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...

Home for Christmas...

Christmas was a happy time for me when I was growing up even though my Mom's journals tell a different story. My Dad's excessive drinking did much to dampen the holiday spirit - though I don't recall much of that until I was much older. Lucky for me, Mom always seemed to honor the season, make Christmas fun and invite magic.

My first Christmas  memory is when I was four and asked Santa for a Chatty Cathy doll. My sister even took me to Toy Town where I sat on Santa's knee and told him exactly what I wanted. She cast some doubt on Santa's ability to deliver because he laughed with a 'HA-HA-HA' instead of a 'HO-HO-HO'. So imagine my delight and surprise when I awoke on Christmas morning and ran into the living room to see the Christmas tree shining its warm light on the glossy brown hair and freckled nose of my unwrapped heart's desire. "Oh boy! A Chatty Cathy!", was the alarm clock of exclamation that jarred the rest of the house awake. Over and over I pulled her string to hear her crackle, "I'm hungry" or, "I'm sleepy" or, "I love you". Santa had delivered and I believed in the magic.

My friends recall the magic too. They remember the ceiling skimming Christmas tree that Dad would bring home. He would trim the bark and set it standing straight and tall in the tree stand Grandpa had made years before. After it was sufficiently thawed, we adorned it with colorful lights, glossy balls, tinsel and these amazing glow-in-the-dark icicles that entertained us for hours on end. My friends and I would each grab an icicle, hold it up to a light bulb to charge it, then race into the bedroom and dive under the covers to giggle and watch them glow. The house was brimming with fun and there was an abundance of food, lots of visitors and that magic in the air.

Somewhere along the way I lost the magic. Maybe it started when my Dad spent three days in bed over Christmas with a self-inflicted flu. Or maybe I was simply ill-prepared as a young wife and working mother. All I know is, when the magic of the season became my responsibility I lost my way. My own emotional bankruptcy caused me to get caught up in filling the gaps beneath the tree without the means to do so. Christmas became an effort, another chore, an expense we simply couldn't afford. The season became a drudgery and I became a Grinch.

I remained this way until last year, the last Christmas I spent with my Mom. Last year I stopped fighting the season and just let it come. The impetus was not as simple as a change in mindset. It started with the promise of spending Christmas with someone very dear to me. But it wasn't the thought of spending it together that prompted the change. It was when the promise was broken and my hopes dashed that I realized the importance I placed on the season. If the magic wasn't still there, why did I care? It was time to stop ingesting my usual fare of three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwiches with arsenic sauce and feast on the season instead. 

So I listened to the music, even hummed and whistled along. I let the greetings of the season cross my lips. I decorated. I baked a little. I let it fill the air I breathed. I even read the passages in the bible that tell of the birth of Christ - the very reason we celebrate in the first place. I let the season in and the magic find me. It was the best Christmas I'd had in years. In hindsight, I'm so glad Mom and I shared the sweetness of the season one last time.

This year is my first Christmas without Mom. The memories of Christmas' past have come flooding back. How wondrous that my mind allows me to reconstruct the old house where I grew up and fill it full of happy memories; my parents busy making Christmas, my Grandpa keeping a watchful eye from the comfort of his chair, my siblings and I safe and warm under the same roof, the soft glow of the tree, Grandma's oak dining room table set - full of its leaves to gather us in. The sights, the sounds, the smells.  It makes me want to curl up to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and fall in love with Jimmy Stewart all over again. I'm home for Christmas.

The rest is pixie dust...

Simple Threads...

My Mom was born to two loving parents. Their names were Edward and Annie. Their courtship was long because Edward was two years younger than Annie - quite scandalous for the time. So for four years they worked on a knitted afghan together. He wound the skeins of yarn while she knitted. It made them good friends and kept their hands appropriately occupied until they finally wed in August of 1905. 

Edward was tired of working in the coal mines so they came to Canada from England on the Empress of Ireland in the early 1900's. They had family in Indian Head, Saskatchewan but settled in Medicine Hat because of the warm chinook winds. They'd been blessed with two daughters before they left England, but the eldest, Irene, died. So only Agnes accompanied them on their voyage. Canada proved fertile ground and four strong boys followed before my Mom finally came along.

Grandma was forty when Mom was born and was growing weary of having kids underfoot by that time. So Grandpa built Mom a playhouse to keep her entertained and out from under her Mother's skirt. It was a little girl's dream. It had curtains on the windows, shingles on the roof, and two rocking chairs on either side of a little pot belly stove where Mom fried potatoes. Grandpa even erected a swing not far from the playhouse. This haven provided Mom with endless hours of occupation and enjoyment. Eventually, it became a great place to sneak a cigarette or two. Although Mom was usually a good girl she was known to push the boundaries a little. This didn't always sit well with Grandma. She was very much the proper English lady and had high expectations for her youngest daughter. Grandpa, on the other hand, never forgot what it was like to be a kid and often acted as the buffer between Mom and Grandma. This made a special bond between father and daughter.

You can tell from this photo that Mom adored her Dad. Aside from his occupation as a wheel-checker for the CPR, he was an inventor of sorts and revitalized discards by turning them into useful objects. Mom pushed apple-box-baby-doll-buggies with pride. I still have the sock-darning-tool he made out of scrap tin and an old doorknob. I doubt he ever imagined it would become an ornament or conversation piece one day. Grandpa was also an avid gardener and spent early springtime in the greenhouse he built preparing bedding plants. He grew all manner of vegetables that were enjoyed year round and dressed the old house up with beautiful flowers around the perimeter. He loved pansies, snapdragons and sweet peas the best. A ring of Marigolds around the garden kept the potato bugs at bay. After the daily maintenance was done he would sit back in his lawn chair, roll a cigarette and watch the garden grow.

