My Mom Just Died, and I Had Sex

Words by Lauren Boswell

I’ve known two versions of myself—the Lauren I was for 26 years and the woman I became after my mother died. I would never be the same after experiencing such a catastrophic loss. How could I be, after seeing her lifeless body being carried down the hallway of our local hospice? The death of her was the rebirth of me. 

I don’t remember who I was before she was diagnosed, but I am certain that I was different. I was young and naïve and other than the divorce of my parents in my adolescence, I had never had real adversity thrown my way. I was likely less present in daily life, but maybe more fun? 

Everything felt new mere seconds after she left me. I’ve just gone to the bathroom for the first time since my mom died; this is my first morning coffee as a motherless daughter. I am the worst person in the world because I laughed at a movie and my mom passed away five days ago. 

With all these so-called firsts came a fury of major guilt and an overarching feeling of being so very lost. While alone in my apartment I would wander around saying the words ‘my mom just died’ out loud to try to convince myself it was real. I wasn’t sure what was normal, or if I was playing the role of grieving daughter in the ‘right’ way. I struggled daily with the duality of life being easier now that I no longer had to watch her suffer while selfishly wanting her back at the same time. 

I felt like a newborn experiencing the world around me for the first time except there was nothing joyous about it. My skin was not soft like a baby fresh from the womb; it was painfully dry from the week I’d spent in hospice. What those babies and I shared was that desperate craving for the comfort of their mother. 

My partner was doing a wonderful job supporting me in those early days, and I was doing my best to show my appreciation in ways that felt intimate yet manageable. A hug for making sure I had been fed, cuddling before bed because we were lucky to have one another. Whenever our hands were interlocked, a gentle squeeze with a new meaning each day. 

His love language is physical touch—and as you can imagine, it wasn’t happening as often as either of us would have liked so soon after the loss. 

We were renting an apartment in downtown Vancouver in a neighborhood that allowed us to walk to and from work. It was a warm day, so we had left the bedroom windows open. The sheets were cool to the touch now that the sun had set. Our platform bed was white, and our sheets were a dark charcoal gray. They were from IKEA but felt luxurious back then. 

I was ready and craved the intimacy with him, but I knew I couldn’t dissociate like he would be able to. It had to happen, though, that ‘first’ time. We would need to have sex once with the ‘my mom just died, and I had sex’ cloud hanging over it. I had hoped that after we got over this hurdle, intimacy would resume as normal, or as normal as it could be while living in a world of fog and introspection. 

The only light in our room came from the moon outside; the sateen bedding felt like butter against my freshly shaven legs. His kisses gentle, his touch comforting, like swallowing hot broth on a cold day. It was the connection we both needed. This was going to be totally fine. Maybe enjoyable? 

I exhaled with relief. I quickly realized that perhaps the anticipatory anxiety ahead of having sex was the hard part, not the actual act itself. I was able to get lost in the moment. This is fine Lauren; you are totally fine. The distraction that sex provided was so welcome at first. That feeling didn’t last. 

As soon as we finished, I held my breath in a way that felt like I was drowning. I was waiting for the day, and it was finally here—I was on the brink of breaking down properly for the first time since losing her. I didn’t feel prepared. The timing was not what I assumed. Surely, I was not having a complete emotional meltdown about the death of my mother five seconds after having an orgasm? I walked through the closet into our ensuite and sat naked on the edge of our cold white bathtub. I let out a crying scream that sounded like it came from physical pain, not sadness and heartache. 

My cry evolved with an intensity that didn’t afford any noise to escape. I felt dirty, ashamed, disgusted with myself. Playing on loop in my head, the words my mom just died, and I had sex.

How could I be so selfish? How could I experience a moment of pleasure when my mom has lost the ability to experience anything ever again? 

I was confused with the timing of my crumble but when I came to and analyzed what I had just felt, I considered that maybe the dopamine release shattered through the numbness. I had been doing my best to tiptoe around the pain, but perhaps this spike forced me to lose control of the grief that I had been so desperately trying to contain. 

With everything I was nervous about feeling, a post sex-breakdown about losing my mom was not one of them. But that’s what happens when you experience a loss. It’ll getcha when you least expect it.

Lauren Boswell is writing a memoir about being her mother’s primary caregiver throughout her twenties and navigating life after her death. She is also working on a children’s book about one of her favorite daily rituals with her toddler. She lives in Vancouver, BC, Canada with her husband and son.