A beautiful cool sunny September morning. I am a little more peppy though I’m not ready to do the jig yet. I’ve taken my vitamins and made a tour of the garden and greenhouse. I’ve turned on the dehydrator on the deck. There’s 8 trays of Roma tomatoes drying, sending off their aroma into the air. The day has started and I am ready for it.
It’s 11 months since I’ve witnessed my mother taking her last breath. I’ve wondered and dreaded the moment since she was diagnosed with her heart condition in September 2001. It was a time hard to forget. She had her first CT scan on September 11, the day of the 911 attacks. I woke up listening to the news on the radio. I thought of our relatives in New York. Then we watched the news unfold in the waiting room at St. Paul Hospital.
Now it is 24 years later. I’m sitting here, sipping my tea and tapping on my keyboard. My mother is not here. She’s had a good 23 years without surgical intervention. There were ups and downs but she had done well till age caught up with her. 93 is a good age. She was alert and independent right till the last moment.We couldn’t ask for more, could we?
Though I am no stranger to death, it was traumatic. She was my mother. I was joined to her umbilically in her womb for all those months. Then we had all the years after. She was like the pebble in the sea, sending out waves near and far. And now there are no more waves. The world has changed for me without those waves. It reminds me of how powerful each of us can be and how the world changes when we depart.
I am enjoying a bit of good energy and vibes this morning. It’s such a relief after yesterday. I have been warned about days where grief can hit you like tsunami or tidal wave. I am not even sure if it is grief. It came out of nowhere yesterday morning. I was hit with such a bad feeling. It was hard to swallow, think, to move. I wondered how I could carry on, breathe, cook, clean, write my post. I worried about my father’s health. He is after all, 93, the same age as my mother. I don’t want to be responsible for for his health/life. It doesn’t seem fair and I am a little ticked off at my mother for leaving us – and without a manual to guide us.
It’s a bit strange but most times I don’t feel her death. She’s just not here. And with her gone, I feel the many losses of our family. There’s no one to call me by my Chinese name except my father. I just realized that yesterday. It makes me feel somewhat heart broken. And there will be no one to ask or talk to about our home village and all things regarding our heritage and ancestors. My father still has a remarkable memory about all that though he has not been back since he left as a young man. I was drowning with all these thoughts and guilt on things I didn’t do.
All things do pass. I was able to get beyond my emotions and put one foot in front of the other. There’s life to be lived and things we have to do. No matter how we feel, we have to get up, dress up and show up somehow. Some days are better than others. Today is a better day. I thought out what I want/have to do and the best of how and when to do them. Progress is slow and minuscule. I see results and I am happy with them. I’ve been to the gym this morning, planted all the cauliflower and harvested lettuce from the greenhouse for lunch. I am a happy and relaxed camper.
Here I am again, sitting in sunshine, sipping my tea. I’m tired already, thinking too much on life, death and taxes. I’m working on not letting all that get me down. That’s life as people like to say. Every day babies are born and people die. We know we can’t escape the tax man. I must set a time within the next 6 days to file mine. Everything sits heavy. There’s no escape. Maybe a tylenol might give me some ease.
I don’t want life to drown me. I’m trying to find my way to the shore and get on solid ground. I tell myself feelings aren’t always real. I can still move and function well inspite of them. My mantra in life has always been No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up. During this April it has been make it simple, make it easy. I break jobs into bits and pieces. They add up. I’ve been doing things this way for a long time, even in writing. First, a word, then a sentence. String them together and you have a paragraph. I learned the importance of one small step at a time from Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird. It’s a wonderful little book.
It applies not only to writing, but just about everything in life as well. I’ve sewn 100 log cabin quilt squares that way a few years ago. I have yet to put them together though. It’ll be my square by square project in winter. I talked about getting moving on with my gardening. All I could do yesterday was water the greenhouse and plop 4 cauliflower seedlings in the raised bed outside. It’s not much but it’s not nothing. This morning I’ve managed to pot up 3 squash sprouted seeds before my mood got the better of me. I’m getting things done, living life in bits and pieces.
A sunny Tuesday morning. It is still cool at 2℃. It is a cozy 18.2℃ in the greenhouse. Everything is thriving. The lettuce is ready for picking. The spinach a bit behind. The snowpeas are climbing the wall. The radish has a way to go yet. All the seedlings are looking green and hearty. It is a slow spring and a slow me. But I will have a wonderful garden. I’ve seeded one raised garden bed with more lettuce, spinach and kale. In a day or 2, I will plant the cauliflower seedlings gifted by my sister. Everything will come and be okay in their own good time.
