Criminal - Valentine

Episode Date: October 18, 2024

Today, a personal story from Phoebe about her mother, Valentine, who died this spring. Say hello on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. Sign up for our occasional newsletter, The Accomplice. Follow the show and review us on Apple Podcasts. Sign up for Criminal Plus to get behind-the-scenes bonus episodes of Criminal, ad-free listening of all of our shows, special merch deals, and more.  We also make This is Love and Phoebe Reads a Mystery. Artwork by Julienne Alexander. Check out our online shop. Episode transcripts are posted on our website. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Support for Criminal comes from Squarespace. Squarespace is the all-in-one website platform to help you stand out and succeed online. Whether you're just starting out with your own business or managing a growing brand, Squarespace makes it easy to create a beautiful website and get your product, service, or content out there for the right audience to find. You can do it all in one place, all on your terms. Visit squarespace.com for a free trial. When you're ready to launch, go to squarespace.com slash criminal to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain.

Do you want to be a more empowered citizen but don't know where to start? It's time to sharpen your civic vision and ignite the spark for a brighter future. I'm Mila Atmos, and on my weekly podcast, Future Hindsight, I bring you conversations to translate today's most urgent issues into clear, actionable ways to make impact. With so much at stake in our democracy, join us at futurehindsight.com or wherever you listen to podcasts. This week, we released our 100th episode of our other podcast, This Is Love. To mark the occasion, we've done something very different. A story about my mother, Valentine, who died this spring.

We wanted to share it here, too. On December 14th last year, Lauren Spohr, who I've made these shows with for the last 10 years, and I were driving to the local PBS television station in North Carolina to record an interview about the last 10 years of Criminal. I remember we decided it would be a good idea to go to a hair salon that morning and have them try to do something with our hair. We never do this. And when we do, we're never happy with how it comes out. But we tried.

We went to the hair salon at 8 a.m. We were on our way to the interview by 9.30. I like to be early everywhere I go, so we got there early. We were sitting in the car in the parking lot waiting. And two minutes before we were supposed to walk in, I got a phone call. My mother had gone to have a CAT scan of her stomach a few weeks earlier because of some issue with gallstones, her gallbladder. Nothing serious. But during that scan, they had found something else on her pancreas. Pancreatic cancer.

I remember sitting in the car listening to the woman and thinking, I needed her to stop explaining things for a second. I couldn't catch up. The options weren't great. My mother, at 73, had had some health issues and was not a good candidate for the long and invasive surgery that could be done. Putting her through radiation, chemo, treatment would be hard and probably wouldn't add that much time to her life.

Pancreatic cancer. I didn't know much about it, but I'd always heard that it was the worst. It's hard to be told that there's nothing anyone can do. When my father was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago, I got on the phone and he was sitting with an oncologist a week later, making a plan, signing up for the newest clinical trial. And so this news, to be told that this was it, was odd. Lauren and I walked into the studio and started our interview with PBS. I remember being asked questions about how I felt about true crime media and what makes a good story, and thinking, none of this matters at all. Two days later, I flew to Massachusetts

to see her. I remember walking into her room and realizing that this cancer hadn't taken over yet. She seemed great, happy, hungry. It was that first trip to see her after I found out that I started recording. Okay. Would you introduce yourself? My name is Valentine Judge. I'm 73 years old, and I've been living in Chicago for about 25 years. And now I'm coming back here close to Phoebe and close to the many humorous acts that we will perform. In Massachusetts?

I think they know that now. Oh, they do? Okay. Anything else you'd like to say while we're recording? Phoebe, I love you, and I'm so glad you came to see me. And I hope you come back again soon. Well, I'll be back tomorrow and then next week. Okay, well, we're going to say over and out for now, and we'll bring it back out.

Okay, au revoir. I remember meeting with the hospice team. I just started asking questions. My main one, always with a caveat, I know you can't tell me exactly, was what they had seen with pancreatic cancer and how long people lasted. One of the nurses told me,

I've seen people live a year and a half, and I've seen people eating a bag of Doritos today and then dead tomorrow. But I'd say your mother has about six months. And then she told me how to get something they called a comfort care box, which is an actual locked box full of drugs, morphine and Ativan. I told the nurse my mother had just eaten a pound of onion rings and was in no pain at all. Her response was, better to have it. You never know. I stood in line at the pharmacy with all the other people picking up their prescriptions, and all I kept thinking was that they were there to pick up stuff that would keep someone alive.

