When the Women Before Me Are Gone

Right or wrong, I keep having this recurring thought that the women before me are gone, that I'm the last one standing. I know this isn't true because my daughter stands beside me. Still...

There's this little inside joke among a few close friends and family members about me being 2–3 years late to any "it" song or album. They'll send me links to Spotify; you have to listen to this, and not only will I not, but I'll avoid it altogether. Until, as mentioned, a few years goes by. It's almost as if I need all the noise and hype to die down so I can hear it for myself and truly experience it.

I've found a similar pattern in response to David Lynch's death. I knew of his movies and even watched a few of his films back when I dated Casey Dewey—one of those guys. You know the type: into obscure films, punk rock, and all the cool things I didn't get. I wasn't cool. Casey was—and, honestly, still is.

Over the last week, I've listened to countless videos and interviews with David Lynch, and of course, my mind is blown. I wish I had gotten it sooner to share the experience with everyone else.

So naturally, it would come as no surprise that I would recognize this pattern of being late to understand or appreciate something—when I heard Oma passed over the weekend.

I received a call Friday night that she would not make it through the evening. One part of me didn't believe it. Oma has been 'near death' since the day I was born. I mean literally. She went into the hospital with pneumonia the same day my Mom went in to give birth to me. My Mom would say that her mother always had to one-up her. All that aside, the other part of me knew she hadn't been well these last few months and was, in her words, 'ready to die.'

I made a phone call and convinced the hospice nurse to let me speak with— at her.

So, with a stranger holding a phone up to my Oma's ear, I spoke as clearly and calmly as possible—and loudly in case her hearing aids weren't on or turned up. I told her how grateful I was for these last few years together, that we could be together, get to know each other and care for each other.

You get to be with (my) Mom now, Oma. It's all okay. I love you so much.

I heard her sigh, and the hospice nurse came back on. She apologized and said that they had to let her rest now.

I knew then she would not make it through the night.

True to form, I didn't get into or understand our relationship until the end. The truth was, with my Mom around, I couldn't. That all changed when she passed away just over two years ago.

The afternoon I received the call that my Mom had died, I immediately asked about Oma. They hadn't told her yet. I didn't want to think about a mother finding out her daughter was dead. I didn't think Oma would be able to survive the news. As soon as they told her, she FaceTimed me. She was telling me how sorry she was for me while I was telling her how sorry I was for her loss. It was her daughter, after all.

The last time the three of us were together, Oma and I had a similar face-off. My Mom had just stormed out, and my Oma was crying, saying I'm so sorry, Ashley. I don't understand what is wrong with her and me-- this mess- I wish I would die. I can't do this anymore.

Being the mother of a child who battled mental illness along with addiction and substance abuse her entire life is something I'll never know, and I pray to God I won't. I know what it was like to be the daughter of that person. I couldn't bear it and chose to remove myself and my kids from having a relationship with her.

There was much I never understood about their relationship— like how Oma could handle my mom at her highest highs and lowest lows but as a mother I know you will go to any length, the end of the world, to be there for your child. That's a mother's love.

Despite their yelling, crying, and arguing over the years, they remained loyal to one another forever. Their love was equal to, maybe even more then, all those parts combined.

It's safe to say my Oma didn't understand me until the end, either. When she discovered that I didn't have a close relationship with my brother, she asked if it was because of my work. My Uncle quickly inserted Mom! And I said no, it's okay. I looked at her and said, "Oma, what exactly do you think I do?"

Well, you know. All this sex stuff... you talk about it online. It's dangerous.

I explained to her I didn't think my talking about sexual wellness and pleasure phased my brother, but I could understand why it worried her.

And I could because worrying was what she did best.

During one of my first stays there, my Uncle mentioned he was going to the casino. Don't tell Oma. I didn't understand why. We are all adults. I was taking care of her. Why would it matter? Trust me, he said. It's just easier when she doesn't know these things.

By my third stay, I found myself saying I was going to the grocery store when I was going for a run. My Uncle was right; it was easier.

I'm not sad, per se, that Oma has passed away. 89 years and living in pain. This falls nicely into 'it was time' and the 'right time.' There is almost a relief in the grief. I do wish I had been more available to her. Had gone and seen her again. That's on me; I get caught up with the things, people, and shit going on in front of me. The songs I know on repeat.

Right or wrong, I keep having this recurring thought that the women before me are gone, that I'm the last one standing. I know this isn't true because my daughter stands beside me. Still, there’s this morbid reflection and feeling as I sit facing mortality.

My Oma and Mother wanted me to write and tell my story—my life in my own words.

I once went to hear Fran Leibowitz speak at the Paramount, and audience members had an opportunity to ask her questions. I've never forgotten one question: "What are your thoughts about writing a memoir that isn't kind to the family members mentioned?"

Very dryly, she said, do you want to write a memoir or have family members?

The pain my Oma, Mother, and I experienced while they were all alive was so much- there was no way I wanted to add more to the body of it. I don't doubt that the words will begin to percolate and make their way onto paper.

In the meantime, I'm listening to this Clairo album, Charm. Faith sent it to me more than six months ago and came home with a tattoo inspired by it. Rather than waiting until later to understand what all the hype was about, I decided to join in and experience it with her while she was still into it.

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Here is a post I wrote after my last visit with Oma—> I’ve removed the paywall for the time being

xx, ash

The other night I was with Laurel and some friends/fam at Pool Burger when everyone started talking about music.

"What album are you talking about?" I asked.

Laurel smiled. "I’ll send it to you in three years."

I offered an idea. "How about I create a ‘spotlist,’ and you can add the songs you know I’ll like later?"

Laurel squinted at me. "What’s a spotlist?"

I paused, realizing what I’d said. "You know… on Spotify."

"You mean a playlist?" she replied.

We all burst out laughing. Typical me—making up words. But we decided "spotlist" fits perfectly.

I was wondering if you might consider leaving a link to song in the comments. I’m going to create a SpotList of songs that I need to start listening to. You could choose a song that you didn’t get into until later and now love, one that you think is fitting for this post, or one for no reason at all!