Part of me hoped, many times, that my mum would die. Last week, she did

This story is a part of the February 24 edition of Good Weekend.See all 13 stories.

Part of me has hoped, many times, that my mum would die. Last week*, she did.

I’ve been waiting for The Call for a long time. So long, in fact, that over the past few years I’ve started referring to my mother as “the bionic woman” because it seems unbelievable that someone who has treated her body the way she has is still standing. Seemed. Had. Was.

My mother, Lisa, was the human embodiment of the phrase, “Hurt people hurt people”. There was a pain in her that she spent a lifetime trying to find someone to fix, then pushing away anyone who tried. She did not, could not, believe anybody loved her. BPD (borderline personality disorder), NPD (narcissistic personality disorder), bipolar … a million labels were thrown around over the years. But a diagnosis never really mattered because she was incapable of doing the work she needed to heal herself. She was just too broken. Too hurt.

So she hurt us. Her daughters. Alcoholism, drugs, abuse, neglect. I was a ward of the state before I was 10 years old and permanently removed from her care at 14. But we loved her. More than anyone. In the absence of a home, she was home. Her hugs may have been fleeting, but they were the best I’ve ever had.

The author with her mother at home in Sydney in 1993.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

As adults, we all tried to maintain some kind of relationship with her. We all chased the feeling of that warm hug from Mum, even though we knew it came at a price. Her warm hugs could turn cold in an instant. One moment, she’d send you the cruellest message you’ve ever received. The next, she’d send through a link to a recipe she thought you might like with a heart emoji. Hurt people hurt people. It must have been a particular kind of torment to be inside her brain.

In the weeks leading up to her death, she seemed to get worse. The occasional abusive phone call or text became constant. She kept insisting that we were isolating her on purpose, that we were trying to shut her out. No amount of reasoning could convince her otherwise. “Sorry, Mum, I can’t have dinner with you tonight because I’m working, but I can do tomorrow” was met with: “YOU EVIL BITCH YOU’RE DESTROYING ME.”

We were all bewildered when she insisted she wasn’t coming to Christmas. We kept asking why and she wouldn’t say, just that she wanted to go away to “recalibrate”. We asked her to please, please come, it wouldn’t be Christmas without her. She refused. We did a video chat with her on the day and told her how much we missed her. Yet the following week, she went on an abusive tirade about how heartless we were to “not invite” her to Christmas lunch. She said it was clear she wasn’t wanted and that we’d been so cruel to force her to be alone. Her alternate reality was always one in which she wasn’t loved.

It wasn’t unfamiliar behaviour from her, to be honest (although it certainly seemed kicked up a notch). My sisters and I just did what we usually did: tried to reason with her, but stuck to our boundaries when she became cruel or abusive. It was one of those “Ugh, Mum is being particularly Mum at the moment” times. None of us had spoken to her much since Christmas because of it, but we didn’t think much of it, either. Her moods came in waves and this was just another one rolling in. It would roll back out eventually.

I got The Call on January 5. A Friday. I’d just come off a three-hour Zoom session with a friend I’m working with on a project in the US. A lot of the conversation was about our mothers, actually. At one point, I glanced at my phone and saw a few missed calls from two of my sisters, Rhiannon and Tayla. A message said, “Need to talk about Mum.” My friend asked if I needed to return the call and I laughed and said something like, “No, it’s fine, probably just the usual Mum drama.” I assumed there’d been a big fight or something. If Rhi and Tayla were both trying to call me, it was just to give me the play-by-play of what nonsense had gone down. Nothing I needed to stop talking to my friend for.

From left: Lisa, 53, Rhiannon, the author and Tayla at Rhiannon’s nursing graduation in 2016.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

When we finally got off the Zoom call, I had a chance to look at my phone properly. More than a dozen missed calls. From Rhiannon and Tayla, and from Rick, the man with whom Mum had her longest relationship. A missed call from my ex-boyfriend and a message from him saying my sisters were trying to get in touch with me and thought I might be at his house because I’d been feeding our cats while he was away. That’s when my heart skipped a beat: calling my ex-boyfriend in another state? My sisters were really trying hard to get in touch with me. More messages with words like “ROSIE URGENT”. Then a final message from Tayla: “Sorry just remembered you’re in your zoom thing today. Call me when you’re done.”

I knew.

Mum had attempted to take her own life many times. She had threatened it more times than I can remember. Since I was a little kid. It wasn’t the first time I’d received urgent messages like this. But, for whatever reason, something felt different this time. I just knew.

Sitting in the comfy chair in the corner of my living room, with my laptop still open in front of me with the end-of-Zoom screen, I paused for a few seconds, existing in a world where my mum was still alive. I looked at the last message exchange I’d had with her. She’d sent me a very cruel message that I’d ignored. A few days later, I sent her photos of Rhi’s kids watching the
fireworks on New Year’s Eve. She replied the next day saying the kids looked gorgeous and asked me how the night went. I never responded.

I called Tayla. She answered the phone, crying.

“Mum’s dead, isn’t she?” I asked. She said she didn’t want to tell me over the phone.

“Just tell me, Tayla.”