This was about two weeks before I was supposed to go on tour, the 10th anniversary criminal tour. My mother had been very interested in ticket sales. I told her that Chicago was going great, things were a little light at that point in New York. She told me not to worry. It was a hard thing deciding to go through with the tour, knowing at any moment I could get a call. We were dealing with a finite number of days, and I would be choosing to spend them in Seattle and Philadelphia. I started calling my mother each day at 4.30 exactly. I think I was trying to hear in her voice any changes.

Hello? Hi, Mom. Hi, darling. How are you feeling? I'm feeling just fine. Oh, good. When I talked to you yesterday, you said you had low energy. Oh, well, I don't today.

Good. You're feeling good. And I'm going to see you on Friday. I know, honey. I'm so happy about that. Hello? Hi, Mom. Hi, darling. We're going to have a big storm tonight.

Oh, good. Apparently there's going to be winds, crazy winds, but you might get some snow. Not much. I already looked at the weather forecast. We'll do for a little bit tonight. Oh, but... I'm going right into the rain. I know. It's all going to melt.

How are you feeling? I'm feeling fine. Good. Good. Well, I don't have anything else to report. I'm just, you know, working away, and that's it. Okay, sweetie, I'm glad you called. Well, I'll see you on Friday.

I can't wait. I talked to her about what I should wear on tour. My mother was always very glamorous and loved clothes. I told her how Lauren thought it would be a good idea for me to wear a tuxedo. She didn't agree. You can see the vision? Yes, I definitely can. If it's a well-fitted tuxedo...

Yes. That would make a big difference. Who else is on stage with you? Lauren. So she could wear a tuxedo? Oh, well, now, if both of you are wearing tuxedos, then it makes more sense. I was absolutely determined to find a way for her to come to our show in Boston. I kept talking to her about it, from every city.

I called my mother before the show. I remember standing outside of the Fitzgerald Theater in Minnesota, giving her an update on the crowd. I told her I would see her in a few days. Finally, we arrived in Boston. I got to the theater early to make sure that her seat would have the best view. She'd be using a wheelchair, and I spent a long time trying to map out the best route for her to get backstage. I told everyone that my mother was coming and that she was sick, and the staff at the Wilbur Theater were wonderful. The security guards were waiting outside when her car pulled up to the loading dock. I was shocked at how they treated her, like royalty.

We got my mother to the dressing room, and more and more family and friends arrived. We made this little pin for the tour. It's kind of a joke. It's a photograph of me looking at the camera during a local news interview years ago i gave her one and she put it right on i spent the whole show looking out at the audience and finding her she was sitting next to my aunt i kept looking to see if she was laughing she was not, not all the time, but some of the jokes were landing. She was always a harsh critic. My aunt told me that when the show was over

and people were clapping, my mother tried to stand up. My aunt tried to stop her, but my mother said, I'm standing up. And she did. The security guys carried her wheelchair down the steps out to the loading dock.

I told her we had seven more shows, and then I'd be back to Massachusetts to be with her. She told me to do good work, don't worry about her, and that she'd see me soon. A few days before I got home, I asked if she could have another scan. She seemed to be doing so well. No symptoms. I wondered if there could have another scan. She seemed to be doing so well. No symptoms. I wondered if there had been a mistake. We planned a family weekend on Cape Cod, her favorite place on Earth. She grew up going there with her three sisters.

The night before I went to pick her up, the doctor called. The cancer had spread over her pancreas, and now to her liver. I asked the doctor what she would do if this were one of her parents, and she said, I would let them be and have as much good time as possible. We went ahead with our Cape Cod weekend. My partner Sarah went early and cooked and filled the house with flowers and made a bedroom for my mother.

And I sat with my mother and talked and looked at pictures. Anne, do you see this picture of yourself? I do see that, honey. You like that? Oh, wow, look how young I am. Valentine, you looked pretty good then. You did look pretty good then. That was when I was flirting. It's a good then. You did look pretty good then. That was when I was flirting.

