Forgetting the Unforgettable.

The toll of grief I was not expecting

Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t knock on the door politely or wait for an invitation—it crashes in, unannounced. On March 17, my life shifted forever. I lost my mother, my best friend, my biggest fan and my biggest cheerleader. Her name was Mary. She was the kind of person who lit up every room, who loved fiercely and unapologetically. She adored the gays, and trust me, the gays adored her equally. She was my rock, my confidant, and the one person I could always count on and her loss has left a hole in my heart bigger than the heart itself.

The loss came just six days before the taping of my talk show, *Naked Guy Crocheting*. I was faced with a decision: cancel the show or carry on. My mother would have wanted the latter. She believed in me, in my work, and in my ability to make people laugh and connect. So, I pushed through and suppressed the grief. I promoted, sold tickets, and put on my brave face, even as my heart felt like shattering.

On the day of the show, standing in front of 140 people, I revealed to the audience that my mother had passed. I couldn’t hold back the tears. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, and I felt my mother’s spirit cheering me on.

After the show, I flew home, and over the next two days, I laid my mother to rest whilst keeping it together during my eulogy at the Church and placing photos of me, Mark and all of our dogs; Tino, Cameo & Mr. Pickles into her coffin. The grief was overwhelming, but I had Mark, my husband, by my side, holding me up when I felt like collapsing.

Then, just days after the funeral, something terrifying happened. I began showing signs of memory loss. Mark said I was asking the same question over and over. “Mark, did I pay the venue for my talk show?” Mark responded, “Yes, you paid in full after the show.” To which I would respond, “No wait, they gave me the room for free.” Mark said, “No you paid them.” Then a few minutes later I would ask the same questions. Mark decided to bring me to the hospital, and by the time we arrived, I couldn’t remember my name, or the day and worst off…I couldn’t even remember my mother’s funeral. The entire 2 days was nothing but a suppressed memory.

The doctors ran every test imaginable—MRI, EEG, EKG, ultrasounds, bloodwork—but everything came back normal. It was Mark who helped connect the dots. When he told the neurologist about the emotional whirlwind of the past week, the diagnosis came: Transient Global Amnesia—a temporary, stress-induced condition that leaves you lost in a fog of forgetfulness. Not serious, they assured us, but in that moment, it felt terrifying.

While in the hospital, Mark recorded about 10 minutes of our conversation. It was difficult to listen to. My voice was weak, my words incoherent and I kept repeating myself. I would say, “Mark, were we just in Rochester?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “If we were in Rochester then that means my mother must have died. Did my mother die?” Mark answered, “Yes.” I then started crying followed by a moment of silence. Then just a few seconds later I would repeat myself. “Mark I think my mom died. Did you speak with my dad?” Mark said, “Yes, your mom died. We buried her last week.” Once again I would cry. Mark informed me that this repeated conversation went on for 4 hours. The irony isn’t lost on me that two years ago, I wrote a film about a man suffering from memory loss after trauma, and now, here I was, living a version of that reality.

They kept me overnight for observation and by the next morning, my memory returned, and I was back to my normal self. But the experience left me shaken. It reminded me of how fragile the human mind can be and how deeply grief can impact us—not just emotionally but physically as well.

I still have a difficult time understanding why this happened. I’ve been though grief before. My grandmother died in 1998. I was very close to her. My sister died of cancer at the age of 35 in 2002. And my dog Mr. Pickles was put to sleep in 2020 which quite frankly was the hardest loss I have ever experienced. Why did this happen now?

Through all of this, I’ve learned that grief is not linear. It comes in waves, sometimes crashing over you when you least expect it. But I’ve also learned that we are stronger than we think. My mother’s love and spirit continue to guide me, and I know she would want me to keep moving forward, sharing my story, and making people laugh.

To anyone going through loss, know that you are not alone. Grief is a testament to the love we shared with those we’ve lost. And while the pain may never fully fade, neither will the memories, the laughter, and the love.

Thank you for letting me share this with you.