Grandma and Grandpa enjoyed fifty years of marriage before she died in December 1955. My cousin Jim was born two days after her passing. He and I are the only two grandchildren who never made her acquaintance. Grandpa died when I was only six. But he had a hand in who I am today. I still remember creeping into his bedroom for a humbug candy he kept in the crinkly bag under his pillow. During Winter, he watched The Friendly Giant and Chez Helene with me as I teetered back and forth in one of the rocking chairs from Mom's old playhouse. Then in Spring, after teaching me the alphabet and how to count with every push of the swing, he sat back in his lawn chair, rolled a cigarette and watched me and the garden grow.

The courtship afghan Grandma and Grandpa made belongs to me now. I look at it and marvel at how their hands worked together to create something so beautiful. I like to think they wove their love into this precious artifact and conceived their children beneath its folds. These simple threads were just the beginning.

The rest is pixie dust...

Missed...

My parents had three children. Mom always said, "Two to fight and one to break it up." But it didn't really work out that way. We were too far apart. My brother was born twelve years before me and my sister was five years my senior. Mom got one of us in school and had another. In essence we were all like only children and living in a remote area with only our cousins as neighbors didn't help. We barely knew each other. 

My sister and I shared a bedroom. For much of our cohabitation I recall the room being divided by a line of masking tape and her side had the door. Even her drawers had masking tape locks and when they started to lose their grip and curl in on themselves I was instantly blamed for being the nosy little sister. I was nothing but a nuisance. But there were times when she was a good sister. 

I remember being awakened on a warm summer's evening by the patter of rain on the roof. The rest of the house was asleep and my sister took me out for a walk in the rain. We didn't need our coats and I felt the rain on my skin; warm, insistent, cleansing, and reveled in the smell of the earth having a bath. It's a memory I'll always cherish. She was also there when I brought my first newborn home from the hospital. She spent time with me, helped around the house, treated me like a contemporary, loved me like a sister.

I longed for her approval. I guess that's normal for a younger sister. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, talented, popular, all the things I wasn't, or didn't think I was. I did things and made decisions based on what she did or what I thought she would do. She cast a long shadow and I lived within it. Then, when I was thirty, she vanished.

Even though her influence wasn't always positive, I was lost. I didn't know how to be just me. For the first time in my life what she thought didn't matter. I didn't have to dress like her anymore, or try to think or act like her. It was a whole new world for me and I blossomed. Finally, I asked myself what I felt and acted on it. I thought about her. I even missed her. I wondered what would make her disappear like that. 

Nearly ten years later I was walking in downtown Calgary and noticed what I thought was a familiar figure coming toward me. It was like watching a mirage take shape. As I got closer I realized my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, it was my sister. She was impeccably dressed and walked with her usual confident stride. As we approached one another she said, "Hello Cathie" and I responded, "Hello Fay" and we just kept on walking, like two ships passing. That's the last time I saw her.

I often thought how hard it must've been for my parents to lose a daughter the way they lost my sister. Mom always wondered when she heard on the news about a woman's body found in a Calgary dumpster, if it was Fay. I can't imagine that kind of pain. I know Mom missed her. When I was caring for her there were times when dementia made her think I was my sister. I didn't bother correcting her. If it gave her some comfort to finally see her long lost daughter, who was I to take that away from her. I loved my Mom too much.

I've been angry with my sister sometimes. It would've been nice to have a sister when my Mom was failing; someone to lend a hand, spell me off a bit, share the watchdog duties. But it likely wouldn't have been as ideal as my imagination depicts and the woman I've become can't live within anyone's shadow now. I have my own. I've come a long way. 

Recently I went to court to have my sister declared dead, only after a lengthy, empty-handed search to find her. It was something I had to do in order to distribute my Mom's estate. Even though it was necessary, it left me feeling unsettled and without closure, even a little dirty. All the judge did was rub his furrowed brow, ask me a few questions and grant the judgement. In my mind I heard the officious tap of an imagined gavel declare, "Bang, bang... she's dead." 

The rest is pixie dust...

Baker's Secret...

Mom had four big brothers, Eddy, Walter, Tom and John. Before the war, Mom's brothers worked a farm outside town and Mom left her school career after grade eleven to cook and clean for the boys. She could barely open a can and housework wasn't really her strong suit. Her own Mother lost her Mum when she was just seven years old and learned the fine art of homemaking at a very young age, so Grandma didn't provide much tutelage for my Mom. She thought her daughter would be cooking and cleaning soon enough. So this was quite a jump-in-with-both-feet venture for a fun-loving girl, especially with four hungry brothers to feed.

But this feet-first indoctrination paid off. Although she never thought so, Mom became an excellent cook and prepared wonderful meals for her family. Most often, if she wasn't outside in the yard, or hunched over her trusty old Pfaff sewing away, she was in the kitchen whistling a happy tune or singing a nonsense song while she cooked something up. Sometimes she would sing about the ingredients in a recipe, or it might be something about the cat or dog, or maybe even one of us. Mom enjoyed her own accompaniment. Once in a while she would even belt out a tune on her harmonica with the dog singing soprano or sit down at the piano and play a rendition of "The Happy Farmer'. Mom's cheer became an ingredient in everything she did and her family benefited.

