My mother died. My brother, sister, and I don’t know exactly when, but we know exactly where: in her favorite chair, while watching TV. I like to imagine a juicy episode of Murder, She Wrote, or a particularly compelling case on Perry Mason – both favorites – followed by her nodding off and then something far more. She turned 76 last month.

It was not entirely unexpected. Still, I did not expect the call from my sister on that beautiful Saturday evening, while Chris and I were eating paella with friends. The gathering felt like a celebration: fall, college football, a giant platter of food. We were so loud that I barely heard the phone ring. I took the call and walked into a corner of the yard. The women watched my body language and grew alarmed. The men remained oblivious. Chris was laughing and gesturing with a beer bottle as I alternated waving to him and pointing to the ground beside me.

When I ended the call, it was clear that something was wrong. I had no choice but to tell my friends that my mother had died. Because my mother raised me to be unfailingly polite, I deflected and apologized profusely for ruining the evening. Only one person touched me, for I looked so brittle that they feared that I was about to shatter. I ran out and ran home.

In my life as a lawyer, there is a constant in court opinions: They maintain that death is different. The opinions are right. Normally I stay busy, plot a course, and move forward. But on Saturday night, I sat at my computer and sent a series of emails terminating all obligations for the week. My mother died, they said, and I just cannot. These emails ended up being the sum total of the decisions I could make. When I could not decide whether to fly or drive, the inability to make that decision counseled that I should not drive. An announcement on the flight on Sunday said that in the event of an emergency, we should leave everything in its place, not look back, and quickly move out. I felt like the flight attendant spoke directly to me.

I have not even been here 48 hours, and it feels like 48 days, 48 weeks, 48 years. My siblings and I went to the funeral home, organized the service, and spent $8,000 in under an hour. We ordered flowers, thanked the neighbors, found the will, met the minister. He asked us to describe her legacy. My brother and sister gave beautiful, heartfelt answers. I had no answer, for I have been struggling with this question for the last six months.

There are things I know. My mother loved to cook, teach, watch television, and eat large tubs of popcorn at matinee movies. When I was a child, she thought that a home permanent was the answer to all my problems. (It was not. In fact, I found that having awful-looking hair only exacerbated them.) She was never wrong, and incredibly stubborn, and she apologized to me only once in my 53 years. She typically gave me awful advice. Learning to take that advice with a grain of salt was one of the most peaceable achievements of my adult life.

Since Mom liked to talk, I listened. Thanks to Mom, I learned to read at a young age, took up sewing, religiously write thank you notes, and set a mean table, because a meal is always better with cloth napkins and candles. Also thanks to Mom, but perhaps in a different way, I discovered the importance of good health, a clean home, and a well-tended bank account.

Among her things – and there were many of them – we found her Bible. There was a joyous photograph of my son, then a two year-old and now nearing 24, tucked in at Psalm 77. This psalm has not achieved the marquee status of Psalm 23 or Psalm 100 for a reason: The psalmist feels like he has fallen out of favor with the Lord, and he prays to regain his health and happiness. He begs for perhaps a modicum of understanding of his situation.

It was not an accidental bookmark. During my relationship with her, she was often the unhappiest person I knew, and I would have given anything to change that. The unhappiness led to a lack of care, and that lack of care led to her death.

She stepped on a broken bowl in March, almost exactly six months before her death, and refused to seek treatment until she described a red-hot rash to my sister. She spent a week in the hospital and escaped without losing her leg.

Given the severity of the wound, the doctor recommended a lengthy stay in a rehabilitation facility. She wanted to return home immediately. The state of her house would have killed her.

As the oldest child, I intervened. I laid down the law in a telephone call. I told her she had to stay in a rehabilitation facility for wound care or she would lose her leg, perhaps even die. Her ire was immense, and the tenor of this call made even Chris shake. It ended with me telling her I loved her very much, and with her replying that she never wanted to speak to me again. She then hung up the phone.

This was the last time I spoke to her, although of course I wrote her a thank you note for a birthday gift.

She checked out of the rehabilitation facility early and returned home. A nurse tended to her wound for a few weeks, and then she was on her own. Her foot never healed. She called my sister last Wednesday and said she did not want to do this anymore. By Saturday she was at peace. My English degree suspects that she died of septic shock. My years of experience with her let me know how satisfying it was for her to die on her own terms.

I got a head start on my grieving. It began with our last phone call. She called me a few times after that, and I did not answer. I knew that I ran the risk of never speaking with her again, but I needed to marshal my strength to remember the mother I needed to remember.

She was not even 23 when I was born. She was young and beautiful and smelled like cherry and almonds. She sang constantly. She dressed me in clothes she made herself, and she once selected a fabulous red fake fur coat that I wish I still had. She had a blue bike with a seat on the back. I would ride behind her with the wind in our hair, my limbs reaching to her and her strong legs propelling us into the great adventure and mystery of the future. When I had children of my own, I called her, crying, to tell her that I finally understood.

She loved me completely and abundantly. I have doubted many things, but I have never doubted that.

ALC