She sobbed uncontrollably as she replied, “Yes.” She told me the little she knew and said she was coming to pick me up to drive to Mum’s. Rhiannon was already there with Rick, who had found her. And the police. And Mum. Mum was still there.

From left: the author, then aged two, with her mother and older sister Rhiannon in Sydney in 1989.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

I got off the phone and just sat. I don’t know why, but my first instinct was to call my friend in the US, whom I’d just been working with for three hours. She’s a pretty new friend, so not exactly who you’d think I’d want to call first. But it’s just what my gut told me to do. It turns out there couldn’t have been a more perfect person to have that call with. I made a joke and she laughed and I thanked her for laughing.

Then I called my closest friends. Sammy. Jamila. I also called my ex-boyfriend. I just wanted to be on the phone until Tayla came. She arrived and we hugged. Her friend had offered to drive so Tayla wouldn’t have to, so it was a very weird 40 minutes in a car with someone I didn’t really know. I hadn’t fully cried yet, but my nervous system was at an 11. We switched between talking about what had happened and talking dumb nonsense when that got too much. I felt awful that Tayla had to be the one to call Rhiannon and me. In our family, that type of thing is a “Rosie job”. And Rick had tried to call me first, knowing that it was a Rosie job. But when I didn’t answer, he got hold of Tayla. I felt awful that I hadn’t been reachable.

We arrived to police vehicles outside Mum’s house and neighbours gathered, watching. Two police officers were at the front door, which was open. Two women were unloading things from a large van and taking them upstairs. To where she was.

The officers were lovely. Just so, so lovely. I think one was called Ben. They said Rhi and Rick were out the back. We walked through the house and found them sitting at the outside table, like we always did. Rhiannon, Tayla and I held each other. They cried a lot. I didn’t. A detective called Ash, who might be one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, explained that Mum’s room was considered a crime scene, which is why the two women needed to catalogue everything. We could see Mum once they’d finished. If we wanted. He sat with us and spoke with such empathy and gentleness.

I felt an explosion bubbling inside me, but I was trying so hard to keep it at bay. Tears would stream out of my eyes but I wouldn’t let the floodgates open. I wandered around the downstairs of the house, silently. The two officers stationed at the front door watched me with sympathy, quietly asking if I was okay every time I walked past them, in a daze.

There was lamb defrosting in the kitchen sink. She’d planned dinner.

The author with her mother last year.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

Rhiannon and I drove to the shops to get drinks and chips and lollies for everyone. I had a headache. She said she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see Mum. I told her this was the best time to do it. She was only going to look less and less like herself.

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When we got back, it was time. Ash explained to us what to expect. Rhiannon and Tayla were still unsure if they should see her, but I knew they would regret it if they didn’t. So I went first, alone. That way, I could decide if it would be too upsetting for them or not. A Rosie job.

As I walked towards the stairs, Ash asked several times if I was sure I wanted to do it by myself. I was. I was very sure. He and the two officers stayed right at the bottom of the stairs, though, assuring me they’d come up the second I needed them.

I reached the top and saw Mum’s open bedroom door. I was shaking. My heart was pounding. Adrenaline was coursing through me. Something was going to explode out. I stepped into the doorway and stood there, staring into the room but not at the bed. I was breathing deep and fast, like I’d run a marathon.

After what felt like forever, I turned my head and looked.

And there, standing frozen in the doorway, the explosion happened. Emotion, adrenaline, all of it. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was sort of like a panic attack, but not. Pain that literally took my breath away and made me physically double over. I completely broke down, trying to cover my mouth so nobody would hear, but that was impossible. Ash walked part way up the stairs and asked if I was okay; if I needed him to come up. I said no. I just stood in the doorway, struggling to breathe.

She was lying in her bed. On her back, with the doona up to her chin. It just looked like she was sleeping. One arm was outside of the doona, resting delicately beside her. I think the crime scene women must have done that in case we wanted to hold her hand. That was so lovely. They were all so lovely.

I wanted to move closer to her, but I was frightened. Like, literally. I’m not sure why; she didn’t look bad. She didn’t look exactly like herself, but she didn’t look bad. It sounds ridiculous, but something in me was worried her eyes would pop open like in a horror movie. She would find that hilarious, actually. Would have.

I saw Mum’s open door. I was shaking. My heart was pounding. Adrenaline was coursing through me.

I made my way over to her bedside. Ash had placed two chairs next to the bed so we could sit with her. So thoughtful. So lovely.

I just stood and stared. Breaking down, quietly. My hand was shaking intensely as I reached down to stroke her face. She wasn’t cold, but she wasn’t warm, either. (The police had turned the aircon on full blast for obvious reasons, which would’ve made her SO mad. She wouldn’t even turn it on for five minutes on a 45-degree day. Her cheapness knew no bounds.)

I stayed with her for a while, kind of getting more and more used to it. I went from not being able to walk through the door to lifting up the doona to see what she looked like underneath. She looked fine. Normal. The one confronting thing was her other arm. She had died sleeping curled up on her side, with her hands tucked under her chin. The same way I sleep. The crime scene women had obviously straightened one arm when they put her on her back, for the hand-holding thing. The other arm, under the doona, was still curled up against her chest, frozen in position. Her hand was clenched in a fist, with her thumb between her index and middle fingers. I stared at it for a really long time.