It's a good picture. It is a good picture. We put that in my obituary. You want that picture you want in your obituary? Yeah, but cropped in a little bit. Okay, cropped in. That's the picture you want? Mm-hmm.

Okay, Done. That whole weekend, we ate and laughed and drove around the beaches she loved so much. She sang old songs with my Aunt Jane. They told stories about growing up. My mother seems so alive. Two different faces, but in tight places, we think and we act as one. So, so, those who know, see us, know that nothing can come between us. When, oh. That's pretty good

You got pretty far Yeah Lord help the mister Who comes between me and my sister And Lord help the sister Who comes between me and my man? Good. Got it. When she left, all we talked about was coming back when it got warmer, when the flowers were out.

And then I basically moved into the hospice house. I started using her room to do interviews over Zoom for Criminal and This Is Love, or if there was an open room, I'd sometimes do interviews there, or track, which is what we call recording my narration. On a Friday night in January 1893, a group of masked men arrived at the jail. Yes? Hold on, Lily. Hello? Is it okay if I come in? Absolutely, Lily.? Hold on, Lily. Hello. Is it okay if I come in? Absolutely.

Lily, just one second, Lily. One second, Lily. Sorry. No problem. I just have a 4 o'clock pill a few minutes early. Oh, you'll like this one, Mom. Do you mind if I bring you an Atomy in right now? I'd love it.

That's the good stuff. Right under the tongue. Mom, just try to take... Sorry to make you be quiet for a little while, Mom, but I'll be done soon. Thank you very much. Good, good, good. Thank you, thank you. Okay.

Okay. All right. Sorry, I'm back. One Friday night in January 1893, a group of masked men arrived at the jail in a small town outside of New Orleans. It became a routine. I'd arrive around 8 each morning

after stopping to get her a cinnamon roll or an old-fashioned donut on the way. I'd walk into my mother's room and sometimes find that she wasn't there, already down in the dining room, having an English muffin and coffee. Always coffee. Or sometimes I'd find her in her room not yet awake.

I'd walk in and try to sit down quietly. She'd usually wake up quickly, and I'd go sit on her bed, and she'd say the same thing always. Hi, darling. I'm so glad to see you. And then, you know what I'd really love? Coffee. Most mornings, she would remind me that I had my 9 a.m. editorial call coming up.

I'd say, I'll be quick, and her response was always, take your time. In between meetings and interviews, we would go out, taking long drives around western Massachusetts, always with a big emphasis on lunch, and then usually with a stop for marshmallow sundaes and Diet Pepsi. We'd come back so my mother could take a nap and I could do some work Most afternoons, sneaking away for a run The same route up and down Pleasant Street to the top of the UMass campus And then back, 3.2 miles My mother would say the same thing to me as I left Please be careful And I'd reply the same way every time

Don't worry, Mom, it's on sidewalks She'd be waiting when I came back How'd you do? And I'd reply the same way every time. Don't worry, Mom, it's on sidewalks. She'd be waiting when I came back. How'd you do? My mother was very present during work calls. At one point, Lauren was telling everyone that one way to keep cut flowers from wilting is to add a few drops of vodka. My mother joked, same for me.

Another time, we were having an edit for the criminal episode about jaywalking. I offered to go into another room, but she said she was happy just listening. And then, an hour later, she said out loud, this is the most boring thing I've ever heard in my life. Everyone laughed. Her sisters and cousins would come and visit, and then the singing would start. My Aunt Phoebe would sing the songs they made up when they were little. When my mother was six, she made up a cereal she called Crimies, which was just a bunch of healthy cereals all mixed up together.