There was nothing like coming home from school to the smell of warm cookies, hot cinnamon buns, or fresh baked bread. I loved hot breadsticks dipped in butter as an after-school snack. Pies were Mom's specialty; apple, peach, raisin, pumpkin, blueberry, saskatoon, black currant and my personal favorite, rhubarb custard. She made the finest, flakiest, melt-in-your-mouth pastry I've ever tasted. I can remember my brother eating a whole raisin pie in one sitting. Her eldest grandson loved her bran muffins so much he renamed them "Gran Muffins". Then there were the main courses like, cabbage rolls, sauerkraut and spare ribs, beef streudles, left-over turkey stirfry, skillet burgers, sweet and sour spare ribs, macaroni and cheese with homemade croutons, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, just to name a few. The roaster she used made the most perfectly seasoned gravy ever. Her grandkids even called it 'Granny's Special Sauce'. 

I inherited her roasting pan and enamel-coated cast-iron dutch oven when she moved from her home into assisted- living. I thought I had it made. Finally I had the magic bullet I needed to become a wiz in the kitchen. Sadly, neither the roaster nor the dutch oven were willing to reveal any of their secrets. Even the few recipes I had of Mom's didn't end up tasting as good as they did when she prepared them. I finally gave up on the roaster, but the scarred old dutch oven makes a decent chili, a hearty beef stew, and a savory ginger carrot soup. I guess nothing tasting like 'what Mom used to make' makes remembering it that much better. Maybe it was Mom's special brand of cheer that made everything she prepared so delicious. If that was her secret there's really no replicating it. I don't have a piano and I can't play the harmonica. I guess I can try whistling a happy tune or singing a silly song about the furkids and see what happens.

The rest is pixie dust...

A Leap...

Mom was lucky. When she moved into extended care her sense of humor and quick wit got her a seat at a lively table at mealtimes. Her tablemates were Betty and Claude. Betty is about my age and suffers from arthritis. Claude is in his mid-seventies and has Lou Gehrig's disease. In spite of their infirmities they loved to laugh, often at their own or even each others expense. This was right up Mom's alley, what with her penchant for shadenfreude. The three of them developed a close bond. Betty kept an eye on Mom for me and let me know if her appetite was off or if she was behaving strangely. Claude is a gallant, Texas-born gentleman and was like Mom's knight in shining armor. Sometimes they would just sit and hold hands. These three were an unlikely set of musketeers. 

Mom's 90th with Betty & Claude

I was welcomed into their tight-knit group every morning at breakfast. While I helped Mom with her favorite meal, I served coffee, tea, and juice to the residents who were wheeled into the dining room. I cleaned up spills, picked up dropped pills and gave the weather report with a generous helping of good cheer. I too, became a fixture of sorts. This daily ritual went on for two years until Mom's passing. As I packed up Mom's belongings, I chose some mementos for both Betty and Claude. Betty got Mom's little table and the bingo clock she'd won and had hung on her wall. I gave Claude Mom's beloved birds. She had three, a robin, a chickadee and a blackbird. When you squeeze them they sing their own unique birdsong. Then, I just stopped going. The last contact I had with Claude and Betty were the birthday cards I sent them in April. I didn't call or drop in for a visit. Nothing. 

I felt I had my reasons, due in part to the events leading up to Mom's death. But that matter had been addressed and with the memorial service at the facility looming I was considering paying Mom's old tablemates a long overdue visit. Claude must've been thinking of me at the same time because just days before the service he left three voice mail messages on my phone that went something like this;

Hello Cathie, this is Claude.
I hope you're doing okay.
I'd love to hear from you. 
I don't remember my phone number but maybe you have it written down somewhere. 
Brian has set up my phone to do everything automatically. 
Anyway, we love you and miss you.
It's Claude. 

(Robin chirping)
Hello Cathie, it's Claude again.
Do you recognize your Mom's bird?
I just love them.
Anyway, Brian wrote my number down and put it up high.
I can't read it from here.
I'm trying to position myself so I can see it but my mobility's not very good. 
(lots of struggling)
Grrrrr... I'm getting so frustrated. 
I'll call you back. 

Hello Cathie, it's Claude.
I knocked the number down with my 'schtick'. 
My phone number is.......
I hope you'll call sometime. 
I love you.
It's Claude. 

While I sat listening to Claude's messages I had the best laugh/cry I'd had in a long time. It was time I visited. I called Claude and promised him I'd come see him after the memorial service. He was thrilled. 

I awoke feeling anxious on the morning of the service. I wondered if I was ready to pull the bandaid off the wound. But I'd made a promise to Claude and I couldn't go back on my word. So I forged ahead with my plans. The minute I walked in the door of the lodge, Mom's favorite aide came running out to greet me. She hugged and kissed me like we were sisters. Maja is a delightful young woman from Croatia who gave Mom so much love. It was wonderful to see her. There could have been no better greeting. We embraced again before parting, I signed myself in and made my way down the hall to the makeshift chapel.

