She died on September 10th, almost a year now. I feel her so strongly in my garden.

August 30 , 2026 Sunday

I see them dancing

Cosmos, happy in the breeze

Mother should have them

~

Silver filigreed

Footed glass bowl with a frog

Which holds just ten blooms

~

A loved wedding gift

Seventy one years ago

1955

~

I’d cut the best blooms

One for each hole in the frog

She’d kiss the petals

~

With this year’s flowers

My heart hurts to gather and

Not bring them to her

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Back in the day, when there was a death in the family, women wore black for a whole year. Men wore black armbands, not just to honor the dead but also to inform the world that they are in mourning. Somewhere along the line, we’ve made grief and mourning invisible.

Walking in my own grief, I’d welcome something like that armband so that others would have a clue about where my head and my heart may be. This month I led a graveside service for my good friends’ parents as we interred their ashes together. When my friends arrived they offered each of us a little enamel pin, a black ribbon with words to the effect of “gone but not forgotten.” Like the beautiful pins with the various rainbow and pastel stripes that say “You Are Safe With Me” I’d like to let people know their grief is safe with me. That I will be with you, I’ll listen, I’ll ask questions, I’ll say their name.

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Would you wear a grief ribbon as you mourn? What would you think and feel in your mourning should you see that someone welcomes your grief?

This is all rolling around in my head, and I’m curious what you think.

Image, Canva AI

I sleep long enough and yet I’m tired. I’m weary.

It’s beneath the surface but the sadness pools there, its depths are deceptive.

Seen as water, its murky currents conceal the Sad.

Beneath a shimmering surface, fronds of pond grass wave in the gentle sway there.

In places they tangle, catching memories and lost futures.

Sometimes… Often, the grass twists open to release a bubble.

Rising to the surface it catches light on its orb of air.

I can perceive it, down below, on its way with something unexpected.

Then it arrives, and

POP

A realization that I won’t be telling him about the lovely weather here.

I will not hear how it is there, thousands of miles away.

The conversion of stupid Fahrenheit into sensible Celsius is no longer required.

This is what the bubble brought and burst into my day.

He has died.

He is gone, forever.

June 15th, 2026

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All week this phrase has been going through my head. “It’s been one year and 5 days (4,3,2, etc.) since I didn’t have cancer!”

This day last year I had no idea that test results would show up in my hospital app on August 11, at 10 PM that read “Melanoma.”

I also had no idea I’d be 2 weeks away from surgery and plastic surgery on my cheek and EYELID to remove said melanoma.

In addition, I was blissfully unaware of the impending vigil we would be loving my Mother through to her peaceful death, only 12 days post surgery.

In the time right after these events I managed healing, wrapping my head around “holy shit they just cut away some of my actual face”, and Mother really being gone, and all the things that needed to happen related to that.

Best of all, I had absolutely not the slightest inkling that just 5 weeks after Mother died, a best friend of mine would disappear - dying of a sudden heart attack at 68. More than 3000 miles away, where he lived and now died.

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Every day in the first year after loss is an anniversary of that same day last year. That day back in The Before. Before cancer, Mother’s death, losing my dear friend.

All of this is to say I’ve been away from Substack for a year. Believe me, I was definitely Musing Mortality, it was just too close and fresh and real and griefy and tangled to put into words that I felt I could actually digest and then share.

I believe I can now. I’m ready to Muse Mortality from a very differently informed place. I invite you to join me. Again.

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When I’m on the deck and just sitting looking at the yard, the birds, the flowers, my eyes go many places. The sparrows and finches are taking their turns at the sunflower feeder hanging from the tall shepherds hook. A gray catbird or perhaps a lady cardinal comes to the birdbath beside the feeder to drink. A shiny iridescent black grackle jumps in and takes a vigorous and funny bath, water splashing everywhere. On the nearer shepherds hook is a hummingbird feeder, and intermittently these tiny visitors come and slurp the sugary water. Usually their wings are beating as they drink and their bodies sway and dangle in space. Other times they land, and the gem-like green of their feathers shimmers. Seeing the hummingbirds is a great pleasure for me, but their visits are sporadic and fleeting. In order to really see them I must keep my focus on the feeder and not let my gaze or attention flit away to another bird in the bushes or at the birdbath. I must keep my attention on the feeder and quiet my thoughts and relax into the quiet watching. Just breathe and watch, and when the hummingbird arrives just breathe in the moment of sweet color and flight and the brief visit.