I have been reading and listening to Cheryl Richardson off and on through the years. The other day, her blog post on the birth that follows goodbye landed in my mailbox. It spoke so much to me, having lost my mother 6 months ago.
“The birth that follows goodbye
The note was simple, yet weighty. Words so potent I had to catch my breath.
“I’m very sorry for the loss of your Mother,” she wrote in the kind of cursive handwriting that betrays age. “When I lost my own Mother many years ago, someone sent me this quote and I’ve held onto it ever since. I hope it speaks to you.”
I turned the page and found this:
“Your mother gives birth to you twice – once when you are born and again when she dies.”
As I reread the words, I felt the truth of its message seep into my bones. I’ve thought about this quote nearly every day since receiving the card. It gave context to my experience. Upon my Mother’s death, I felt thrust into a birth canal against my wishes, pushed toward something I couldn’t name. The labor pains of grief and heartbreak were shaping and molding me into a version of myself I hadn’t met yet. A woman without a face or name.
This morning, while sitting in my cold tub, sunshine at my back and jays squawking overhead, I had the first inklings of rebirth and understanding – an opening in the dark tunnel of sorrow. I felt the presence of my Mother and a voice that said, “You are the elder now, my darling. The mantle has been passed.”
Just a few months ago, my reaction to this message would have been a resounding, No! I want my Mother back. I don’t want to be the new adult in the room. But today is different. I gently accept that a rebirth happens when the last parent dies and we become the next elder. It’s a stage of life that offers us the chance to elevate the aging experience, to move beyond extending or preserving life,and explore what it means to live and leave well.
On the first Easter without my Mother, a woman masterful at loving others, and my Father-in-Law, a fierce protector and provider, I embrace this new beginning and think about the kind of elder I hope to become. What words would describe me and the essence of my life when the next elder steps into place?
More on this in the coming weeks as we continue to explore the Wisdom Years. Until then, Happy Easter, little bunnies.
Love,
Cheryl “
I know that I cannot have my mother back. I do not want to be thrust into new world of being the elder either. But here I am anyways, standing on my own two feet. I cannot turn and run away. I still have a father to look out for.
You can tell I’m tired and uninspired by the title of this post. I haven’t really realized what a mess I am and what a mess I’m in till the last few days. I woke up and saw everything after my mother died. These past weeks were busy taking care of the business of her passing. I was surviving on adrenaline.
Now I have to get into the business of my own life. I haven’t thought about that for a long time, that I had a separate life. There was just the 2 of us for the first 6 years of my life. My parents married when they were one month shy of 18. They were still babies in an arranged marriage. My father was still going to school. That was how it was in China then. When I was 2, my father immigrated to Canada. I had no memories of him during those 2 years.
I did not meet him till I was 6 when my mother and I reunited with him in Hong Kong. He stayed for a year. My sister was conceived and born. I have no memories of my father during that time either except that I was reprimanded for not calling this stranger ‘father’. My sister was almost 2 when we joined him in Canada.
My mother did not know English. Being in a small town in Saskatchewan there were little resources in learning for immigrants back in those days. My father was busy in the cafe earning a living for us. My mother had no one to talk to except me. So that is how I became my mother’s confidante. She was a very good story teller. The times she lived through had many stories. Her family had a very interesting history. I heard them all and more besides. I am sure I became part of my mother with all her feelings of hope, happiness but fears and anxieties as well.
Now comes the challenging part for me – to unravel all of that and put them to rest. I need to to do that to find myself and my own life.
Day 29 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge finds me not inspired. The jukebox in my head is not playing. No one has put in any coins. Perhaps I have to give it a swift kick in the side. Perhaps I am in mourning and silence is what I need. I find myself in a peculiar space. The fear and dread of my mother’s death was greater in my head than in reality.
Her final days were in the home she loved. Her pain came swift and short with all of us around her. The 2 not needed rescuers were respectful and kind as was the 2 policemen and coroner. There was no chaos but peace and respect. Such is the protocol for the fortunate leaving from home. We didn’t have to wait for a month like you have to for family doctor appointment, months for a cardiologist followup or 14 hours like in ER. They all came promptly with one phone call.
