Last Friday (December 1st - 2007) was my Mom’s birthday. She would have turned 72 years old, had she lived to see it. She passed away in July 2004 peacefully in the night in her own bed. That’s just how she wanted to go. That’s how she deserved to go. Her adult life was marred with illness and suffering, and we all hoped and prayed her final days would not be spent wasting away in a hospital room. After the life she endured, that was the least God could do for her.
I was very close to her, being an only child and all. She had a heart of gold and loved me dearly. She was kind and always wanted the best for me. She probably mothered me too much, but I didn’t care. She was always there for me during my tumultuous school years as a bullied, acutely shy kid.
When I moved out at 18 and started my own life as an adult, the three of us grew apart. I had a life to live and I wasn’t great at finding time for my family. They understood this and gave me my space. They knew I needed to find my own wings.
My Mom lost both her legs to poor circulation in 1987 and was confined in a wheelchair. She also suffered from heart and kidney problems. I was coming on 30 years old at the time and began to rekindle the close relationship I once had with my Mom and Dad. I guess on a subconscious level I worried she might not be around too much longer, and I knew she needed me to be there for her, for them. I would talk to my Mom on the phone every couple of days, meet them at the mall for coffee at least once a week, and drop in for Sunday dinner regularly. We once again became a tight knit family. We remained close right up to the day she passed away.
My father was amazing. He took total care of her. He’d been a bit of a drinker before she lost her legs, but afterward, he quit drinking and smoking, cold turkey, and never looked back. He knew she needed him more than ever and he had no intention of letting her down. And he didn’t. To me, he is the world's biggest hero. When my father passes on, I have no doubt there will be a place waiting for him in the highest levels of heaven.
The day my Mom died, my Dad had gone out for his morning walk and upon returning discovered she had not risen yet to start her day. His heart sank. He knew. It wasn’t a surprise, considering she’d been ill for quite some time. She’d had a stroke a year earlier and had never fully recovered. They both knew her days were numbered.
I had just gotten in from a job site—a basement renovation project in the beaches (I was a home improvement contractor at the time)—and was beginning my day at my desk when my phone rang. It was my Dad. As he never phones me in the morning like that, I knew immediately why he was calling. I dropped everything and rushed up to their apartment.
My mother was still in her bed. A policeman was sitting with my Dad at the kitchen table having a coffee. A kind man, he was. He seemed to know instinctively how to act and what to say to help my Dad and I get through this catastrophic event. I looked in on my Mom and then joined them in the kitchen, waiting for the coroner. The following week was a blur, really. Arrangements were made, meetings with the funeral home, family coming in from out of town, it was crazy. But somehow we got through it. Right before the funeral, I placed the urn with my cat's ashes into the coffin with my Mom. She loved my cat as much as I did and I know she would have wanted it that way.
My one regret is that the evening before she passed on, I was doing some housecleaning and during a break was thinking about phoning her for a quick chat. But since we’d planned to meet for a coffee at the mall the next day, I figured it could wait. Should have called. That will always pull at my heart.
At the time, I wasn’t nearly as close to my Dad. We never seemed to have anything to talk about when it was just he and I. Our relationship revolved around my mother. She was our anchor. Now that she was gone, we knew things were going to change. It’s been 2 ½ years since she passed, and we are closer than we’ve ever been. We meet once or twice a week for coffee, just like we did when Mom was alive, and we do Sunday dinner here and there; we’ve even traveled together to visit other family members out of town. I know my Mom would be thrilled to see how well we've worked things out between us.
See the photo? That’s my Mom and Dad in the early fall of 1961. I’m in the baby carriage, only a couple of months old. The photo was taken on Dunn Ave. in the west end of Toronto. My proud new parents were both 27 years old at the time.
That photo sits in a frame on the mantle over my fireplace. The other evening I was thinking about my Mom, missing her on her birthday, and I went and looked at the photo. It’s funny how photographs isolate forever these little moments in time. With the click of a shutter an image is captured, but we never know what sort of power or impact that imagine will hold in history. I don’t know who was holding the camera—I think it was Mrs Pallet, she was my parent’s landlady at the time—but I’m sure none of them ever imagined that that photo would still be around 45 years later, taking its place on the mantel as a sentimental reminder of my wonderful mother and how fortunate I was to be born into their family.
Happy birthday, Mom, I miss you and I’ll never forget you.
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