.
What I didn’t know that night, was that our Grumpy Thanksgiving would be the last time I ever saw her alive.
One Week Later, I stood in front of a burning building in Oakland, the word Ghostship scorched on the front… not knowing if Chelsea was trapped inside or had escaped.
Flames shot out of windows. Smoke billowed up into the sky. Firefighters hauled hose lines back and forth, shouting to one another. Police yelled, “Get back!” There was an ambulance at the end of the street, lights on, motor running, waiting for victims. Emergency trucks and Fire engines rumbled and clanged. The noise was deafening!
And then I heard Chelsea’s voice, soft and twinkling, whisper in my ear, “I see you here, Mother, but I have to leave. I have work to do elsewhere.” And then, whoosh! The voice was gone, and the chaos continued.
Three long days of waiting left me hopeful Chelsea was still alive. First 9, then 24, and finally 36 bodies were uncovered in the rubble. No Chelsea. It wasn’t until the fourth day that her body was identified, and I fell into a black, tarry pit of depression.
It took several years before I could face my grief. Writing about it was my therapy. One day I tried to recall everything that happened the night of the fire, and that’s when it hit me! That whisper in my ear was my phone call! Chelsea always told me what she was up to, and she did again that night. From the moment I wrote those words in my journal, I knew - Chelsea wasn’t angry with me when she died. She called!
I may have wished our last day together had been the perfect expression of our love for one another, but it wasn’t. It was the perfect expression of a growing mother/daughter relationship. I’m glad Chelsea asked me for respect. I wouldn’t change that. She taught me that mistakes can lead to growth and I’m a better mother and grandmother now because of it.
And each year, on Thanksgiving, we toast Chelsea’s joyful memory and share our gratitude for this precious, imperfect, fragile life.
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