There was an altar at the front of the room and several rows of folding chairs facing it. The lighting in the room was appropriately dim giving it a feeling of quiet reverence. Family members of other residents were gathering. Then Betty wheeled herself up beside me. It was so good to see her. We hugged and started chatting about her hair - it was longer and permed. I asked if she was getting out as much - was Friday still Bingo-day - was she still 'Bingo Betty' - did she still have horseshoes up her butt - and how were her skin lesions. We nattered like old girlfriends. Then the minister officiating, Ruth Groves, greeted us and expressed her condolences over our collective loss. People like Ruth fascinate me because I've met so few like her who give the impression of walking in God's light. Ruth offered each of us God's blessing like a healing salve and a candle was lit for each name read. The service was both uplifting and comforting. Then, retracing old footsteps, I got on the elevator, pressed two for the floor, remembered the secret door code, and walked Mom's old hallway to Claude's room. 

Claude was once a world renowned cellist. The walls of his room tell a story. There are beautiful oil and water color paintings, a photograph of him as a dashing young man taken in Copenhagen standing in front of a billboard with his name on it in big bold letters, a framed letter to him from the greatest cellist of all time, Pablo Casals, as well as a photograph of himself with Senor Casals sitting on a sofa enjoying an animated conversation and many other precious artifacts. Claude and I greeted each other with a tearful hug, held hands and took a stroll through his wall of fame. It was so good to see him. I don't know why I waited so long, maybe my heart needed to heal enough to take that leap.

The rest is pixie dust...

September Bride...

My parents were married on September 26, 1945 and although they always acknowledged the date somehow, I only remember going out for dinner once as a family to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Mom wore a dress and jacket she had sewn and Dad wore his Sunday-go-to-Meetin' clothes which consisted of his cowboy boots, fresh shirt and pants, his bolero tie and horse-hide vest. The others in attendance were, Dad's sister Judy, my sister and her son, my two kids, their father and me. I can still see us trying to pose for photos out on the lawn after dinner. Dad had his fill at the Beefeater and shared what he thought about going out for dinner and 'paying those prices' when he could have as good, if not better, meal at home. I think that was intended as a compliment to my Mother's cooking but her glare and deaf ears were also part of her evening ensemble. My kids were getting tired, Aunt Judy might have been a few sheets to the wind and I was trying in vane not to be outshone by my sister. The photo was never frame-worthy but it's still a precious memory. Their fiftieth anniversary was a bit better.

I was going through a divorce and quite wrapped up in my own life when my Mom asked me if I would go to City Bakery to pick up a cake she'd ordered. I cheerfully complied. Imagine my surprise when the baker showed me this large sheet cake that said, "Happy Fiftieth Anniversary Ethel and Ted". I had forgotten all about their anniversary, never mind that it was a milestone. I asked Mom why she needed such a large cake and she replied, "For the open house tomorrow at one." She had invited friends to come to the house and celebrate the occasion and hadn't told me. At least I didn't remember her telling me. So I called my brother in Calgary and told him that it would be a great if he and his wife could attend. I was able to get the day off work so I could play hostess. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone bright and warm as the leaves cascaded lazily from the trees to the lawn below like confetti. We took pictures again. Mom and Dad with the bridesmaids, Sybil and Anne. Mom and Dad with Doreen and Hazel. Mom and Dad with my brother and me. Dad unsmiling, Mom smiling enough for both of them. At least forty people came and went. Mom had prepared finger sandwiches and borrowed the big coffee urn from the church. Everyone had a piece of the cake. Dad sat glowering in the kitchen, Mom was lit up like a Christmas tree visiting with all her friends. It was a wonderful event and I was so glad that my brother and I were able to attend. When I asked Mom why she hadn't let me know she was planning it she told me that she figured I had enough going on. That was my Mom, always thinking of the other guy. 

On this date one year ago, I asked my Mom about her wedding day. This was all she could tell me. "It was sunny - we got married in St Barnabas church - we had an open house after the ceremony - we went to Lethbridge on the train for our honeymoon." She could only remember the high points, the details were lost. It made me wish I'd asked sooner or asked her to write it down when her memory could still be trusted. But I didn't, so all I have are the photos now, which are precious enough. My parents made a handsome couple; Dad with his movie star good looks and Mom with her tall willowy frame and million dollar smile. Two of her four brothers were groomsmen. John, on the left was the youngest and Walt, on the right was the second oldest. Mom's favorite brother, Tom had been killed in the war just eleven months before the wedding. I can only imagine the hole in her heart that his loss made that day. I don't know where her eldest brother Ed was. Mom always said he was a bit aloof. Mom's attendants were Sybil Taylor on the right and Annie Nikiel on the left. Sybil and Walt had dated at one time. Mom and Sybil became dear friends. Annie and Mom were neighbors growing up and friends all their lives. Annie was the last bridesmaid standing until this year. She passed away just three weeks after Mom. 

These two people, my parents - made a life together. They stood up, put up and shut up to make it work. They lived to celebrate fifty-seven years together. 

The rest is pixie dust...

Tsunami...

The sun breaches the horizon like any other day. Birds sing. Leaves rustle in a gentle breeze. Ducks bob on a pond. People walk dogs and take kids to the park. Others go about a morning commute. Bees buzz. Then the unexpected and unpredictable occurs and renders the day different. The earth sighs and groans and rolls over in its bed. Plates move and oceans surge. Giant waves swell and crash against once calm shores, clawing at coastlines, wreaking havoc. Once the devastation is complete the waters recede leaving the shoreline forever changed. Calm returns - until next time.