It occurs to me that being with Mother and her dementia is a lot like watching for the hummingbirds. When I focus on managing her space, her comfort, my chores around her when I visit it can be like the other birds, the ideas and distractions that make me miss the arrival and visit of the hummingbird. What she is thinking and feeling no longer has a direct path to come out. Aphasia and her retreating brain function has stolen so many of her words. Gestures have to fill in, and to be honest they can confuse my brain. After a long career interpreting for the Deaf I perceive those patterns and automatically try to make them into language, which they are not. They are just hers, and they stay in the moment when she’s communicating something important that I’m missing. Moments later the gestures won’t keep that meaning and are gone.

With communication so different and limited the work of understanding gets in the way of being with Mom when she shows up. If I’m quiet, focus only on being present with her, and breathe, I’m able to wait and catch the arrival of a moment of her being really herself. Perhaps it’s being silly to engage and laugh. It can be an “I love you” that comes unbidden. However Mom shows up it’s a glimmer, a shimmer of a hummingbird’s gem-like color as it lights and stays a moment then flits away.

It could be the breathing that works best to keep me quiet, focused and present if a glimmer comes. I focus on my breath, I may match my breathing to hers a bit, and then other things pull my attention less and less. When she shows up I’m ready to breathe in that moment and enjoy being in it with her. It is such a joy and a real gift.

I recently placed a second hummingbird feeder alongside the deck about six feet from where I sit. This spot is newer to the birds but they do come - and I’m so close to them I can breathe in that short visit. It’s a gem of pure joy when it happens and then flits away.

And now, when I’m with the hummingbirds it feels as if I’m also with Mom.

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What ways do you experience your person showing up? What ways do you quiet and focus and catch and enjoy a glimmer?

The weekend and the early week had been rough. Sleepy and a bit weepy was the order of the day - which is fine, we stay in ‘what is’ in the moment. So, today was a delightful surprise.

My brother Bill was there for the afternoon. He told me that when he arrived she smiled and told him he looked handsome. When I arrived she pointed to my head and I think she said “nice.” She liked my curls today and I told her I’d had my haircut. Mom and Bill had funny cat videos on YouTube playing, and Mom pointed and told us she wanted to continue them. We all laughed at them together. Using her GrandPad we took the opportunity to call our brother Mike and he got to have a little of the Good Day too. The latest workaround with the GrandPad video calls is I hold it in front of my face, hiding my eyes, and Mom can better make eye contact with the caller.

Bill always cleans her glasses and he did that for her. When he put them back on for her and said “How’s that” - she said WOOOOO - like all the world was suddenly clear! Being funny, being Mom, these are the glimmers we treasure.

A Good Day. Who would’ve thought? I make the choice to live the moment with Mom and when they are good moments it’s totally worth the crappy ones.

Not sure there’s anything edifying in all this. But I’m here for it - writing it down so that it’s here in case the one person who needs to know that there can be good and even fun days finds it when they need to.

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Today it was about how I relate to the autonomy of those I support and serve. Rich information, but what hit me hardest was my Mom.

In her dementia I don’t recognize her, I want her to be safe and comfortable. Often what I want looks like managing her space, managing our time together, managing her meager connection to our past. That’s not what my role as a doula looks like, as I walk with folks, listen, reflect back and honor their choices. The things I’m so able to do with and for clients I’m struggling for with Mom.

In dementia we lose words, the conveying of our ideas and feelings. The pattern and cadences of conversation remain. They sound like talking but in my work I go along for the ride in a conversation with no attachment to what I need to understand. I provide their recognition of being heard. However, with Mom I want to hear and understand what she’s trying to say, but I also want to know what she means. Parts of her are still in there and I want to hear what she’s trying to get out in the moment before it slides off her mind and is gone. For me, for my heart and mind. I still desire our connection, the one that made us such good friends, that sustained us both since my birth.

More on this as the days unfold. I’m sleepy and a bit depleted and sad. And that’s ok. I can’t say it to you all at once, so disparate pieces will do. That’s enough.

With you in my non-avoidance of writing,

Carole

#TheMortalityMuse

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I only recently realized something about my lack of writing here. Writing about mortality, death, grief, transitions, it all felt like something separate from what is using my time, my mind and heart, and wearing me down day after day.

Mom, and losing her to dementia.

Then I wondered why I wasn’t I writing about exactly that. That subject is what I’m living, and it’s also about mortality, loss, achingly slow transition, and seemingly interminable anticipatory grief. In other words, exactly what I aimed to write about when I began two years ago.

So, that’s the plan. If you’re on the same ride, hop on. Tell me what the view is from your trip on the train going nowhere.

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I’ve seen The Last Ecstatic Days numerous times, and I’m always experiencing something new. Perhaps a documentary showing death in a close and loving way is new to you. You can find out what it’s about on August 5th, when The Last Ecstatic Days is shown nationwide on PBS.

