In My Dreams...

I'm a dreamer. Not the pie-in-the-sky variety, but the dead-to-the-world-sound-asleep kind. My nocturnal videos often take me to strange places with people I don't believe I've ever met. Or have I? That's the thing about dreams, you just never know. Sometimes this shadowy world seems far too real to be merely a part of one's wacky subconscious. A few dreams I've had since Mom and Angela have taken wing seem too vivid to discount as mere dreams. The recurring ones leave me feeling anxious, inept, and even sad. 

My dreams of Angela consist of her desire to come back and secure loose ends left dangling by her sudden passing. To do this, her spirit must enter the body of someone who hasn't quite crossed over. As you can well imagine, these bodies are seldom in good shape. My mission, whether or not I choose to accept it, is to accompany her on this sojourn and provide the support she needs to accomplish it - even if it means picking up a dropped appendage or two. It's a race against time as the host seemingly melts away. The task is never completed before the borrowed shell gives up the ghost and Angela must take wing once again. When the dream returns we never pick up where we left off - it seems this task must be completed in its entirety or not at all. It's been a month or more since our last attempt. Perhaps she's looking for a better specimen or a more proficient helper.

The dreams I've had about Mom involve her coming back to die a good death. But each time she comes back the death is no better - it's still death. I've come to realize that perhaps the circumstances surrounding her death are no longer as troubling to me as the fact that she's actually gone. I miss her so and I never, in my dreams, imagined how much. Recently, the dreams about Mom have taken a more pleasant turn. A month or so ago we took that trip to Australia she always wanted. There was no infirmity plaguing her. She was her vibrant, sparkling self - walking, talking, laughing. We had a great time and upon waking, it was a nice remembrance. A few weeks ago, my subconscious happily allowed her to reclaim her mothering role.

At the end of February, a dear friend of our family passed away. She was 'Aunt Hilda' to me even though there was no familial tie. She and my 'Uncle Tom' were friends with my Dad even before he met my Mom and they became good friends as couples. Like Mom and Angela, Aunt Hilda took wing on a Monday and the celebration of her life was held that Wednesday. I booked a flight and set my alarm for four o'clock that morning to ensure I was up on time. The dream I had that night took place in the old house where both Mom and I grew up. I saw it as vividly as if it were still standing. Mom and I said our good night's and went to bed. In the morning, she shook me awake in a terrible panic, shouting, "It's six a.m.! You'd better get up and get ready or you'll miss your flight and your Aunt Hilda's service!" I woke from this dream with a start and immediately looked at the clock. It was actually three fifty-eight. She made sure I got up on time. Thanks Mom.

It's a year ago today that Mom died. The year of firsts is behind me. The heartache has lessened. It seemed there was a lifting of a heavy burden after Christmas. I felt less sad, less prone to tears. I started remembering happier times. I'm not sure what phenomenon took place to make this happen, whether it was simply the passage of time or a final 'letting go' on both our parts; mine and Mom's. I'd like to think she's settled in and 'the powers that be' have put her many talents to good use. Busy hands, happy heart - that's my Mom.

I feel blessed to have the memory of my Mom to warm my soul and until my time comes - I know I'll see her in my dreams.

The rest is pixie dust...

Everybody does it...

Many moons ago, the company I worked for sent me to a public speaking workshop to prepare me to present an education program to children in grades three to six. I learned some great techniques as well as many common pitfalls of public speaking. I felt prepared for my first experience presenting to my daughter's grade three class. Her sweet face was front and centre. I smiled away my sweaty palms and tried not to appear too nervous. When my daughter got home from school that day I asked her how she thought I did. She said, "I could tell you were nervous Mom - next time, just look at everyone and remember - they have to poop too." I was taken aback by this gem of wisdom, this simple nugget of truth from one so young. This common bodily function breaks down barriers of class and intellect and seats us all on the same throne. It was great advice and I've carried it with me ever since. Whenever I'm in a situation where I feel my confidence waning I just remember, everybody does it.

My Mom knew it was important that 'everybody did it' and she seemed rather fixated on the regularity of her family members.  Her grandchildren will remember being asked almost daily, "Did you have a BM today?" If they hadn't she would give them one of her homemade 'Gran-muffins' or hand them a few prunes.

Mom revered the humble prune. She even had a prune keyfob and a prune fridge magnet that said, "Keeps Canada Moving!". On car trips or in a doctor's office tucked into the dark corners of her purse she always had a bag of prunes. She never left home without them. Mom preferred prunes with their pits intact. After she devoured the flesh the pit kept her mouth busy for hours. In later years, she stewed her own prunes and enjoyed them as a bedtime snack. I can't see a prune and not think fondly of my Mom.

