Every adult child taking care of an aging parent has a silent ache underneath them, especially when the parent starts to forget. That pain became a whole chapter in Mackenzie Phillips’ life, one that was unexpectedly honest but also filled with forgiveness.
Although she wasn’t well-known, Susan Adams was a graceful woman in her prime who navigated powerful circles. She arguably knew more about discretion and authority than her flower-child future husband ever would, having served as Robert McNamara’s personal secretary at the Pentagon. On the one hand, she was a model of professionalism in the 1960s, but on the other, she raised children influenced by the countercultural upheaval of the 1970s.
| Attribute | Details |
|---|---|
| Full Name | Susan Adams |
| Known For | Mother of actress Mackenzie Phillips; former secretary to Robert McNamara |
| Career | Pentagon Secretary; lived privately later in life |
| Notable Family | Daughter: Mackenzie Phillips; Ex-husband: John Phillips (The Mamas & The Papas) |
| Died | During Mackenzie’s book writing process |
| Health Condition | Suffered from dementia in later years |
| Reference Link |
The sharpness that once characterized her began to wane by the time she entered an assisted living facility. It was very hard for her daughter, who used to be a free-spirited sitcom star herself, to make the connection. Mackenzie wrote in one of her more scathing reflections that she had to stop expecting the woman who had once read her legal documents or assisted with flight scheduling and confront the “eighty-year-old mother who wore diapers.” She described it as a moment that required forgiveness from within.
“The fact that you’ve changed from who you were makes me very sad. She once thought, “I need my mommy,” but then realized that saying it aloud would only make things worse. That sentence appeared on the page as a nuanced act of honesty rather than as a confession. It’s likely that many readers, including myself, stopped at that point and recalled instances in which we said something similar, or at the very least, felt it nagging at the back of our minds.
Mackenzie was writing her 2017 book, Hopeful Healing, about addiction and recovery when Susan Adams passed away. Despite the heartache, the farewell was not solely characterized by suffering. As Mackenzie pointed out, it was a gentler mourning—a lovely sort of farewell, less burdened by unresolved matters than her father’s had been.
In those last hours, there was even a moment of cunning humor. As morphine eased the edges of consciousness, Susan turned to face her daughter and said, “You know, I never liked that f—ing cat,” as she watched her cat Bubbles curl up next to her. Truth was delivered with an oddly human punch in this casual and unsentimental line. “The one thing I like about that cat—that cat knows this is bull—” she said after it. The comment felt wickedly alive to a woman who was approaching the end of her life.
That was a gift, Mackenzie thought. “What better last words?” she asked herself. They contrasted sharply with the silent breakdown she went through after her father, John Phillips, passed away. She wrote that a profound internal disintegration resulted from that death. After his death, she struggled with unresolved past issues and unimaginable memories, which led to a relapse. John was more than just a well-known musician, after all. He was the subject of her most complex chapters and the man she accused of incest.
In contrast, something kinder was invited by the death of her mother. Susan had fallen in love with little hope. She fought alcoholism and endured adversity, but she passed away eighteen years sober. Mackenzie now dons her mother’s jacket. She puts on her ring made of sapphire. Small gestures of remembrance that are weighed in quiet reverence rather than trauma.
What really stood out to me was the contrast: while the absence of one parent brought peaceful closure, the absence of the other shattered old wounds. It got me to thinking about how grief is inherited unevenly and how no two farewells are alike.
Despite not making tabloid headlines, Susan Adams left a lasting impression on her daughter. Something particularly poignant—a legacy of subtly reclaimed dignity—was left by the woman who typed classified briefings and then folded laundry in anonymity. In many respects, she had changed the course of her own life.
The turmoil of her childhood and the gentle reverberation of her mother’s salvation are the two rings of memory that Mackenzie Phillips now bears. Both appear to be connected to her years-long recovery. She no longer flees from complexity. She writes on it.