MOM'S CHANEL NO. 5
“She enjoyed knowing she wore the same scent as some of the most glamorous women in the world—a wink and nod to the complexities she contained.”
My mother, Susan Cameron Gormley, was a woman people talked about years later even if they’d met her only once. She carried herself with an air of confidence but not snobbery, which she detested in any form. She was the youngest of three children, the only girl, and she knew she was her father’s favorite. He was the one who first bought her Chanel No. 5, an iconic perfume for his iconic daughter. My own father later assumed the Chanel-giving tradition, and I believe Mom enjoyed knowing she wore the same scent as some of the most glamorous women in the world—a wink and nod to the complexities she contained.
She wasn’t glamorous herself—not in the usual sense. We lived on a farm in Ohio, and she dressed simply, wore no makeup or jewelry, never dyed her hair. But even as a kid I knew she was special from the way people reacted to her, and I wanted to be just like her. Her gift was seeming to be utterly comfortable in her own skin, which in turn allowed her to be fully present in every interaction. She wasn’t one for superficialities; she preferred going deep, even with strangers and kids. More than one of my friends confessed wishing she were their mom. People adored her, and she adored them back.
In the face of all this adoration, I wasn’t sure where I fit in. Like Mom, I was the youngest child, but I had no sense of being anyone’s favorite. She and I were always close, but it worried me to see her giving so much love to others, as if love were a zero-sum game, as if more for someone else meant less for me. So I set about trying to earn her love. I set out to become a version of myself I thought she—and the world, really—wanted: smart, skinny, successful. And very quickly I started filling up with a profound self-loathing Mom didn’t see and even I wouldn’t recognize until well into adulthood.
I was 21 when she first told me about her struggles with depression. We were sharing calamari at a bistro in Chicago. I don’t know if she suspected I was suffering in my own way, but she wanted me to know there was more to the Susan Gormley everyone thought was perfect. Still, I didn’t tell her about my troubles. I wanted her to think I was perfect too. I was in business school, firmly on my trajectory of attempting to feel self-worth by striving for success. Even when she was diagnosed with breast cancer four years later, I spent only a few days with her before returning to what had become a career of chasing gold stars.
Twenty years later, things had begun to change. I was 45 and, with the help of therapy, finally turning some emotional corners—enough so that when Mom's cancer metastasized, I was able to do something unexpected: I dropped out of corporate life for a full year. I left my big job in San Francisco to go home to Ohio and be with her. To be together again, but in a new way.
Mom’s final days were excruciating but gorgeous. Though we both knew death was near, the hours felt quiet and calm. She had chosen to be at the farm, her favorite place. No beeping machines, no metal carts clattering in cold hallways. The bedroom was peaceful; the sounds were the voices of people she loved, people who loved her. And in that room, holding her frail hands and looking into her blue eyes, I started to see that Mom’s love was a multiplier, that she’d always had enough for me. Neither of us had been quite the person other people thought we were, but in those last days, I believe we saw each other clearly.
A week after Mom died, the cleaning lady cleared out her medicine cabinet but left this last, almost-empty bottle of her perfume for me to find. I had tried it as a girl and never liked the way it smelled on me. This time was different. I now wear Chanel No. 5 every day, dabbing the gold liquid on my wrists in a private ceremony: a celebration of the bond my mother and I share, and a reminder that although I’m not her, I am hers.
—Sarah Cameron Gormley
Sarah Gormley’s debut memoir, The Order of Things, published in September 2024, is the story of how coming home to care for her dying mother changed her life. She owns Sarah Gormley Gallery in Columbus, Ohio, which operates from the belief that original art can be a source of joy for everyone.
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I too teared up at the end of this beautiful story. Thank you for sharing and I see you wrote an entire book about losing your beloved mother. What a wonderful way to honor her legacy.
Thank you. Your mom was authentic and as you reference "comfortable in her own skin" with a dose of humility that endeared her to everyone. I suspect her revelation of dealing with depression was prompted by her knowing you so well and loving you while at the same time respecting you enough to not corner you. She loved you so much and was so extraordinary a human being and parent to have given you the gift of her weaknesses and struggles. Isn't it amazing how much our parents know about us. We think we are a big secret, but they have known and loved us from the beginning -- from conception! They know us. Your mother was able to take this knowledge of you her precious child and be there for you. My observation for what it is worth. Your writing is beautiful by the way and the story is as well. Brought tears to my eyes. Take care.