This is similar to grief - like one's own personal tsunami. I've been struggling with a fresh wave these past two weeks. Maybe it's because I laid to rest the anger and guilt I felt over  Mom's passing, like finally having my say and being heard unleashed new pain. Whatever the reason, I am overcome with loss at the strangest times. I might be out walking the dog, crafting a new piece of jewelry, or talking to a friend. Wherever I am and whatever I'm doing it finds me. 

It caught up with me the other day. I attended my first Strathcona County Writer's Group meeting. There were at least twenty-five people sitting elbow-to-elbow in the Birch room. We went through introductions and then it was round table time. Those who wanted to share something they'd written were welcome to do so. The stories and poems were varied and colorful and the writers gifted and open. It was an evening of lively storytelling. The meeting came to a close and I carried my elation at being part of this group out of the library and into the late summer evening; the air kissed with the slight chill of autumn-in-waiting, the sun losing its grip on the day. As I crossed the walkway to my car I thought of Mom and how much she would've enjoyed the meeting, how pleased she would be that I had attended. As a published writer and a founding member of the Medicine Hat Writer's Club she knew my joy. I imagined telling her about it. I think I even skipped a little when I pressed the unlock button on my keyfob. As I pulled the car door closed I only had time to put the key in the ignition before the wave rushed in. I wrapped my arms around the steering wheel, rested my head on my hands and let it wash over me. I let it have its way. When its wrath was spent, the tears stopped and calm returned. I wiped my face, turned the key in the ignition and drove home - just like nothing happened, like my heart didn't break open and I wasn't missing anyone.

It's a splendid thing to miss someone - to want to hold them once more and tell them you love them - to hear their voice and share their laughter - to tell them something important - to long for their reaction - to ache for them. Those who miss and are missed are blessed.  Kahlil Gibran said it best when he wrote;

"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

I miss my Mom. The void I feel is like nothing I've ever known. Some days it seems to swallow me whole. But I know that this sense of loss is only because she was my delight, my heart, my friend. So I'll keep riding the waves and see where they take me. I know I'm not surfing alone. 

The rest is pixie dust...

Forget-Me-Nots...

The other day Emma asked me if her Mom was only near when she thought about her. I told her that her Mom was always near. But when she thinks about her or talks about her, she's even closer. I believe that. It's comforting to think my Mom is just a breath away.

This week, my mind's eye treated me to a series of vignettes depicting moments I shared with my Mom. Most of them were childhood repeats, oldies but goodies. I was the protagonist, of course. My Mom played a supporting role and there were a few bit parts for family and friends. They all took place in the house where I grew up. An old place that cost my Grandmother fifty dollars. After the purchase, she had it pulled down the hill on a flatbed by a team of horses to its new dirt basement in the valley. My Mom was just three years old then. Grandpa used lumber from an old haunted house to build the kitchen, livingroom and three bedrooms. The eight of them lived in the dirt basement until it was finished. My Mom was seven years old when they finally moved upstairs. It was fancy enough in its day with gas lamps and indoor plumbing. Oddly enough, one of the vignettes I had the pleasure of viewing took place in the bathroom.

Mom would fill the old claw tub with hot water and lots of bubbles. She would sit with me while I languished in the depths and we'd talk or she'd watch me play and just unwind quietly from a long day. Then she'd pull the plug and I'd sit and watch my dirt swirl down the drain. On one occasion as I witnessed my weekly sins circling, I asked her, "Mom, is there a God?"  She was quiet a moment and replied, "There's a God if you need there to be a God." Then she wrapped me up in a towel, lifted me out of the tub and cradled me on her lap, rubbing me briskly to dry me off. When I was sufficiently dried, she lifted up my left arm and strummed my rib cage with her fingers like I was an old banjo. We both laughed. Later, as an adult, when I felt like my life was circling the drain, her words echoed in my mind. She was right, there is a God when you need one.

Mom did her best to give me some religious foundation. When my regular attendance at Sunday School waned she gave me the guidance to know right from wrong.  Eventually, we had a discussion about the four letter 'F' word. She was not in favor of the way that word was bandied about and abused. As a pre-teen, I was keen to experiment with letting it roll off my tongue. She suggested I look the word up in our unabridged dictionary. It was a tome at least eight inches thick and had a place in our home on top of the hinged bench that my brother made in high school shop class. I hoisted it onto the livingroom floor, hooked my index finger in the DEF tab and began my search. When I found it in those pages the word was instantly robbed of its shock value. After all, any curse word worth its merit shouldn't be defined in a dictionary. That day I learned that the 'F' word is an acronym for the phrase; For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. This took some of the steam out of my desire to use it. I'm proud to say that my Mom, to my knowledge, never let that word cross her lips. Sadly, even armed with the real meaning of the word, those near and dear will not be able to say the same of me. 

Mom wasn't a saint by any means and had her vices. She smoked cigarettes until I was in grade six. I think my interest in the habit might have been the catalyst to her reform. My friend Betsy and I, when we could afford to, bought Craven M's at the local corner store. In leaner times we stole my Uncle John's Export A's. They weren't filter tipped, so we would snitch two at a time, cut them in half and store them in the toy fridge in the basement. When the time was right, we'd sneak downstairs and smoke them with the window wide open. Mom always had a keen sense of smell and one day as we wafted by, she stopped us and asked if we'd been smoking. Neither one of us were good liars. So she sat both of us down and said, "I don't want you sneaking cigarettes or buying your own. If you want to smoke, just ask me and I'll give you one." Betsy and I thought this was the best gig ever and took advantage of it. Sometimes Mom would even sit and have a cigarette with us. But it didn't take long before the novelty wore off and we lost the desire for a cigarette. The two of us were the only kids in our group of friends who never picked up the habit. And I was the only one of my parent's three children who never smoked. I credit Mom for our avoidance of nicotine. She did us a favor. She knew what's not forbidden is usually forsaken. Lucky for us she never forgot what it was like to be a kid.

