November 19

On November 19, 2022, my mom was struck by a car when she was walking her dog in her West Seattle neighborhood. She died the next day at Harborview Medical Center, a result of those injuries. 

My mom didn’t have any identification on her at the time so she was admitted to the hospital as a “Jane Doe”. However, mom’s dog, Murphy, was uninjured and ran back home. The mail carrier found him wandering outside the house alone and, concerned, brought him to the neighbor. The neighbor had, coincidentally, just driven by the scene of the collision, put two and two together, and found me on the internet to let me know “my mom may have been in an accident.”

It took me three hours to get to the hospital from my home and, oddly, I never once thought that the collision would be fatal. I suppose it was unimaginable. But, when I arrived at the hospital, my brother and I had just ten minutes to make a decision whether to opt for a procedure which may have granted her more time, but would have left her completely incapacitated. Thankfully, mom left no doubt in our (or anyone else’s mind) how to make that decision. 

For months following my mom’s death, I painted ordinary household objects red. I painted forks, measuring spoons, tin cans, plates, egg beaters and garden shears. I found it soothing, being by myself in my studio, silently painting things red. I was struck by how the matte paint reduced objects to line and shadow and pure color. Ordinary objects became sculptural and I could see their beauty anew. I also made sketches of art installations I never wanted to make; they would be too awful. But, I am slowly revisiting this work. It makes sense to me now and no longer looks awful; it looks relatable. 

My mom was ferocious. Not long before she died, she bought herself her first chainsaw. She’d haul it up tall ladders to prune vines and trees in her multi-tiered, treacherous garden. She used to joke that in her old age, she’d need a 4-wheel drive, all-terrain wheelchair and a laser pruner. I know, on some level, she is relieved that she never needed them. 

P.S. 

Murphy is doing great and lives with my brother, David, who takes good care of him.

P.S.S.

Thanks, mom, for all the good things.