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...