But when you called them Crimies, it made it more exciting, and she made up a jingle. Here's my aunt playing the piano in the living room of the hospice. Crimies, ooh, crimies, ooh, Crimeys, ooh Crimeys, they are so good Good, good One more time. Crimeys, ooh, Crimeys, ooh

Crimeys, they are so good There was a lot of watching British gardening shows and Rick Steves. But more than anything, my mother wanted to watch Larry David. She would laugh and laugh. My father would often come at the end of the day, and I'd head back to his house. He and my mother were married for 30 years, had three children together, and had been divorced for a decade. But they never really drifted apart. My father would show up to the hospice every evening around five. And hours later, I'd call

and ask where he was. And he'd say, your mother and I are sitting outside, having a glass of wine and listening to Blossom Deary. It's a beautiful night. My mother had been giving him a hard time about his decision to grow a beard. She'd said, Tony, what are you going to do about that beard? It's really awful. Then one day he walked in, and the beard was gone. My mother and I were at Captain Jack's, a seafood restaurant, when I realized something had changed. Her favorite thing in the world had been their onion rings. She looked at me after eating a few and said, you know what, Phoebe? I'm not really hungry. We got in the car and turned on the talking heads, her favorite, and she was there smoking a cigarette and singing along to Road to Nowhere. She said that day what she said every time we got in the car.

I'm here driving on this beautiful day with my girl Phoebe. What more could I want? Right around this time, I did an interview with the musician Peggy Seeger. It was a difficult interview for a lot of reasons, but there was a point where, listening back now, I think I couldn't hide what was happening. What was it like to lose him? What do you think? Those kind of questions, Phoebe, baffle me because I know you want some fantastic answer. And whenever anybody asks a woman,

what did it feel like to see your toddler under a steamroller? I think, what do they think it felt like? I mean, he was my life companion. I'm not comparing you to that, but the question, I think you must very long time and be sick, even though he was good at it. And I wonder in some way, of course, the easy answer, and that's the answer. Of course, it's hard. It's the worst thing in the world. It's horrible, of course.

But that's not really, that's just a simple thing. I wonder in some way whether because you had this life with Irene that was happening in some way and because he had been sick, I just, that's what I'm interested in. You know, is it anything more than just, of course, of course, horrible? My mother had started to have pain. I'd see it in her face, and she'd hold her stomach. She never complained, but I was always watching, constantly asking. At one point she said, Phoebe, you asked me five minutes ago. The answer is the same. We had this new language. Where are you on a scale of one to ten?

Three we could live with. When it got to five, I went to find the nurses. The nurse station was just outside my mother's room. I passed by it every time I walked down the hall to get her a Diet Pepsi or push her outside to have a cigarette. I got to know them all, and they were wonderful. I'd go and tell them that my mother was at a five again, and the answer would always be, well, that's not good. Let's see what we can do. They would come and talk to her and comfort me and find a way to get the pain to go back down. One morning, my mother said, let's go for a drive. It was a beautiful May day. Things were green. We drove on back roads to my father's house to pick something up.

As we were driving back, I saw my mother grimace a bit in the passenger seat. I asked her about her pain. She looked out the window and said, Don't ask me about that anymore. Let's talk about the trees. We'll be right back. Thanks to Squarespace for their support. Building a website can seem intimidating if you've never done it before,

but you don't need to worry when you use Squarespace. Squarespace is the all-in-one website platform to help you stand out and succeed online. No matter your level of experience, Squarespace makes it easy to create a beautiful website for your project or business so you can get your product, service, or content out there for the right audience to find. They have plenty of tools to help you tailor it to fit your personality and vision. And if you aren't quite sure what you want, Squarespace has the tools to help you figure it out, like their website builder called Blueprint AI. It just asks you a few questions about your brand or business, and it uses that information to create a blueprint for your online presence. Plus, your websites will look great no matter what device people use to access them, a phone, computer, or tablet. Visit squarespace.com for a free trial,

and when you're ready to launch, go to squarespace.com slash criminal to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain. And to help us out, we are joined by Kylie Robeson, the senior AI reporter for The Verge, to give you a primer on how to integrate AI into your life. So, tune into AI Basics, How and When to Use AI, a special series from Pivot sponsored by AWS, wherever you get your podcasts. My sister Chloe died in 2015. She was just about to turn 30. She and my mother were very close. Soon after we found out that my mother had cancer, she started talking about Chloe a lot. And talking to her.