Mom & Me 1962

I was lucky to have such a terrific Mom all my growing up life. I had the kind of Mom every kid wanted. She played ball with us, took us swimming, baited our hooks when we went fishing, caught frogs with us, baked us cookies, rode a bike, laughed at our jokes and gave us her precious time. She was the best. This mental reel to reel was like gathering a bouquet of memories.  Emma isn't as fortunate. Her time with her Mom was so short compared to my own. I guess it's up to those around her to help her remember her Mom and keep her close - to help Emma gather a bouquet of forget-me-nots.

The rest is pixie dust...

Epiphany...

Friday came in the blink of an eye and I arrived ten minutes early for the meeting at the extended care facility where Mom lived two years prior to her passing. I had been her advocate. She used to think I could leap tall buildings. But I abandoned my superhero apparel months ago. Instead, I wore my long grey jersey skirt, a moss green sleeveless cotton tee with a loose peach colored silk tank layered over top, and on my feet, silver, leather slip-ons. I heaped lofty hopes on this oatmeal and granola attire, empowering it to keep potential volatility at bay. For added luck, I donned a necklace I had painstakingly stitched. Mom always loved my creations. 

The late summer sun warmed my shoulders as I stepped from the car with Mom's photo, my statement, and a list of questions tucked under my arm in an old zippered work portfolio. My ergonomic tapestry Ameribag was draped lazily across my back and I hooked my trusty water bottle over the index finger of my right hand. I took some deep breaths as I walked the few short steps across the parking lot before entering the building. When I opened the door the vapor lock felt like it drew me inside. 

With my first breath the familiar smell took me back months to my morning visits with Mom. Tears threatened. A petite professional-looking woman followed me inside and I regained my composure enough to ask if she was Jillian, the Quality Coordinator from Patient Relations who arranged this meeting. She confirmed my suspicions and I extended my hand to introduce myself. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled warmly making me like her instantly. We advised the attendant at the desk that we were there to meet with Mary Lou, the Executive Director of the facility. She waved us to seats in the foyer while she summoned Mary Lou.  

As we sat waiting familiar faces appeared, each one greeting me with a hug and words of concern or "We miss you...". I wrestled with more tears. Soon, Mary Lou appeared and escorted us up to the third floor boardroom. She introduced me to Heather, the new Director of Care, whose specialty is 'End of Life'. With the formalities out of the way, I placed the framed photo of my Mom on the table. It was the one I'd received from the funeral home with the poem by Judith Bulock Morse that reads;

Remember me when flowers bloom

Early in the Spring

Remember me on sunny days

In the fun that summer brings

Remember me in the fall

As you walk through leaves of gold

In the wintertime, remember me

In the stories that are told.

But most of all... remember

Each day, right from the start

I will be forever near

For I live within your heart.

I began the meeting by saying that I wasn't there for a pound of flesh, that time was past. I needed only for them to hear the statement I had prepared and do their best to answer the questions that would follow. They were a respectful, captive audience. My statement not only detailed the events leading up to my Mom's passing but also the emotional anguish we suffered. Tears ran down my cheeks as I read. Heather wept with me. Then I came to the last paragraph of my statement;

"The nature of my Mom’s death and how it was handled has left my family feeling upset over not being informed. It’s left me wrestling with feelings of guilt over things I should have or could have done. But I am not an expert on death and dying. Death is not an event I’ve experienced often nor took a class in to prepare me for the eventuality. The professionals at this facility did or certainly should have. They are the ones who failed my Mother and her respective family."  

There was silence for a few moments. I looked up at Mary Lou and she said, "You're right, we failed you. We're so sorry." Then the discussion opened around the breakdown in communication, the lack of comfort measures provided, all the missed opportunities. They detailed what should have happened, what changes have been made and will be made to ensure it doesn't happen to someone else. Heather asked if she could use my statement as part of a case study, the photo and poem too. She would utilize it as a teaching tool. Then we addressed the questions. 

Even though there had been an independent third party audit done on Mom's case many questions went unanswered. Heather asked if she could take them and try to find answers for me. I handed them to her. We exchanged business cards, said our good-byes, and Mary Lou escorted me downstairs. I walked out the door feeling somewhat lighter. But there wasn't time to dwell on it. It was already noon and I had a lunch date with Emma. 

Once in the car I sent Emma's Dad a text saying I was on my way.  I no sooner pulled up in the driveway when Emma bounced down the sidewalk to greet me. She prattled on about the lemonade mix in the worn ziplock bag she held in her hands. I squeezed in the question about what she wanted to do and in no time her scooter and helmet were in the back of my car and we were on our way to McDee's. 

She had her usual Happy Meal for lunch. Then we headed for Amanda's house to visit Ana and GG.  A little more than an hour later we were making lemonade in my kitchen and she was regaling me with her business plan. I tried to convince her that she might want to reconsider charging a dollar a glass for lemonade. But she prefers loonies to quarters. I changed my clothes and with our thirst quenched we put the halter on the dog and headed for the park. 

Emma scooted in front while Zoe and I walked. She stopped for a brief stint on the playground equipment. But Zoe was anxious to get moving so we soon hit the trails again. Emma didn't scoot ahead this time, she slowed her pace to mine and said, "Sometimes I feel guilty because of the times I told my Mom I hated her." My heart lurched and I replied, "Oh Emma, your Mom knew you didn't mean it. She loves you and would never want you to feel guilty." As those words crossed my lips it felt like my own Mom tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I love you and I don't want you to feel guilty?"  

Emma seemed satisfied with my answer and scooted away, flashing me a smile over her shoulder. I smiled back. Emma and I make quite a pair. We both need to let go of things we think we could have or should have done differently. In our relationship, support and comfort goes both ways. Thanks to her I have my cape and tiara back, and when the tall buildings come, I'll be ready...

The rest is pixie dust...

Fingers Crossed...

Before my Dad died, he often talked about 'dying a good death'. I didn't favor this topic so I never asked my Dad what he meant by that. I didn't want to face the fact that someday I would walk this earth without my parents. Orphaned, if you will. Dad had Asbestosis and a slow-growing tumor that was gradually taking up more space than his organs would allow. According to Mom's journals, it was untreatable and had become a part of his physiology nearly thirty years earlier; unbeknownst to me.  

Dad's health gradually deteriorated. Eventually he required oxygen twenty-four hours a day and could barely walk ten steps without taking a rest. This was not my Superhero Dad, invincible protector of those he loved. I ignored all the outward signs and was in denial that my Dad was dying. It wasn't until we had what would be our last family dinner that the light donned. Dad always bought the best cuts of roast beef and Mom cooked it to perfection. It was a banquet of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, Waldorf salad, a tossed green salad, corn, turnips and "Granny's Special Sauce". That's what my kids called Mom's gravy. It was heaven. Dad sat at his usual place at the head of the table, leaning on the arm of his chair. He wasn't able to reach or pass so I helped get his plate ready. When he sat looking at his plate, unable to take a single bite I knew his time was approaching. That was Easter 2003. A few days later he was hospitalized. 

I called him in the hospital on his eighty-fifth birthday in May and he seemed adamant that he was going home. Five days later the family was called. He was unresponsive that morning and died early the next day with my Mom at his side. His heart just stopped and he became so very still. I suppose as the process goes this could be described as a good death. It was painless and he had been relatively coherent until near the end. Then he just slipped away. He went home.

My Mom's journey home was not as easy. I would describe her death as an ordeal. She started to go about the business of dying Christmas morning of 2010. Her cast iron stomach was unusually upset and she was out of sorts. During the weeks following the holidays, angina attacks became more frequent and her blood pressure dropped to near cadaver levels. She was weakening, spending more time in bed, refusing meals, acting strangely. At the facility where she was living I told as many who would listen that I thought my Mother was dying. My words fell on deaf ears. 

Then on a Saturday in March, nine days before her death she woke up with a terrible sore throat and a cough. Mom's voice was typically a whisper but this sore throat endowed her with the voice of a demon. I advised the nursing staff and they administered Robitussin. The next day she was worse so I asked that a physician see her. I asked repeatedly for five days that she be seen by a doctor. Finally on Friday they faxed the staff doctor who prescribed treatment for either pneumonia or heart failure, sight unseen. 

They began administering the medication on Saturday, one week after the onset of her symptoms. Mom was already struggling to breathe due to the buildup of fluid in her lungs and was often in a state of panic when the next breath seemed out of reach. The registered nurse on duty was beckoned but she declined to give her any medication to ease her discomfort, "It might slow her respiration and heart rate." she said. I asked at that time if she thought my Mother was dying. She replied, "Hard to say, some rally from this." When I returned on Sunday morning the situation was much more dire.

The nurse was unable to administer Mom's morning meds because she could no longer swallow. She was unable to speak now and held my hand like it was a lifeline. I left her side for only two hours that day. Her breathing became more labored as the day progressed but not once did anyone advise me to notify my family. At the supper hour, one of the aides came in to turn her and noticed my Mom's breathing. She said, "The way your Mom is breathing is called 'chainstoking'. Death is imminent. Say your goodbyes."  

I was in shock - paralyzed with grief. My eyes were almost swollen shut from crying. I hoped help would come. But none arrived. Various aides came to reposition her and greeted her like she was vibrant and healthy and able to respond. I was tired and sore from sitting on a straight-backed chair since seven o'clock that morning with only a two hour break midday. No comfort measures were offered to either one of us. From the supper hour until I finally left Mom's side at one o'clock in the morning not one registered nurse crossed the threshold of her room. I was all she had and I left her. I waited until she closed her eyes in sleep. Then I gently pried my hand from hers, kissed her and told her I was going home for a couple of hours to get some rest. When I got home the first words out of my mouth to my husband were, "I'm a coward. I've left her in her hour of need. But I just couldn't stay any longer." 

We were nearly ready to return to Mom's side when the phone rang at six thirty-two the morning of March twenty-first. I was advised by a voice on the phone that my Mom's breathing had worsened. We arrived shortly after to find her alone, her head turned to one side, her eyes closed, and her body so very still. The oxygen mask was still over her face so I removed it and silenced the whir of the machine with a flip of a switch. My husband and I sat there with my Mom in the quiet of death for forty-five minutes before any of the morning staff came into her room. There was some scurrying, the nurse was called and Mom was pronounced dead. Everyone but me seemed so surprised. 

