Mother/daughter gallery

Six Words - How My Mother Taught Me One Last Lesson...

There is nothing earth-shattering about the death of an 87-year-old woman...unless that woman is your mother. Suddenly this woman who had been there forever was gone. The nurse who greeted us when my sister and I had arrived had warned us, but nothing could have prepared me for the empty feeling I had as we walked into her room to see only her lifeless body.

I had arrived in Edmonton five days before from Chile, where I was living at the time. I visited her every day, sometimes alone, other times with one or more of my four sisters. We talked and laughed and even had her laughing. Although she wasn't always lucid, she always knew who we were - her five daughters. She could even list our names - Mary, Pat, Sheila, Maureen, Sharon. I can still hear her recite that litany when we were children as she tried to come up with the name of the person she was castigating. Those of you with more than one child, or more than one dog, for that matter, know what I'm talking about.

She had more trouble with her nine grandchildren's names. She didn't always recognize them in her last days. We weren't quite sure how many marbles were still there. One day she said to me, "Are you someone's mama?" Oops, no marbles there. I leaned over to her and said, "I'm Kim's mama. Are you someone's mama?" She grinned and said softly, "I'm Kim's mama's mama." Yep, there were still some marbles left.

During those last days, she often called out for her own mother, who had been dead for over fifty years. I think she was scared. I'm sure she knew that her time on this earth was coming to an end, and she needed some motherly love and assurance that everything would be all right. We tried the best we could to give this to her. I hope we were right.

She died at 9:45am, five days after I arrived and 2 days after my sister, Sharon, arrived from Australia. Pat and I had left the house at 9:30 to go and see her that morning. We were ten minutes too late. I think she wanted to make sure that if we couldn't all be there when she died, none of us would be. She didn't want to create any sibling rivalry. On hearing the news, the others came immediately. The five of us spent three hours with her before the doctor came to confirm her death, processing this new reality, holding her hands that were far more relaxed now in death than they had been for the last week.

The preparation for the funeral, the burial and the wake brought on a flurry of activity. Her five daughters, her nine grandchildren and four of her five great-grandchildren were there to send her off into the unknown. It was a time of coming together. Cousins who didn't see each other in the course of their daily lives were reunited. It was especially poignant to see three of her grandsons who are now fathers standing in a circle comparing notes on the challenges and rewards of parenthood and how overall, it really is worth it. It dawned on me then that it wasn't only her daughters who benefitted from Mom's eternal optimism. There was no doubt in my mind that her grandchildren and even her great grandchildren would be influenced by this blessed ability to believe, during the inevitable dark days that life presents, that things will get better.

It's been a year and a half now. I am living back in Toronto. I often find myself thinking about her, wondering where she is, whether she can see or hear me, and coming to grips with the fact that I won't see her again. There's no more picking up the phone to chat with her and hear how her regular Sunday afternoon visit with my sisters and their families had been, no more visits to celebrate her birthday.

I discovered that the most comforting thing after her death was when people emailed me their condolences or sent me a card or - best of all, if possible, came up to me, gave me a hug and said, "I'm so sorry about your mom." Those six words spoke volumes. I had never before realized how important that small gesture is for helping someone who is grieving the loss of a loved one.

The next time someone I know experiences the death of someone dear to them, I don't need to say any more than those six words. There is nothing I can say to lessen their grief. They just need to know I care.

Posted by Mary Wallace July 23, 2010 @ 12:11 PM.

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