That is the day and time that the woman who brought me into this
world, left it.
It has taken some time to come to grips
with it. Even today, it doesn't feel like it is real. Just this summer, my
mother came here to Ottawa to visit with me. She was so alive, so much herself.
Yet I could see the years had worn her down. She no longer could walk as long,
and had a huge bag of pills to maintain various health conditions.
And I was never under any delusions that she would be around for
all of my life. I am the youngest child, one had later in her life, so I knew
this day would come. And yet, my mother seemed to be invincible. I guess that’s
how most children feel about their mother. But I had good reason.
My home life wasn’t the greatest when my parents were together. My
father was a poor drunk, and free with his fists where it concerned my mother.
When my mother needed to have dentures put in (rather early in life), my dad
had taken her to the dentist to remove her teeth. He only removed half and told
her to wait for that to heal. My mom, fearing my dad would not take her back,
decided that was a wrong answer.
With a pair of pliers, my mother removed her own teeth. Re-read
that. She removed her own teeth. This is the stuff my mother was made of. She
was iron, larger than life, and twice as strong as anyone I’ve ever known.
As a child, the tip of her little toe was smashed off, leaving
bone exposed. What did mom do? Trimmed it like a toenail. Even at a young age,
she had strength enough to do what needed doing, and without sadness or misery.
My mom walked to the gallows that was her life with a sneer and a
quip. She laughed often once she was on her own, and had a perverse sense of
dark humour I fully inherited. There was little that intimidated or scared my
mom. My mom left my dad when I was just 5, but when I was just finishing 4th
grade, I wanted to go to live with her.
I remember our little apartment. It wasn’t much. It was cold in
the winters, hot in the summers, and the wind cut straight through it all year
round. We did our best to combat it. At first my mom made sure I was warm under
a blanket she hand-crocheted herself. Then, later, when we went to a larger
apartment in the same drafty house, she got me a sleeping bag to help keep me
warm.
She always bought me cupcakes when I asked. She baked cookies when
I didn’t, so we always had something nice to nibble on. She did her best to
always have good food for my lunches, and make nice meals for our dinner, even
if I was a finicky eater back then. She worked a job she hated, and was far
from our home just to make ends meet. And she always made sure that I knew I
was loved.
She wasn’t perfect. She smoked, which in the end help speed her
death. But beyond that, she was just human. She had her flaws, but she always
tried to do her best for my siblings and me. She didn’t let life beat her, she
kept fighting.
When I left there, Mom actually picked up and moved south, sick of
the winters in New York State. She moved down south, and of all things became a
security guard. My tiny, just over 5 foot mom, a security guard. I somehow find
that thought both frightening and funny. Frightening mainly because my mom
could be quite intimidating for a short little thing.
She kept working down there, eventually shifting from guard work
to a packing plant. And it was on her way home from that one night that she
lost control of her car, and slammed into a guard rail.
She impressed the doctors by surviving the initial crash, one they
said that would have killed people a third her age. But then, her smoking came
back to haunt her. Her heart was ravaged from years of a bad diet and smoking.
It wound up being the true cause of her demise. A bitter irony, a heart that suffered
and gave to others didn’t have enough to save herself.
She will never see me remarried. She will not see if I have any
children. She never got to physically meet my fiancée, or see how happy she
makes me. She will not be there for me ask advice from. And never again will I
be able to hug her and tell her I love her.
When I was flying back to Canada, I was sitting by a window
looking out where the plane would come. On the floor, I found a bobby pin, like
my mom always used to put up her hair. I’d like to think it was there for a
reason.
Thank you Mom, I miss you. You will live on in my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment