Aug 27, 2009 | Written by Patricia Murphy

Arizona, Nevada, Arizona

I suffered a severe bout of post-party depression after our trip to Europe. I didn’t want to come home, first off, but also I was dreading getting right back on a plane for Nevada to take care of my mother’s affairs. The probate hearing was scheduled for August 14th at the Clark County family court. The hearing was number one on a long checklist of things I needed to do.

Las Vegas is not my favorite place, and I had managed to avoid going there at all until mom moved there in 2001. To have to go back, and to have to go back to confront not only her estate but also the end of her life, well, the whole idea put me in a funk. I went from over to under achiever in a matter of a few months.

My bare minimum goals for Vegas were to attend the court hearing and pick up mom’s ashes. Beyond that, what I really needed to do was sell her car, sort her mail, settle her accounts, clean out her condo, fix up her condo, meet with a real estate agent to try to rent out her condo, etc. Every time I thought I had exhausted the list of things I needed to do, another item came up. I was also still just very sad. So my ability to confront the list was touch and go.

There was a moment in Vegas when I pondered why we have wedding planners but not death planners? A happy person has the strength to make arrangements. But a sad person? It’s much harder. I really wished I could have called one person and said, “Fix it!” I guess to my brother I am that person. I have to fix it, and I really have no idea how.

I called four different estate liquidators. Mom was a Marxist, so though she had some items, they were of little value. One auctioneer came and said it was not worth his time. Another came and said that I should just try to yard sale what I could and give the rest to charity. Picture me floundering, wondering exactly how I’m supposed to sell anything in a city like this one, and how I can possibly sort through everything in her place in a matter of hours before my flight.

Enter Raymond and Joseph, my mom’s neighbors. They came to the condo at 6 am on Saturday, placed signs throughout the neighborhood, helped me price items, negotiated sales, carried heavy items to cars, cleaned patios, and translated for Spanish-speaking customers.

At one point Joseph moved a dresser he had sold, revealing a picture of me and John that had fallen between it and the wall. I picked up the photo and ran to the other room sobbing. Raymond came and hugged me, assuring me, “She had the photo out so she could see you. It just fell and she couldn’t reach it. She loved you very much.” He held me until I felt strong enough to push on.

We managed to clear out much of mom’s laminate furniture, a few kitchen items, some of her clothing and some knick-knacks. By 4 pm, we looked around the condo and knew it was the best that we could do. Then Raymond and Joseph took me to the airport, assuring me they would continue working so that I could rent out the condo in time to cover mom’s mortgage and HOA fees before the small sum in her bank account ran out.

I wanted to question why this couple, strangers to me, rallied to help. It is in my nature to question. Was my sorrow a strong enough reason? Or did they want something in return? Or did they care deeply for my mom?  Or is that simply what people do? The last thing I needed was more unknown territory, and I struggled to just accept the help. I’m not good at letting people help me.  When Raymond called me at the airport to make sure I was okay I just cried and cried. Perhaps this was one last lesson from a mother who never stopped teaching me: when you need help, ask. When help comes, accept it.

In dealing with my mother’s death I keep bumping up against the irony that her body is gone and her things are left. It’s a cruel turn of events for a Marxist. And despite our troubled relationship, I find myself missing her at the most inopportune times. Above all, I miss her skin, her voice, her laugh.

I miss the tangible Mommy–the undeniable physical presence of the woman who brought me into the world. Her departure leaves me desperately alone. But at the same time I come alive with the realization that I am who I am because of her.