PBS shows The Last Ecstatic Days on August 5th, 2025

In this documentary Ethan Sisser, a man in his 30's who is living with Glioblastoma, a Brain Cancer, chooses to live-stream his journey and the end of his life.

Wishing to die “at home” but not having access to one, Ethan is welcomed into a community that springs up to support him and send him out of living in a loving supportive space, documenting it all as Ethan wished.

Ethan and his story have inspired thousands of people and I hope you will be inspired too, should you watch the film.

I’m interested to know how this film connects with you.

Let’s talk more.

We meet on the third Monday at 6 PM

In free-writing about forgiveness, I was fascinated to see a list of things I need to forgive myself for.

• For the times I don’t follow through.

• For judging my past self harshly when I was doing the best I could at the time.

• For being unkind to my body when what was hurting was in my heart and head.

• For not getting the things I’m thinking, feeling, and learning onto my Substack!

This isn’t to say that I just let myself off the hook regarding taking ownership of these things. Rather, it means giving myself grace to own and examine them without the mist of self-judgment clouding my thinking.

When contemplating life, it can be easy to stay with negative feelings and use them to avoid that examination. At the end of life, this is especially true. RUGS - Regrets, Unfinished Business, Guilt, Shame - are a collection of what underlies much of that judgment and negative feeling. As a doula, I sometimes use this RUGS framework to help the examination process. When coming to the end of life, it’s a challenge to look at our RUGS and those of the people we love. Taking a brave step to open up to ourselves, and often to others, can be freeing.

Guilt and shame are complex and can be confusing. In her book The Gifts of Imperfection Brené Brown looks at shame and guilt and writes “Shame is about who we are, and Guilt is about our behaviors.” ( pg 57, 2020 edition) To me, this is looking inward - who I am and what is “bad” in me, and looking outward - what I’ve done that affects others.

Carrying around a lifetime of RUGS can be heavy. When I work through life transitions with my clients, it’s often a good exercise not only to identify what’s weighing us down but to then experiment with setting it all aside, even for a moment. What does it feel like to have that weight lifted? We can always pick it up again, and often we do! But identifying the RUGS and giving ourselves grace to be free of them is a worthwhile effort.

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So here we are at the beginning of another month. I’m posting this, and writing on several more topics in preparation for regular posts in the coming weeks. When life gets in the way, I’ll give myself grace to regroup and begin again.

And, May The Fourth Be With You

I’ve served as Doula at the end of life many times in the time just before and certainly after death. I have shared this picture and sentiment with many people who remain behind in the love of someone dear.

Nothing about this sharing will make anything “better.” It’s not a silver lining comment. Comments like “she’s in a better place” or “God needed him in heaven” or even “ well, at least you can have another child.” Seriously? Yeah, sometimes people just say whatever they think will help without thinking. It’s easier to step past the pain with a platitude and retreat. I get it, we avoid death, we get uncomfortable with grief, and everyone is different.

Sharing this graphic at the right time is offering a glimpse of another perspective. It may not land in a good place in the moment and for some it may not land at all. But the seed of this idea can circle back around when we are missing our person and then it maybe comforting.

What are some times you would have liked to share this? When do you think it would be inappropriate? Let’s talk in the comments.

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I first wrote and posted this haiku in January of 2024. Now just 14 months later I’m struck by how much things have changed with Mother. Her dementia is more of who she is now, and who she was comes in glimmers less and less often.

When walking this walk with others I’m so comfortable with the listening and support. Now that it’s me, though, I have to let go of the things I have learned or “know” and sit with what I feel. I’m so grateful for our doula, Mary, who is a safe place for me to do that.

Missing her more than ever, I re-share “Losing Her”

As Mother leaves me

Not in body but in mind

I lose who we were.

She alone carried

The bits of life from before

My remembering.

I alone carry

The bits of life from before

Her own forgetting.

The sun came out and the wind was blustery but not too cold. Fitting in a quick walk, I let myself simply notice each tree that has a little more green, or is suddenly tinged red with buds. Smiling back at the bright yellow of daffodils dancing on the wind I’m also struck by the miniature ones quivering and huddled together, giggling.

Looking back I remember how much I love Autumn when things are dying and regrouping for the cold months. Knowing this time of green, and fresh air, fragrance and movement will come again just makes Autumn more dear to me.

I’m grateful for a day of lightness. As I walked I made the choice to not give away any power to the things that terrify me about the world today.

It was a special treat to participate in a Death Café today! New friends, stories shared. How pleased I am that I can help create space for these conversations.