I wish you were here. I hope you're having a good time. I wish you're having a good time, and I'll be happy if you're not here. Yep, I think that's right. You think what's right? She can hear when you talk about it, Mom. As my mother got sicker, I found myself talking to Chloe, too. I was on a run one morning, and out loud said,

Chloe, get ready. She's coming. I've done all I can here. It's your turn now. I kept saying it. I knew things were really turning when she didn't want a cigarette. I'd try and get her to eat little bites of things. I started calling people and telling them that they should come. Come now and not in a week or two when she may be sleeping a lot.

A lot about the last 15 years of my mother's life had been hard and all I wanted to do now was to make her as happy as possible, letting only the good things through. Okay, mom, what did you just say you were? I said that I wanted to be, and I'm going to be, happy and... I forget the other thing. Comfortable. Comfortable, and I'm both. Because you're being served donuts in bed.

I'm being served donuts in bed, and my girl Phoebe is here. So I'm both. Because you're being served donuts in bed. I'm being served donuts in bed and my girl Phoebe is here. So I am happy. And now we just need to find the remote. My mother was always talking about how she needed a manicure. So I decided I would give her a manicure. Not something I've ever done before. She'd been keeping her hands kind of balled into fists

and I gently opened her fingers and painted her nails. Bright red. I've ever done before. She'd been keeping her hands kind of balled into fists, and I gently opened her fingers and painted her nails, bright red. My niece and my mother were very close, and we decided that it was time for her to come and say goodbye. She goes to school in Vermont. My father went to pick her up, and I met her at the door outside to let her know that Grandma looked a little different.

Standing in the hall outside of my mother's door, my niece said, she's dying, Phoebe. And I said, yes, she is, and she's so happy you're here. And then this 15-year-old walked into her grandmother's room and sat right on the side of her bed and leaned down and said, hi, Grandma, I'm so glad to see you. My mother wasn't really eating anything by this point. We'd started putting Diet Pepsi in a dropper, the same kind they were using to give her morphine and Ativan. Chocolate chip ice cream still works sometimes. A few bites.

She'd let us know when she didn't want any more. I had to go and have a meeting with the nurses for a few minutes, and I left Madeline in with my mother. I asked her to take care of her for a little while. She seemed a little nervous. When I came back 15 minutes later, I peeked my head in the door and saw Madeline spooning little bits of ice cream

into my mother's mouth and then using a napkin to make sure she hadn't dropped any. My mother was staring right at her. I decided to leave them alone. The nurses kept telling me that they couldn't say exactly when my mother would die. I kept asking. I'd been asking that question since December. This was May.

They told me she likely had a week or less. They said that sometimes people need to feel like they have permission to go, so we should start telling my mother that she could leave any time. What a wild thing, I thought. But I would say it. I started telling her that she could go any time, that everything was going to be okay, that her children would be fine, and she had done her job. My cousin is a geriatric

nurse practitioner, and I asked her what she thought about this. She said yes, and that my mother should hear it from each of her children and see our faces, not just voices on the phone. One morning, I got my sister and brother on FaceTime. My mother's eyes were closed, and she wasn't speaking much. But when she heard their voices, her eyes opened, and they both told her that they loved her and that it was okay to go. I always had a hard time leaving at night, but the aides and nurses started telling me that sometimes people need space.

It felt very counterintuitive. I would get back to my father's house at 7.30 or 8. My partner Sarah would be there with dinner and our new four-month-old puppy. I'd walk in and immediately call the nurses and ask how she was. I'd tell them that I would be back there at 8 a.m., but my arrival started getting earlier. 8 a.m. became 7 and then 6 and then 5. It was like a magnet. I'd wait outside her room just watching, trying not to wake her. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to be anywhere else. I kept thinking about the heat wave in Chicago when I was nine.

My mother dragged the mattresses off of our beds and put them outside. On New Year's Eve, she would always set up Twinkies and root beer and create a string maze through all the rooms of the house. Before we went to sleep, she would come in and say goodnight, and you could pick whether you wanted your head rubbed or your back rubbed. I didn't forget that stuff. On May 15th, I stayed in bed until 4.45 a.m., and then left to see her. When I walked in, my mother was still there,

breathing slowly and then not breathing. Someone told me that dying is a lot of work, just like giving birth. I was trying not to crowd her. Sarah and I went to an antique festival, something that I would normally never agree to. My Aunt Jane was there with my mother and texting updates all the time. It was an odd thing, walking around looking at old fishing rods, knowing that the next text I could get might be that my mother was gone. I ended up buying a painting of a man riding on the top of a whale. He kind of looked like a pilgrim, and he was wearing these shoes with heels.