I was happy she was not in the hospital. It is not always a safe and caring space. The care is missing in our Healthcare. When you are sick, you don’t want to hear about staff shortages and certainly not about saving resources, especially when you are old. You want to be cared for. This is my grief talking. I know people did what they thought was their best. But I have to ventilate. Healthcare is not made up of just hospitals, clinics, doctors, nurses, technicians, receptions, etc., etc. It is all of us. We all have to care, to be kind. It’s also my mother talking through me. She’s big for kindness.
Here it is Wednesday and time for the parade of stories from the Friday Fictioneers. We like to concoct tales of 100 words or so from a photo prompt. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s my story of exactly 100 words. I’m opened to any constructive criticism. I’ll try not to take anything personally. 🙂
The letter trembled in her gnarled fingers. She knew its content. Still her heart hammered and her hands shook. It was as if he could come back and give her misery. All these years she had shovelled his history beneath the layers of her consciousness. He was buried but not dead.
He haunts her always, though sometimes just barely beneath the surface. She is tired of him popping up at her. Today she is putting him to rest. She dares to look into the enevelop bearing the Royal Mail postage. Registration District: Merton. Cause of death: Smoke inhalation.
October over, November beginning – a death and a birth. I am a little disjointed, somewhat off course. How to feel? What to do with this new month? I am not as blue as I can be, but bluish nonetheless on this grey wet day of November.
I was buoyed by the colours of October, held up by the Mindness Summit. I had something to look forward to each morning – having tea with Melli O’Brien and her guest. What wisdom would they bring me that day? What a month it had been! What a wonderful array of speakers. And what a heart warming ending with Jon Kabat-Zinn.
October and the summit are over. Now it is time for me to walk the path on my own. It is not enough to have the knowledge. I have to live it – moment by moment, just as it is. It is much like the advice that Anne Lamott has on writing: Write down as much as you can see through a one-inch picture frame. Then move to another one-inch frame. I will have to read her book, Bird by Bird again. It has many wise instructions on writing and life.
This first day of November is a pause, to rest into the quiet, to ready for a new month of challenges. What will come up? Time will tell. I can only see in today’s picture frame. It is enough.
There’s a time like this when I am missing my laptop. If I have it still, I would like to sit here, on the deck and tap away my melancholy. I would watch each black letter march across the screen, forming words and thoughts. No matter. I will make do with my pen scribbling across the page. I’ll tap later.
I am sitting here in the late afternoon. I am comforted by its warmth surrounding me. My Purple Wave petunias greet me each time I look up from the page. I hear the children laughing from the daycare near by. Sheba sits at my feet. I sip my tea. Traffic rumbles from the front street. The neighbour’s voice rasps her words. A jet flies overhead. I am in the midst of life.
Some announcements can knock the socks off your feet. They bring tears to your eyes. I am still stunned and disturbed over this death announcement. Why am I feeling like this? This business of life and death is well known to both of us. And sad news is no stranger. Still, it is hard for me to accept.
I knew her when she was a young intern and I, a wet-behind-the-ears nurse. I remember-ed an incident when I called a Code Blue. She and the crash cart arrived at the same time. I could not remember if the patient lived or died.
I knew her, but not well at all. I had not known that she was ill. Oh, the speed of it, the speed of mortality, of bad news! It was like a thunderbolt. It left me vulnerable, unprotected and unprepared – unwilling to face it straight on.
I scribble and erase cross out, scribble some more. My pen moves across the page. Birds chirp back and forth. Traffic is whooshing by on Preston Avenue. The sun shines on. I am finished my tea.
As always a death announcement always makes one do a retake of one’s own life. This is especially when the deceased had just resigned from a job three or so weeks ago – James Flaherty, our former finance minister, age 64.
It’s a reminder for me that life is not forever and we have to live each and every day. We don’t have to wait till…it’s the right time, till we have enough money, till we retire. The right time is now. There are so many wonderful sweet things in life to explore and enjoy. They are right here, if we can open our eyes and see. Sometimes I get wrapped up in the worries and cares and forget the joys of doing.
Even though spring is late, the sky is grey and the way strewn with many a thorn, let me leap forward with joy and anticipation of what the day can bring. I can choose my actions and sometimes that can bring the emotions. Fake it till you make it! We’re talking about putting one foot in front of the other and walking the talk. Darn! I do talk too much. It still happens even when I vowed to do otherwise. Well, I am doing the best I can. And that is all I can ask of myself.
It is the 11th day of the challenge. I’m still here, writing, doodling, filling my page with words and pictures. Eleven days feel like a very l-o-n-g time. Maybe I shouldn’t count.
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onethousandandtwo 