Two-Minute Memoir: A World Within the Filofax

From the moment of her lung cancer diagnosis, my mom was steely in her determination to beat the disease. When we learned a few months later that her condition was more complicated than we originally thought, Mom's optimism crossed into denial. She never did things in half measures, and her denial was potent. It prevented me from asking questions about choices she had made in her life, about regrets and triumphs. She even made me promise to never write her eulogy: "I can't bear the thought of you imagining me dead," she said.

One night I was struck with a thought: Mom was processing her death her way, but I had the right to process in my way the grief I felt. I decided I would let go of all funereal thoughts until after Mom died. Then, I'd write my memorial to her.

I became increasingly obsessed with what I didn't know about my mother's life and what I didn't understand about the way she approached her death.

About three years after she died (she was 60) I began in earnest to contact strangers—people who had been involved with her on the golf course, in the haute couture section of clothing boutiques in Detroit, in the pursuit of ecological living in Arizona—asking them to tell me about a woman to whom, I thought, I couldn't have been closer.

The journey began with Mom's green leather Filofax. And it occurred to me quickly that it reflected her, almost uncannily. As with most address books, these were organized—a generous use of the word—alphabetically. Though not in the traditional sense. If she had a plumber named Ned Smith, she might have listed him under S for Smith, N for Ned, P for Plumber, H for Household, R for Repairman, or B for Bathroom. And wherever she had decided to list him, Mom would do so as simply Ned Smith, or even as Ned—but never as "Ned Smith, plumber."

Flipping through these jumbled pages, I was surprised by a feeling of comfort and even euphoria. She had her way of doing things, and she didn't give a shit if it made sense to anyone else.

I began cold-calling numbers. I reached a handful of answering machines and left long, convoluted messages like, "My name is Katie, and I am the daughter of Suzy Rosin. Unfortunately, she died a few years ago, and I am trying to learn more about her by reaching out to people who knew her. So if you have any idea who I am talking about and care to share your recollections of her..."

I hadn't thought of Mary Bitkowski Petrovich in decades. She was my mom's caddie from about 1975 to 1982. When they met at Franklin Hills Country Club in suburban Detroit, Mary was 12 years old, and my mom was 31 and an excellent amateur player. Mary was one of eight children, and her family struggled financially. She was a shy girl, uncomfortable with eye contact.

After talking to Mary, it seemed to me that the most important thing Mom had done for her was to show interest: to ask questions, to solicit her opinion. "She symbolized for me at a very young age everything I wanted to be," Mary told me. "I was from a very undereducated background, and here I was crossing the gates of Franklin Hills every day into the world of very successful, very wealthy people. Your mom was nice to everyone. She didn't wear her accomplishments or her wealth on her sleeve. But when she walked into a room, people could just tell, 'Man, she's got it.'"

Then there was Mom's dance teacher, Chris, who taught her hip-hop and other movements he'd picked up in his travels, like Brazilian martial arts. When Chris couldn't find a sitter to care for his infant son, Elijah, he would bring him to Mom's house during her lesson. She quickly grew smitten with the boy. Before long, Mom was babysitting Elijah and became emotionally invested in his development.

Elijah's mom didn't believe in childhood vaccinations and was adamant about raising Elijah as a strict vegetarian.

Even when Mom was openly meddlesome, she tried to be subtle. When she grew concerned about Elijah's nutrition, she suggested to Chris that he have his son's health evaluated by a physician she knew who incorporated alternative and holistic medicine into his Western practice.

At the time I tracked Chris down, he was living in San Diego and raising a teenage Elijah on his own. For all of our discussions about dancing, I was most struck by something he said about his son, a champion skateboarder. "Elijah has gotten all of his shots and eats a normal diet. He's a really happy kid. I guess I just wish your mom could see that I'm a real good father."

It was in talking to Chris that I first sensed the breadth of Mom's influence. The people she took into her hold tended to fall into certain patterns. There was often a client/service-provider element, an age difference, and ethnic, religious, or class differences. They all joined her in some sort of physical activity or sport. It's as if she connected to people best when she was sweating, moving, and asserting her physical strength and grace.

For about a decade before she died, Mom taught Pilates. When I got ahold of Jennifer, who was listed under P for Pilates in the Filofax, she told me that she had been a student of Mom's for several months. She found herself confiding to Mom about the difficulties she was facing in a troubled marriage.

One day, during a lesson, Jennifer lamented that she had a work event coming up to which she was expected to bring her husband. She was excited about the party but felt anxious that her husband would be moody and might embarrass her. "I'm worried he's going to ruin it for me," she had said.

When they finished the workout, Mom put her hand on Jennifer's shoulder and said, "This is what you do: Twenty minutes before you have to walk out the door, have sex with him. It'll buy you two or three hours of him being relaxed and in a good mood." (Jennifer said to me of the advice: "It worked!")

My mom said this? My mom?

To hear a funny story about her three years after she died—from a complete stranger, no less—was exhilarating. That's the only word for it.

I thought about this little anecdote constantly for weeks, and dined out on it for much longer. It was a story that had nothing to do with cancer or death. It was such a relief.