Eventually, the tables turned and Mom's regularity became as important to me as ours once was to her. I guess this is a natural part of caregiving. As her infirmity increased her motility decreased. Sometimes it seemed nothing short of dynamite would do the trick. So at breakfast I would concoct a smoothie of bran softened in hot water, mixed with cream of wheat, milk and a little brown sugar so it was edible through a straw. Finally, when success was achieved, we celebrated and I would sing her this little song: 

Ta ra ra BOOM-de-ay!
I had a poop today,
I didn't yesterday,
I want to shout HOORAY!

Ta ra ra BOOM-de-ay!
I had a poop today,
Good-bye old poop I say,
You swirl and swim away.

She would laugh and clap as I danced and gyrated my way through this little diddy. When she caught her breath she would beg me to, "Write that down!". So I wrote it in the pages of the journals I kept for her. It appears sporadically throughout each volume and whenever I see it, I can't help but smile.

Mom would be pleased to see that I too, keep a bag of prunes. I prefer the unpitted variety. And every morning I have a helping of bran with fruit, half a teaspoon of cinnamon, some ground flax and chia seeds, mixed with half a cup of hot milk. My husband calls it 'swill'. But I don't care - it keeps Canada moving.

Ta ra ra BOOM-de-ay!

The rest is pixie dust... 

Looking back...

Every January I reflect on the previous year and take stock of events, both life-altering and otherwise and decide how I fared personally. How did I cope? What could I have done differently? Could I have made things better? It sounds like a lot of second guessing doesn't it? This year, I used journals I'd written to assess my performance through the events that marked 2011. One thing is for certain, my routine has changed drastically. I'm no longer getting up at the crack of dawn, showering, having breakfast, taking my husband to the train and then heading to the seniors residence for my morning visit with my Mom. Those were precious times, as my journal entries reveal. 

"This morning her eyes were closed when I entered her room. The rustle of my jacket awakened her. I could tell it took her a second to recognize me. I helped her a little by giving her a cheery, "Hi Mom!". She reached for my hand and warmed my icy fingers in hers. "It's cold outside.", she observed. She asked why it was so cold and just as I was about to tell her there was less than a month before Christmas, her alarm clock heralded the early morning hour with "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas". We both smiled and I said, "It's nearly Christmas Mom." "Is it really?", she asked, so surprised. As though this was a first in our morning ritual." 

Reading through various journal entries lets me play a movie in my mind, frame by frame. How fortunate I was to have the time to spend with her. Although the journals I kept for Mom were pretty repetitive; telling her the day and date, what time I arrived, and what her first comments were, they weren't without purpose.

"Today is Monday, January 3, 2011. I arrived at 7:25 this morning. You were asleep until I fiddled with the lamp. The first thing you asked was what they had done to you. You thought you were in the hospital and had an operation. I told you that you are in a nursing home not a hospital. You said, "You mean I'm not sick???" I said, "Nope - just old." That seemed to make you feel better."

Then I would proceed to tell her the tasks I completed for her each morning.

"I put your teeth in and gave you a facecloth for your face, and put lotion on your knees and shoulder. I no sooner got that done when Bernice and Nadya came in to get you up. Great timing. You have fresh clothes to wear today too."

Followed by the weather report. 

"It's nice and warm outside - almost zero. Nice to have the break from the cold temperatures. Garnet has today off but is back to work tomorrow."

Everything I wrote was printed in large black letters so she could read it when I wasn't there; to reassure her that someone loved her and visited her everyday. Each entry ended the same way.

"You are living in a nursing home in Edmonton. You have a will that is fair to all and enough money to live forever. Don't worry - be happy. You are safe and I am near. I love you very much! Cathie"

Then I would draw a silly face at the bottom of the page. Everyday I'd draw different features, expressions or hair. These caricatures might catch her eye as the journal lay open on her desk and she could read and be comforted for a few moments. Occasionally, she might try to write something herself. In those pages, written in her scrawl I found, "Thank God for writers!".

Looking back is hard. In one of my Mom's old journals I found a post-it note that said, "Cath, get rid of these... looking back serves no purpose." But looking back now lets me see that I gave my Mom all the love I could muster. Albeit an impossible feat, I did my best to repay her for all she did for me. I truly honoured my Mother. All in all, that's not a bad report card.

I miss having a mother. I miss being a daughter. Some are never so blessed.

The rest is pixie dust...