I sat in the Clerk of Court’s office, flustered. My typical calm and rational persona had all but left the building. I remember all too clearly the last time I sat in a similar office, unfamiliar with the process, and shocked at the bureaucracy. But now I knew, I expected it, I’d numbed myself to the tasks of administering an estate, and thought for sure I was prepared for the process. But the most basic question stared back at me unanswered – my mother’s home address. Her car insurance showed a post office box. Her death certificate showed a short term housing address. And her car was registered to a homeless shelter. The lady at the clerk’s office tried to make things simple:

”Just write her last known address.”

“It’s not that simple. Here are the addresses I know…”

”Sweetheart, what’s the address on the death certificate?”

I ignored the ”sweetheart”, and looked back down at the forms. I took a deep breath, blew it out in submission, and wrote a motel address as my mother’s address.

It was not always this way. My mother grew up “well-bred”, as some may say; with resources, support systems, and means. The eldest of three daughters, most descriptions of her are nothing short of glowing. “She was absolutely delightful”, “just lovely”, “a complete joy to be around”, ”you would have loved her, Katie”. I wish I knew.

In pictures, she was absolutely stunning. At 5’7” and slender, her huge green eyes seemed like they could light up any room. I came across her very first driver’s license – something most of us would rather shred. But my mother could even light up in bad lighting at the DMV. She was that beautiful.

Those that know me best swear I look just like my father – until they meet my mother. We have the same honey blonde hair, and signature gappy smile. I did not get her height, sadly. But I’m told I got her charm and ”delightful personality”. And her smarts.

She was charming from the time she could talk. As a young teenager, she would get invited to go with her aunt and uncle to military balls and galas. The young troops would swoon over her, and asked where she went to school. Slyly, she’d just reply, ”Greenville” – leaving them to assume she walked the campus of ECU during the week, rather than J.H. Rose High School.

My mother and aunts spent summers at my grandparents’ second home on the Pamlico River. They were avid swimmers and sailors. One of my favorite stories was when my mother often convinced one or the other of her younger sisters to sail a Sunfish or Lightning out towards the channel with her. Once squarely in the view of all of the boats in the channel, she would wait for a boat full of cute guys to appear, then capsize just as they sped by. I’m told it was her no-fail way to meet boys with boats. I always smile when I imagine the scene.

I got snippets of her humor later on in life when she shared stories like this:

”While I was going through my first divorce, I got a letter in the mail saying I’d been accepted into grad school; which was a HUGE surprise since I’d forgotten I’d even applied.”

“One night, I bought a car that I thought was gold. I loved it. The next morning, I realized my mistake – it was school bus yellow. It was terrible. Trust me – do not buy cars in the dark.”

And she was smart. Smart enough to get full scholarships into a small private college for her undergraduate. Smart enough to get into UNC-Chapel Hill for graduate school. Some would say she was the full package.

My mother showed few to no signs that something was off until her early twenties, I’m told. The first sign was when she admitted to a relative that she sometimes had suicidal thoughts. She was referred to late 70’s/early 80’s versions of psychotherapists and psychologists. Not long after, she was diagnosed as showing early signs of schizophrenia.

My Dad met my mother in her later twenties. He describes her the way others do: delightful, funny, lovely. And says that when she ”spaced off” – staring off into the distance as if in a trance – he thought nothing of it. He said at the time, it just seemed kind of cool. I like to think her charm blinded others to what was really happening inside.

I do wish I had known my mother as others did. Many assume the grief in losing a mother is always filled with a similar sadness, missing the person that’s gone. In my case, I just never met most of the things to miss. Most of what I knew was the darkness. And for that, I have grieved my entire life.

As I continue to unpack her few belongings, I learn more. Not necessarily things to miss. Just more of the abnormal. Things that for many would cause flippant remarks: ”I just don’t get how…”, ”What kind of person…” , ”Why would someone…” Yeah, I hear ya. It is odd from a ”normal” perspective. If you knew the extent of abnormal, and if it was embodied by someone you love, those flippant remarks would likely not come so easily.

But here we sit anyway, working through an estate where the decedent has no official home address. Praying there is little left in this process to fluster me, but mentally preparing myself for otherwise. I appreciate this lady trying to make this simpler – I would do the same. But still, “simple” sits a little heavier on me than it should.

I take another deep breath, and walk out of the courthouse to my next destination. With every step, I try to convince myself that it’s okay to keep these things simple.