I kept thinking how much my mother would like that. My father was fixated on making arrangements. It hadn't been so long since we did this for my sister. I remember that funeral director saying we would need an urn of some sort. He said he could sell us one, but if it were him, he would go to Michael's and buy a nice cookie jar or something like that to make sure it had a lid. So we did.

A white ceramic cookie jar from the mall. We dropped it off. It was a set of threes, so we told them they could keep the rest. When we came back to pick up her ashes, they told me there was a problem. She didn't fit. They had really tried, but they were having a hard time getting all the ashes in the largest of the jars.

I asked if I could try. I walked back into the office and saw Chloe's ashes there in a cardboard box, a plastic bag the size of a bag of flour. A man showed me that it just wasn't going to work, so I asked if he would hand her to me. And I moved and shaped and stuffed her in there, and I held her in while I asked the man to quickly get the superglue on the top of the lid. When Sarah and I got back to the hospice house, my aunt and uncle and father were outside.

The sun was out. I walked into her room to say hello. Her eyes were closed. We changed her into some clean pajamas. I'd become a pro at this point at rolling her over, holding on to her as the aid or nurse pulled the sheets out from underneath. Whenever we would turn her, my mother's eyes would shoot open. She hated it. She was in pain. She would grab onto my hand with so much force, I couldn't imagine that this was someone who was dying.

I'd tell her that I was right there, and there was no way I was going to let her fall. I'd make a joke about how strong I was. When we finally got her changed and moved, it was always a relief. I'd fall down next to her and say, We did it, Mom. It's over now. And then I'd offer her a little Diet Pepsi.

That night, the aides told me that they had her. She was well taken care of, that she would want me to get some rest. I was told that people's feet start to look a little blue and get cold at the end. So before I left, I felt my mother's feet. Warm. The next morning, it was still dark when I arrived. I slipped into my mother's room, and unlike the way I'd left her the night before, now her eyes were open, and she seemed to be struggling to breathe. The nurse came in and we gave my mother her medicine early,

and then the nurse put a patch on my mother's neck to help her breathe. It didn't work. I was trying not to let my mother see how upset I was at the fact that she seemed to be struggling. I sat down by her side and held her hand and talked to her about the funny painting with the man in the heels. I told her I'd go get us some coffee. Then I went into the hall and asked the nurse

what she thought about the idea that people need space to die. She said, well, yes, but also people leave the way they lived. If your mother was a social person, she might like you around. Company. When I walked back in the room, my mother's eyes were still open, staring right at me. But her breath was calm, the calmest breathing I'd ever seen. I told her to go find Chloe, and that I'd come find them. And I told her thank you. And then she took her last breath. I had my hand on her shoulder, and I closed my eyes, and I just started breathing.

The birds outside the window had not stopped. The rain had not stopped. After a minute, I felt my mother's wrist. No pulse. I kept standing there with my hand on her shoulder. After about ten minutes, I walked out to the nurse's station to let them know that my mother had died at 8.16. The nurse came in and listened to her chest, and then said,

Valentine, it was an honor caring for you. I'd never really been with a dead body before. I'd been to the body farm for an episode of Criminal, but I didn't really know what to expect. I had no idea how peaceful it would be. I called my father and Sarah, and they started the drive over. I spent the next 20 minutes alone with her in the room. After a while, the aide came in and asked if it would be alright to wash my mother a little so we could get her changed. I said of course.

I said I would help. It was so funny. My mother's back was still warm. Her cheek was cold. We washed her and then dressed her back in her favorite gray sweater and put the Phoebe pin on her chest. And then braided her hair and I put a bow at the end, and sprayed her with Chanel No. 5, her favorite. I put her pocketbook on the end of her bed. When the funeral home showed up, I realized that this was the one thing I couldn't do.

