I wrote this yesterday but didn’t feel ready to post it until today.
“Get the damn bike.” Those are the words my mom spoke to me on a 90-minute call on my drive home from a Jackson Hole wedding gig last month. She spent 90 minutes talking to me about a new bike—she doesn’t ride, that’s just my mom. She’s the personification of unwavering support. My mom could never be mistaken for a pragmatist, she’s a dreamer. My mom loved my wedding gigs. She was so proud of our deep Wyoming roots, something I weave into every ceremony. I’d always call her when I pull into Jackson Hole to let her know I made it safely and then after every ceremony I send her a picture from the wedding pulpit, and then I always call her first thing as I’m leaving the venue, pointing the truck north back to Bozeman.
I text my mom and Amanda after every ride, “I’m out. Safe and sound.” And then I call my mom to tell her about the adventure. That’s the routine. We both love it.
I’ve had a hard time sitting down to write this one—feeling paralyzed when I sit in front of the keyboard. We lost my mom three weeks ago today. My beloved, full of light, full of life, full of vitality mom. It had been a hard two months, in and out of the ER, with a two-week stint in the CCU. Being there each day became a natural part of my daily rhythm, dropping Kamiah off at school and darting over to the hospital, bringing my mom a Kitchen Sink smoothie each morning, making her laugh, showering her with love and for the two weeks she was in the CCU, visiting with her doctor. Just days before she passed, she was here, at our house, honoring our Sunday morning ritual (traditional Hawaiian music and gluten free chocolate chip pancakes—she treasured this ritual and texted me every Sunday morning to tell me she hoped it was a good one), and she was looking agile, pounding a big smoothie and requesting a morning quesadilla. We all thought she was in bounce forward mode. And then three days later, she was gone.
She took her flight to the spirit world at 10:04 pm on 10/04, October 4th, my birthday. We all felt it was sacred and symbolic—our connection was unique and special. She was surrounded by love—Kamiah and Amanda were both by her side and my dad held one hand, while I held the other. And she knew my sister and niece were on their way. She loved it when we were all together. We showered her with love as she took her final breaths.
I’ve been on some big vision quest style rides these last three weeks. Rides where I go solo, long and deep, talking to my mom, searching for her voice and her touch. I’ve felt it in the wind and the rain, in the sun breaking through the clouds and the close encounters with eagles, kestrels, kingfishers, sandhill cranes, flickers, birds that she loved. When the snow finally flew today, I knew it was time to sit down and write.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a water lover—a Norman McClean disciple, haunted by waters. We’ve been riding waves as we navigate the grief, sadness and heartache that this big loss represents. My mom was the best. She had this rare gift and ability to make everyone feel validated, understood, appreciated and loved. She was the best mom, grandma, wife, mother-in-law and friend (when you could get her to commit to connecting). She made a mean quiche and her Sunday meatballs were the stuff of legends—Kamiah’s written an ode to grandma’s meatballs for school projects. She loved tulips (I always brought her tulips, my flowers of choice for Amanda and Kamiah as well), and whenever I see them, they make me think of my mom. Amanda just planted dozens of them at our place, so come spring, my mom will be everywhere.
Full of love, kindness and compassion—she had a deep understanding of what’s important. My mom was a rare bird, brimming with wisdom and insight. She’s the smartest person most of us have ever met (read the University of Utah School of Biological Sciences, it’s worth the read). My mom wasn’t Pollyanna—she like me, believes Pollyanna’s are a menace to society; but when it came to her family and supporting our dreams and passions, she had an unflappable positivity and unfailing optimism about her.
Like her Casper, Wyoming, born and Laramie, WY, raised mother, my mom was feisty and full of spunk. From the outside, my mom appeared flawless. She was beautiful, crazy smart, an author of 10+ books, attended Washington State Veterinarian School, Gonzaga Law, a contract attorney, turned novelist. She took on the pharmaceutical industry in her medical thrillers, and after following my ranger journey in YNP, she transitioned to her edgy, passionate pleas for wildlife and conservation (see the note below from Buffalo Field Campaign founder, Mike Mease), writing page turning environmental thrillers that were meticulously researched and brilliantly crafted.
Like of all us, my mom was a fallible human, but less fallible than most. My mom edited all three of my books, every article I’ve ever written, and she’s the first to listen to each podcast episode and first to read each blog. Whenever I wrote a good sentence, paragraph, page or just something I was excited about, I always called my mom to read it to her, because she would pepper me with adoration, and she’d naturally be more enthused about it than I was myself, thus energizing me and inspiring me to keep the writing flowing. She was so proud and always showered me with lofty, but insightful praise. She’s been my best friend for forty years. The night that she passed, my sister and dad said, “You were the light of her life.”