After the memorial service I wrote a letter to the Executive Director of the Facility and cc'd the Minister of Health and Protection for Persons in Care. I outlined succinctly the series of events that lead to my Mom's passing and how I felt they had failed my Mom and me. I received a letter of acknowledgement from the Executive Director weeks later with a cavalier invitation to call her anytime, like we were old friends. I heard nothing from Protection for Persons in Care. Eventually I heard from the Deputy Minister of Health who expressed condolences and advised me to call Patient Relations. Thanks to them, on Friday of this week, five months after my Mom's death I will have a face to face meeting with the Executive Director. I'm not sure what I hope to achieve from this close encounter.

Part of me wants to hold someone's feet to the fire. The other part of me just wants to lay my guilt at abandoning my Mom to rest. I know I can't change the outcome and give my Mom a do-over so she can die a good death. I can't press the call bell or go screaming down the halls now. I'd like to think I can change things for people who have yet to experience losing a loved one in an extended care facility. By speaking out maybe they will be given the comfort and support they need. At least that would give me some peace - some closure. Fingers crossed.

The rest is pixie dust...

On Common Ground...

The older I get, the more I learn. The most amazing part is, I seem to be learning a lot from a very young teacher. She's only eight years old but she's wise beyond her years. Emma's not shy by any means and like her Mom, she's not afraid to ask questions. That's one of the things I love about her. Emma's fearless when it comes to seeking knowledge.This trait will be useful to her throughout her life - especially now. 

Emma's Mom lost her battle with cancer just two weeks ago. Angela was my friend, someone I cared for, listened to, and laughed with. I still have our text messages from July on my cell phone - precious snippets of conversation now. And when I browse her facebook profile I see photos of her not even a year ago with her arms around Emma at a family celebration looking robust and healthy. There was no foreshadowing what was to come. But that's cancer for you. It's left Emma without her Mom, those arms around her only shadows now. 

Emma and I spent  a lot of time together this past year everyday after school. We talked a lot, laughed a lot, learned a lot. So I guess it seemed natural to her to spend the better part of the day following her Mom's passing with me. She sent me a text message from her Dad's phone Tuesday morning telling me about her Mom and asked if we could get together that day. So I picked her up at her Nona's around lunchtime. When I arrived she greeted me with a hug - her beautiful brown eyes moist with tears. My blue eyes brimming. We climbed into the car, buckled up and headed for our usual lunch spot. 

McDees we call it. On this occasion, Emma preferred to go inside as opposed to the drive-thru. At the counter, I ordered her a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal with a girl's toy. The toy was "Clumsy" Smurf - perfect because we were going to see the movie later in the afternoon.  She found a place for us to sit and then bounced over to the pop machine to fill her drink cup with whatever her liquid pleasure. As usual, I stole a couple of french fries while she wasn't looking. She ate enough to satisfy her hunger, then packed up the rest and decided it was time to head to my house to see the furkids. 

This was Emma's first visit to our new home in Sherwood Park. But that wasn't the big draw. She wanted to see the critters the most. Zoe, our dog is her favorite. When she sees Emma she knows there's a treat in store for her and there's no controlling her wiggle-bottom. The tail actually wags the dog. Emma loves that. There's just nothing like being greeted with unbridled enthusiasm and no better prescription for a wounded heart. Once the greetings were out of the way, Emma and I decided to take Zoe for a stroll through the park nearby. 

It's a lovely park, nicely treed with a winding, hilly trail. Ducks bob on the pond, going bottom's up for some tasty morsels below under the watchful eye of the cattail sentinels. Dragonflies lazily police the miscreant mosquito population while the squirrels and sparrows gossip. It's a magical place on a warm summer's afternoon. Maybe that's what helped Emma open up while we walked the loop and Zoe pulled incessantly on the leash.

"Why do people get cancer?"

"I don't know Emma, cancer just happens."

  

"Did my Mom and Dad know before?"

"I think they did Emma, but imagine how hard it would have been for them to tell you."  

"Why do we have funerals?"

"We have funerals to say good-bye to our loved ones, celebrate their lives and allow other people the chance to pay their respects to the person and their family." 

"Why do we dress dead people?"

"We dress them so they look nice for their funeral." 

"How do you know someone is dead?"

"Because they stop breathing and their heart stops beating." 

"What makes them dead?"

"When they are too sick or hurt for their spirit to stay in their body."  

"What is a spirit?"

"You know the part of you inside that makes you think and feel? That's your spirit. That's what made your Mom who she was." 

"Is my Mom sad?"
"Yes Emma, your Mom is very sad to have to leave you." 

"Did she want to stay?"
"She did, and she fought very hard to stay, but her body was too sick." 

"Is there a chance that on the third day, she'll rise again?"
"That would be nice wouldn't it? But no Emma, only Jesus can do that."    
 
Closing the loop on our walk ended her inquisition. Emma is a bright girl - but these questions were more insightful than I ever expected. I was comforted by her openness. Later, when I considered this time we shared, I imagined that we weren't alone in the park - that our Mother's walked with us. Emma's, to help her ask the questions and mine, to help me give the answers. Emma and I both lost our Mother's this year - both on a Monday. And so, we walk on common ground. Losing your Mom is hard. But Emma has shown me that even though you may feel sad everyday, you still have to welcome distractions - walk the dog - go to movies - skip a little - because the world keeps turning on its axis. Our Mom's would like that.

The rest is pixie dust...