I didn't want to see her being taken away. I stayed in the room until I heard they were outside, and then I did what I had done for so many days in the past months. I left my mother's room and went for a run. Sarah stayed with my mother until they took her away. I ran the same route that I had all those times. When I got back, my mother was gone. Sarah told me that when they opened the door to bring my mother out, the whole staff and all the volunteers were lined up on both sides of the hallway, wishing my mother a good journey, telling her how glad they were to have gotten to know her. I wrote her obituary the next morning.

It was strange to try to get the feeling of her right. I wrote that she loved beautiful things, stone walls, French braids. She loved a good joke. She loved a well-cut suit on a man. She loved Cape Cod. She loved the sun. She loved fried clams but did not like bellies. She loved onion rings, chocolate chip ice cream.

She loved a marshmallow sundae. She hated eggs and whipped cream. She loved opera and the talking heads, Italian vogue. She loved an event and was a fantastic hostess. She loved her children. I chose the picture that she asked for, for the obituary, of her on the beach on Cape Cod when she was about 38. We had her memorial in Sudbury, Massachusetts,

where she grew up on June 1st, in a beautiful old chapel. I wore my mother's skirt. We always called it the butterfly skirt. She'd worn it at Chloe's funeral. I played some of the tape I had recorded of her over the last few months, so my mother was there with us in the room. Hello. Hi, Mom.

Hi, darling. How are you? Fine. How are you feeling? Good. Would you introduce yourself? My name is Valentine Judge. I'm 73 years old, and I've been living in Chicago for about 25 years. And now I'm coming back here close to Phoebe and close to the many humorous acts that we will perform. In Massachusetts. I think they know that now.

Oh, they do? Okay. And do you see this picture of yourself? I did see that, honey. You like that? Oh, wow. Look how young I am. Valentine, you looked pretty good then. You did look pretty good then. That was when I was flirting.

It's a good picture. It is a good picture. Will you put that in my obituary. You want that picture you want in your obituary? Yeah, but cropped in a little bit. Okay, cropped in. That's the picture you want? Mm-hmm.

Okay, done. I can't, why do you have a picture of me there? Because I liked it. Okay, Mom, what did you just say you were? I said that I wanted to be and I'm going to be happy and I forget the other thing. Comfortable. Comfortable and I'm both. Because you're being served donuts in bed. I'm being served donuts in bed. And my girl Phoebe is here. So I am happy. And now we just need to find the remote.

Okay, I'll sign off. Okay, you've got to end the show. You've got to say something to end the show. I have to say something to end the show? Yeah. Well, the star of the show is going away. That's me, yes. Thank you. Thanks very much. Criminal and This Is Love are created by Lauren Spohr and me. Nadia Wilson is our senior producer.

Katie Bishop is our supervising producer. Our producers are Susanna Robertson, Jackie Sajico, Lily Clark, Lena Sillison, and Megan Kinane. Our show is mixed and engineered by Veronica Simonetti. You can learn more about the show on our website, thisislovepodcast.com. And you can sign up for our newsletter at thisislovepodcast.com slash newsletter. You can listen to This Is Love without any ads by signing up for Criminal Plus. You'll also get to listen ad-free to our other shows, Criminal and Phoebe Reads A Mystery. Plus, you'll get bonus episodes and more.

To learn more, go to thisiscriminal.com slash plus. We're on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram at This Is Love Show. This Is Love is part of the Vox Media Podcast Network. Discover more great shows at podcast.voxmedia.com. I'm Phoebe Judge, and this is love. Okay, sweetheart. Okay, bye, Mom.

Bye, darling. What software do you use at work? The answer to that question is probably more complicated than you want it to be. The average U.S. company deploys more than 100 apps, and ideas about the work we do can be radically changed by the tools we use to do it. So what is enterprise software anyway? What is productivity software? How will AI affect both? And how are these tools changing the way we use our computers

to make stuff, communicate, and plan for the future? In this three-part special series, Decoder is surveying the IT landscape presented by AWS. Check it out wherever you get your podcasts. Your own weight loss journey is personal. Everyone's diet is different. Check it out wherever you get your podcasts. and biology-based approach. This program helps you understand the science behind your eating choices and helps you build new habits for a healthier lifestyle. Stay focused on what's important to you with Noom's psychology and biology-based approach. Sign up for your free trial today at Noom.com.