My Journey to Peace and Comfort in the Wake of My Mother’s Suicide

My mom and sister when she was born

This is Kaitlin Grace’s story as told by Irena Kaci. Our Opening Our Hearts stories are based on people’s real-life experiences. By sharing these experiences publicly, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief and, ultimately, to aid them in their healing process. In this story, Kaitlin Grace tells the story of her mother Janice’s battle with mental illness, something to which Janice eventually succumbed.

I don’t remember my childhood or even teen years very clearly. They were hard years and I guess I’ve blocked a lot of that out. My mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia right around the time that I was born. My sister, who is only one and a half years older than me, has a much better memory, and will often tell me stories about my mother, stories from before the illness really took hold. She remembers bits of my mother that I can’t even picture in my mind. There was a time that my mother was charismatic and fashionable and extroverted. But this was all before I could even put down memories.

Her battle with mental illness began in her early 20s, not too long after having her two daughters. My dad handled it as best he could, finding her the right doctors, hospital stays for the bad times, and juggling being a single dad, whilst also running his own business.

When I was a preteen the mental illness finally took a toll and my parents got divorced, which made things so much worse for my mother. She lost all sense of propriety and self care, let alone caring for my sister and me. Our house was the standard hoarder house, something you can’t quite imagine unless you experience it firsthand. I was young and downplayed how terrible things were at home to myself as a coping strategy. But during that time I remember clearly having friends and parents of friends take an interest in keeping me fed and washed.

I didn’t know how to process this at that age, but I knew something was wrong and scary.

After they divorced, I have a clouded and yet simultaneously vivid memory of dad dropping us off to our childhood hoarder’s home, for our court mandated time with mum. We walked into the kitchen after no answer at the door, there was mum. She was slumped over sitting on the floor. Dad ran to her, jostled her slightly, and she spoke slurring her words “I brush my teeth, …I wash my face, …I sit”.

I didn’t know how to process this at that age, but I knew something was wrong and scary. My dad called an ambulance, but before they arrived he hurriedly threw an open prescription bottle of pills in the trash that he found on the kitchen counter.

My mom, older sister and me during a more stable stretch

Mum survived that attempt, but after that she was in and out of mandated hospital stays for her safety, medicine changes, and ups and downs over the years.

By the time I was in high school my aunt, my father’s sister, pressed my father to push for sole custody, and I was given a voice in the matter. It was awful to feel like I was betraying my mother, who I loved and felt a lot of loyalty for, but I simply did not have a choice. My sister and I moved in with my father and were able to live out the rest of our high school years more closely resembling normal teenagers. My mother took it well, and understood. But I know that further isolating her from her family took a toll, and pretty soon she lost her house and moved into a subsidized apartment complex.

Even imaginary solutions could not solve her life…

When I was in junior college I routinely fantasized about how I could save her. I would dream of winning the lottery so that I could buy her a beautiful home and the round the clock care she needed, that she deserved. But then reality would creep in and the inevitable questions would soon arise: Could round the clock staffing even be possible long term? Was there any kind of psychiatric assistance even possible that could begin to undo the damage already done by living in poverty with schizophrenia for years and years? Even imaginary solutions could not solve her life, and I find myself pacing around my own mind teeming with caretaking anxiety.

My mom looking pretty and glamorous at a carnival; this is only a faint happy memory for me

One day I came across a Craigslist advertisement for a kitten; it immediately gave me hope. I reached out to the sweet woman on Craigslist and kept the kitten in my dorm room, against university rules, until Mother’s Day. I wanted to surprise her.

On the day, I brought the kitten (later named Muffin) as a gift to my mom. She was so happy about it. It gave me so much joy and relief to see her that way. It also led to connecting with mom a bit more, as she would call me multiple times a day to tell me about what Muffin was up to. She loved Muffin so much that she acquired another cat, and named him Cupcake. She loved those cats and they brought so much joy to her life.

her heart just hit a breaking point

In May of 2019, I received a call from the hospital that my mom had made yet another suicide attempt. At the age of 31, I was now used to this, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying or painful. I called out of work, rushed there, and by the grace of the universe, was able to speak to her for what would turn out to be the last time. I wish I had been able to take a picture on that visit. I actually tried but was told it was against the rules, and it is a small regret from that day. I wish I had known it was our last visit.

The next day I received one more call. Mom had gone into cardiac arrest while being wheeled into Ward 8, the psychiatric ward. Between the suicide attempt just the day before and the panic of being committed against her will for the umpteenth time in her long battle with mental illness, her heart just hit a breaking point.

At her subsidized apartment building walking towards the light

She was immediately wheeled into surgery instead, but there wasn’t much to be done. She was being kept alive with machinery and –since I was her healthcare proxy –I was once again put in the difficult position of making an important choice that would impact her. This time, however, I was an adult and I was prepared. She had always expressed an interest in DNR, and knowing how hard she had been trying her whole life to leave the earthly plane, I made the decision to let her go. She wanted to be with her God, and I felt that we needed to respect that.

After she died, my sister and I had to pack up and put away her life. Though her apartment had been small, she did have a lot of things. Most of them were not salvageable, but it took some time and effort to make that determination. Plus we had to find new homes for Muffin and Cupcake. While slowly peeling back the layers of accumulated material, my sister came across a note that Mum had left on the floor. The note was addressed to us, her daughters, whom she felt she had burdened with her mental illness. We noticed it was partially shredded and did our best to put it back together so we could make out her final wishes.

She is at peace. I can feel that deep in my soul

She had written her goodbyes and apologies to us. It was really validating to read. She had absolutely intended to die, and if I had done anything to prevent that, I would’ve been going against her wishes. The second half of the letter, which incidentally was also the most shredded part, pertained to the cats; she had left careful instructions about their care and her wishes about who should care for them. It was so funny to me that the cats had torn this exact bit violently to shreds, as if they knew it pertained to them and wanted to vent their anger at my mom. And how could I blame them?

It pains me to even think let alone say this, but mom’s suffering was my suffering too. And the feeling of abandonment that might’ve inspired the shredding of her letter was a familiar feeling. I am glad to report that Muffin and Cupcake found a home together, and that every update we’ve received from the shelter has been positive. My mom is no longer suffering. She is at peace. I can feel that deep in my soul.

It has been a lot of work for me to overcome the trauma that mental illness caused my mother and myself, but I am so proud to have gotten to this point. I have a wonderful life right now. I live in a nice apartment with a baby grand piano that I am using to teach myself how to play. I love doing things with my hands, and I’m a hairstylist by profession. I knew really early on in life that I wanted to work in a hair salon and it has truly been my saving grace. I am making people feel their best while making interpersonal connections. I have wonderful clients and a supportive partner. My mother’s death has given me the opportunity to blossom and self-actualize in ways I never thought possible. I was always so worried about her and how she was doing. But now I am free, and secure in the knowledge that my mother is happier now than she ever when she was alive.