The author’s 32nd birthday in 2018; (from left) her youngest sister Isabella, Lisa, Tayla holding Rhiannon’s daughter Aya, the author, Rhiannon holding her son Mohammed, and Rhiannon’s daughter, Allira.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

The jewellery she always wore had been placed on her dresser. There was a ring that she and I fought over. She gave it to me years ago, but then took it back when she was mad at me about something. I can’t even remember what. So the next time I was at her house, I stole it back. Then she’d steal it back from me. Then me from her. That ring went back and forth between us for years. I slipped it on my finger. I guess I won.

I went downstairs and told Rhiannon and Tayla that they could do it. That I thought they should do it. I’d take them. I don’t think it’s my place to write about their time in the room with Mum. But I do think they were glad they said goodbye.

Eventually, Ash very gently told us that the coroner was waiting downstairs. It was time for her to go.

The two officers thoughtfully took a room divider Mum had and placed it across the hallway so we wouldn’t have to see her body being taken outside. But we wanted to watch. Ash understood and told the officers they could move it back. Then they stood with us as we watched the body bag being put onto the stretcher and wheeled out the front door. I don’t know why, but we followed along after it, walking outside and watching them load her into the van. Then they closed the doors, got into the front and drove away.

Ash and the two officers then said very polite goodbyes to us and left. It felt weird then. Almost like while they were there, it all felt official and important because A Thing was happening, but once they were gone, we were just … in Mum’s house. That she’d just died in. With nothing to do.

Calls were made. Dazed conversations were had. The most important one to our youngest sister, Isabella, who lived too far away to get there in time to see her. I thought it was important that Rhi, Tayla and I call her together. It was heartbreaking to hear her cry and to not have her with us. Through no fault of her own, she’d been disconnected from Mum, and us, for most of her life.

Although Mum had mostly stopped drinking heavily, she’d still occasionally get drunk at night and make abusive phone calls or send mean texts.

We all agreed to meet back at Mum’s the next day for lunch and not to start thinking about logistics until at least Monday. Just talk. And cry and laugh. And try to piece together what happened.

Although Mum had mostly stopped drinking heavily the last few years, she’d still occasionally get drunk at night and spiral emotionally, making abusive phone calls or sending mean texts.

There were two empty wine bottles in the recycling bin that day.

There was no traditional “note”, but she’d made written contact. Cruel words, indicating that my sisters and I were the reason she was doing it. The women who’d just stood by her bedside, holding each other and weeping because of how much they loved her. We were to blame.

She truly couldn’t ever believe she was loved.

What she said in those final words isn’t what I find most upsetting, though. Sure, having your mother blame you for killing herself is awful, but not the worst thing she’s ever said to us, if I’m being totally honest. I don’t feel responsible, even if she tried to make us feel that way. What’s most upsetting to me is that she turned her final act on this earth, the last thing she would ever do, into one of abuse towards us. The daughters who loved her more than anything, despite everything. That she was so filled with bitterness and pain in her final moments makes me so profoundly sad for her. Hurt people hurt people. And she was so, so hurt.

The author’s mother aged 19 by the Tumut River in NSW in the early 1980s.Credit: COURTESY OF ROSIE WATERLAND

I took her phone home that night so I could put a post up on her Facebook page to let people know she’d died. She kept getting texts but, whenever I looked, they were spam. “This shop is having a sale” or “Renew your whatever”. Not a single one from a person. I looked back through all her messages. There were entire weeks where she didn’t get a single text from another human being. Just spam. She had pushed almost everyone away.
I sat on my couch holding her phone and I sobbed.

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So that’s it. It’s been a week. Planning is happening. All the usual things that need to be done after a person dies. Life goes on in the most surreal way. We’ve cried a lot. We’ve laughed a lot. We’ve eaten a lot.

I’ve also been trying to focus on the brilliant parts of my mother. The beautiful parts. The funny parts. I know this piece doesn’t make it seem like there were parts like that, but there were. So many good parts. My gosh – so, so many.

There’ll be a lot to unpack in all of this. The emotions are complicated and nuanced and intense and weird. I’m an orphan now – and both my parents died by suicide.

And yet. Despite the profound grief I’m experiencing, I’m actually okay. As okay as I can be, at least. I know I’m strong enough to handle it. Because I’ve worked so hard, for a very long time, to make sure that I am that strong. I’ve worked hard to make sure I don’t continue the legacy of trauma that was handed to me by my parents. And my ability to keep going in the face of what’s happened in the last week is proof that I’m doing it.

If my mother’s four daughters, five grandchildren and one very new great-grandchild are her legacy, then it’s such a good one. And if there’s a silver lining to her pain, it’s that it’s taught us that the trauma needs to stop with her. It has to. It will. That way, we can move forward with just the brilliant parts of her. The brilliant parts of Lisa that I can see in each of us.

* Lisa Stevens, 60, died on January 4, 2024.

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