My Mother had her 68th Momiversary today also, since having me made her a mother. Telling her this was a way to celebrate her. Dementia has taken so much away, as it does, and we find new work-around paths for what used to come easily. So it wasn’t My Birthday, it was Our Day together remembering who we are and who we’ve been, even for just a small moment. The love abides.

May love be what you remember most.

The current situation in the USA, which is where I’ve lived my entire life with the exception of a full semester in London, UK, is surreal. The details don’t matter here, and they are far better covered by others on Substack (@Robert Reich, Chop Wood, Carry Water, and many more.) The details are also more than I can articulate. Nothing was getting me to my computer, or my notebooks, or anything that required the un-numbing of my mind.

I’m shifting course and doing for myself what so many of us need. I give myself grace. Today I spruced up the Substack - new moniker “The Mortality Muse.” The name identifies who I am more than what I do. Sticking to what I know, what supports you who read this, and what feeds my heart, mind, and soul is how I am framing my presence here going forward.

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It’s been 21 months since I began writing and sharing here. The feedback I’ve received has been more than kind, and more than a few folks have shared with my that what I share has helped them on their path.

I’m The Mortality Muse. You’re invited to walk with me as we open the many boxes, small and large, that we metaphorically fill up with the things we don’t talk about. We can always take the stuff out, look at it, and put it right back in and close the lid. The Death box, the heavy box of Grief, the Why, Who, and How boxes. Often pretty scary stuff we hide away, but here we can look at it all together. Never as scary when we’re looking together. I’m right here with you, musing.

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Crone & Queenager

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I’m tickled that I filled both my daily notebook and my 5 Year Diary last evening…

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2 years ago · Carole Silvoy

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My heart has felt tender and vulnerable. That’s ok. To know when I need to regroup and honor what’s happening in my head and heart is a big part of doing the kind of work I do. Holding space for others can’t happen if I don’t take good care of myself. I’ve been holding space with myself.

A friend at one of my Death Cafes shared a daily discipline. This sentence is to be completed with anything, large or small, that fits. “Today is a good day because _____”

Those who struggle with feeling down, or have a harder time identifying feelings let alone expressing them may look at this as daunting. The tiniest thing fills in the blank, though, and small things add up. Today is a good day because I’m breathing. Because I woke up today. Because I’ll have a cat purring on my lap. Because it’s Monday only once a week.

Today is a good day because I’m writing here, and my voice is out of hiding. Why is it a good day in your world?

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Photo: Carole Silvoy

Autumn is my favorite season. A lot of the attraction is the color, leaves and sky. The light at sunset and just afterward is mesmerizing to me. In addition I love the smells as the leaves fall, as they dry and crunch under my steps when I walk, as they decay and fall apart. It’s the end of the life cycle, and a reminder that everything dies. After this season of dwindling light and they dying of the warmth of summer, we can remember that these same dying things are what feeds the earth and nurtures the fertility of Spring. We can’t have one without the other.

What do you love about Autumn? Do you have a love/hate relationship with the Fall? Does the whole thing just feel hollow to you? Tell me more.

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8/26/24 So here I sit at Orange Blossom Laundromat at 19th and Roth. After decades of driving by here going back and forth to the theater for shows, meetings, and working at the movies I finally land here needing clean clothes. I ran three regular size loads and one jumbo load, and now the combined piles of wet things are in two jumbo dryers. The machines are almost all window and I’m watching all of these familiar things tumbling around and around. I’d forgotten how mesmerizing it can be to watch clothes in a dryer. There are Mother’s summer oranges and pinks among all our darks. Below that are the lights and the load of colors. It’s in the colors I’m seeing something flash by with sweet memories. It’s a bright rainbow bandana the belonged to Don Horton. The clothes seem to be leaping over one another and that rainbow disappears and I watch until it pops up again.

The bandana turned up while I was climbing through the huge amount of stuff that had collected in the garage. For a long time it had lived in my car stuff, traveling all over the place. It was one of those reminder things, and a “Don Horton Parking JuJu Talisman.” I swear, when we were driving Don around we would get the best parking spaces. When Don died his many signature bandanas were shared out among his closest folk. I chose the rainbow.

Just like pain, with grief there is also a joy that can spring up, unbidden, regardless of how much time goes by. And just this moment I realized that yesterday marked exactly 25 years since Don died.

It comes as such a surprise that so much time has passed. Don’s final year and walking with him on his final journey and death were a defining part of how I became a Death Doula, Educator, and Companion in transition

As I went through all of that collected stuff I had chosen to let go of that rainbow bandana. Yet somehow it’s followed me here, into my next chapter and the laundry leaping in the commercial dryer I would not be using and seeing without this huge life change.

I’m so grateful for the little joys that come up along with bittersweet memories.