I’m weepy as hell writing this. I miss my mom. I called her three to four times a day—oftentimes more. To say we were close, is like calling me and Kamiah close—silly. We had a co-dependency that to some might not have seemed normal, and it wasn’t, but it was us. Some days since she’s passed I call her phone, just to hear her voice on her voicemail. She was my person, and I think in many ways I was hers—until Kamiah came around, and then they became best friends. Every grandma loves her grandchildren, but my mom had a capacity to love that is bigger than most and this love was next level with Kamiah and Mirabelle. It crushes me that they don’t get more time with her. My mom was my greatest champion and believer—a monumental gift I strive to give Kamiah and Amanda each day.
We’ve got a long path ahead. We’re all hurting and mourning and navigating these uncharted waters together and at our own pace, in our own way. The waters are turbulent one minute and placid the next. As the snow falls in Bozeman today, we’re entering a winter season (metaphorically) as a family. But I trust that our spring will come. Life, birdsong and succulence will return—my mom’s name is April, and she was born in April, and spring has always been her favorite season and that’s when we’ll honor and celebrate her life and legacy. Nobody could put on an Easter Egg Hunt on the shores of Lake Fernan in Coeur d’ Alene or 140th AVE in Bellevue like my mom.
Until we enter that spring season as a family, we’ll give ourselves grace and bounce forward in ODAAT mode (one day at a time), celebrating my mom and accepting that some days are just harder than others.
Treading water isn’t fun, but it’s an art and necessary survival skill (one I write about in Be Audacious the book, a metaphor my mom loved and of course, edited). One thing about treading water is we’ll either sink or we’ll swim. And if we keep treading water, we will undoubtedly get stronger. We’re a family of swimmers, not sinkers.
We’re strong as a family—and like all swimmers, we’re getting stronger. Even though it doesn’t always feel this way. Just like a long training season, there’s setbacks and periods of stagnation, but this is part of the progress. Some of the waves we’re riding are crashing hard overhead—North Shore style—holding us under and making it hard to breath. Sometimes when we pop our heads out, we’re met with another crashing wave, forcing us to hold our breath once more. Some of the waves are glassy and smooth—Kalapaki style, I like to think of them as Thanksgiving, gratitude waves. And in between, we’re treading water.
I miss my mom so much. I talk to her on the spirit line every day—I call her up when I take her morning walk. The subtitle of my second book is “Inspiring your legacy and living a life that matters.” That book would have never been written or published without my mom—with her support, belief in me, masterful and confidence inspiring edit. As a friend, Carter Roy said recently on my podcast, when talking about working with my mom as an editor, “She’s profuse in her praise.” As a writer, she gave us wings.
I don’t know anyone who’s inspired more of a legacy or lived a life more in accordance with what mattered most to her (family, animals, place, advocacy) than my mom.
My mom was driven by a purposeful passion as a mother, a partner, a friend and teacher, auntie and sister and in her work as an attorney, activist and author. My mom was a force of nature, I swear she had superpowers.
I’ve heard that you never truly lose someone, as long as you speak their name, tell their story, and keep their spirit alive through thought and talking story. My mom is in us and around us (I see her in the birds, the golden autumn leaves, the warm smile of a stranger), and we’re going to honor her love and legacy by trying to give as much grace and benefit of the doubt to the people (especially in our circle) as my mom would have, while staying feisty and fiery, taking chances, being audacious and doing brave and courageous things.
The truth is, I don’t ever want to “get over” this loss, but rather it is my hope that with time the waves will become less severe and frequency between the heavy waves will become less frequent and that with each passing season, we’ll simply be better at dealing with the loss and able to bounce forward in a way that honors my mom’s love and what she stood for.
If you’re still with me, mahalo nui loa from the depths. I know my mom impacted so many people with her spirit, empathy and grace. I know this loss touches so many and my heart and love is with any of you who are hurting or navigating any loss—big or small. Loss, much like pain, is relative and a matter of perspective, and it’s deeply personal and when it’s layered with finality, it hurts like hell.
I’ve received so many texts and emails from such thoughtful and reflective souls, all expressing their heartache for the loss of my mom. This world that is so full of wonder, wildness and weirdness, is a little less bright without my mom in it. She radiated like brilliant bluebird day under the banner of the Bridgers.
I received an email today that is short but powerful and potent—and it’s from someone my mom admired and respected. I know it’d mean a lot to her, so I wanted to share. Mike is the founder of the Buffalo Field Campaign, an organization that helped to inspire her book Buffalo Medicine.
Hey Mike,
I just heard the news about your Mom, you are in my heart and prayers. What a great and powerful woman, I am honored to have gotten to know her. Keep strong and keep at it and just keep making her proud. Your Bro, Mike
—
Mike Mease
Campaign Coordinator
Buffalo Field Campaign
That’s for you, mom. It’s all for you mom. I know you’re always with me, with us, around us and in us. Just like I said to you before bed every night as a kid, “Best mom in the world.”
I love you, momma.
WNbL, mwl