A Brooklyn nurse in Hermosa Beach

Kathleen Flanagan 1944-2021

I have sad news to share. My mother passed away this week. She had pulmonary fibrosis, a lung disease for which there is no cure. Thankfully, she was spared the absolute final stages of the disease. 

Although she became increasingly reliant on walkers, motorized scooters, and oxygen machines over the years, her intelligence and personality never deserted her. She was her uncompromising self, right up to the very end. 

When her time came, she wanted it to be quick. My mother expressed this desire so often I can’t imagine there’s anyone who knew her who didn’t hear her say it at least once. Well, she got wish. 

We were watching Major Crimes—one of the many crime shows my mother loved—when it happened. She sat up in bed to eat lunch. She became dizzy, her oxygen levels crashed, and in a matter of minutes she stopped breathing.

It happened so fast. There were no last words, no knowing looks like you see on television.

During previous visits home I’d break up the day by running errands: driving over to Walmart to pick up my mom’s prescriptions, shopping at the grocery store, or going for long walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes I’d dawdle at the coffee shop just to be around other people for a few minutes. But something told me to stay close to my mother. I’m so glad I listened. 

My mother’s final weeks were busy. She received close to round-the-clock care from a team of hospice nurses and health care workers, in-home aides, and family members. My sister-in-law, Laura, and my cousin, Noreen, have been nothing short of heroic.

My mother was born the day after D-Day in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents died two years apart while she was still a teenager. Her father suffered a stroke and my mother took care of him for over a year, which fostered her seemingly contradictory desires for a quick death and a career in nursing.

She graduated from high school in 1962 and nursing school in 1965. That summer, she drove across the country with her best friend Jen to Hermosa Beach, California. She got a job at South Bay Community Hospital and worked in labor and delivery. Why Hermosa Beach? I have no idea and now I suppose I’ll never know. 

My mother got a kick out of the fact that so much of my writing life in recent years has revolved around musicians from Hermosa Beach. Many months ago, I decided to dedicate my latest book about SST Records to my mother. I thought about sending her a screenshot of the dedication page but decided to wait until my next visit. Then, after I arrived in Virginia last week, it completely slipped my mind. I simply forgot all about it.

When I finally showed the dedication to my mother, she got very emotional, which was unusual for her. My mother was a buttoned-up Irish Catholic who was more comfortable expressing her disapproval than her gratitude. But she was also someone who left Brooklyn behind and started a new life in the West. That impulse must have been strong because it was a journey that all four of her children would make. In fact, three of us would live in the Beach Cities of LA’s South Bay, even though my mom went back to New York before any of us were born. Isn’t that strange?

That afternoon, my mother told me many stories about her time in Hermosa Beach that I hadn’t heard before, stories that I’ll save for another day. 

(Okay, here’s one. At some point my mother’s older sister, Peg, came out to Hermosa Beach too. She got a job working at Taco Bills on Pier Avenue, the home of the original tacoburrito. I knew about Taco Bills because Keith Morris told told me all about it. The tacoburrito was his go-to hangover cure.)

The next morning, my mother told me she dreamt about Hermosa Beach and a few hours later, she was gone.

I feel very much at peace with my mother’s transition and suspiciously blank about everything else. Waking up each morning to a world that doesn’t have my mother in it is going to take some getting used to. Maybe we’re not supposed to get used to our parents leaving us. Perhaps its a requirement for the next phase of life. I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out.

Be safe and tell the people you love that you love them. 

Kathleen “Kate” Flanagan in Hermosa Beach, California