Portrait of A Lady

There are better ways I can think of to spend a weekend than sorting through my mother's belongings trying to decide what to give away, what to keep and who would get what. But it had to be done, and I couldn't leave my sister to do it alone. Nor could I bear the thought of my father having to do it.

Two solid days of bending and folding, laughing and crying. We fondly remembered when she wore certain things and wondered about some of the other much more random items we found like a collection of frilly cocktail aprons (which of course came home with me). I quickly discovered that my hoarding instinct - particularly with regard to carrier bags and scraps of paper - is a hereditary condition. My sister, who is adopted, argues that it's more of a nurture vs nature issue. We found clothing or jewellery that were representative of almost every decade of her life. All eight of them.

In its own odd way, it was better than Christmas. My sister said it best when she remarked that she felt like Mom was 'there' more this past weekend than she was over the holidays.

I won't type much more, because in this case it's true what they say: a picture is worth a thousand words.

I will never wear the Chantilly, but I took it for two reasons: because for as long as I can remember this powder container sat on my mother's dresser, and it smells like her.

In the end, we packed up a lifetime of belongings into five large plastic bags to be donated to the local Salvation Army. Fitting for a woman who spent much of her life helping others in one way or another. There are still a few things to go through, more jewellery and some of her dresses, but we couldn't do it anymore.

And that's fine. Perhaps it's better that way.

Beauty Icon Wednesday: For My Mother

Name: Eleada Anne (Britton) Thomson, born October 7th 1931

passed suddenly November 5th, 2011

Known for: being a consummate teacher, mother to everyone, and in possession the biggest heart of anyone this world has ever known.

Girls have always seemed to have an interesting relationship with their mothers. When you're just a little girl, your mother is the one person you can always count on. She's always there for you, the main female role model you have. Later on, in those awkward teen-aged years, you start to think of her as annoying, embarassing, old-fashioned, 'uncool'. And you spend as much time trying to distance yourself from her as you had previously done emulating her.

It's not until you get much older, usually after you've had kids of your own, that you start to appreciate your mother again, to respect her for everything she's done in making you who and what you are. You become friends again, even closer than before. What's sad about this is all the time that was wasted while you were busy convincing yourself that she was the enemy determined to ruin your social life and cool factor between the ages fourteen to twenty. Because despite what you may have believed when you were four, your mother is not an invincible superhero who will live forever...anymore than she was your arch nemesis.

I lost my mother this weekend. She had just turned eighty last month, and the only thing she wanted for her birthday was for the whole family to be together. Between my sister and her partner, and my brother's son, all of us are spread over hundreds of kilometers, but we picked a spot somewhere in the middle. And took some family pictures, since the last time we had been together like that was for my parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. Eight years ago. Yeah...who stays married for 58 years anymore?!

Despite the three and a half hour driving distance, we were able to compromise by meeting in the middle and so I've seen my mother and father more in the past couple of years than I had previously. This was out of necessity, since they had both taken turns scaring the hell out of their three children with a variety of heart attacks, strokes, and other various ailments. As much as she enjoyed spending time with me, her youngest daughter, I realize that I was just as much a vessel for her to see her grandson. One of her biggest regrets was that she wasn't able to spend as much time with him as her first grandson who'd been born about twenty years ago, when she was much less frail and lived far closer than the massive field just south of Owen Sound they had since retired to. Believe me, it's been one of mine too.

I got the call late last Friday night that she had been rushed to hospital, and that it 'didn't look good'. In the morning, my sister called to say that her condition had worsened and she had been air-lifted to another hospital, and that she was flying into Pearson so we could meet and drive down together. Although worried as we drove the two and a half hours to the hospital, my sister and I had been done this road before. And my mother had pulled through. But that was a few years ago, and she was much stronger then. The past few months we'd seen her get smaller and smaller. And as soon as we walked into the ICU and saw her lying slumped on the bed hooked up to a ventilator, we knew that this time was different. The doctors told us that she had zero brain activity due to a massive stroke she'd had the night before, and that a surgical attempt would be futile as so much damage had been done to the brain tissue. The only thing keeping her alive was that machine she was hooked up to, and as a family we had a difficult decision to make. Except that what the doctors didn't know was that it wasn't really up to us, that the decision had already been made long ago, by my mother herself. She had always been adamant that she was not to be kept alive by a machine because, according to her, that wasn't living. And so, it was done.

My mother breathed on her own for almost two hours. Then, at around 9:20pm on Saturday, she took her last breath while I held one hand and my father the other. And she was gone.

Next came the whirlwind of preparations - making phone calls, cancelling appointments, coordinating funeral homes in two different counties, planning a funeral service that would be worthy of such a wonderful woman who had been loved by so many. It was almost enough that you were too busy to cry. But cry I did. I still do.

We buried her today, in the cemetery of the church she'd gone to for a good portion of her life. The reverend there said it best when he commented that it was almost like she was coming home. The church was packed, standing room only. And surprisingly, after already spent two days of visitations in a 'Pam-induced haze, I made it through the service pharmaceutical-free and with far fewer tears. Until the casket was closed, and she was being lowered into the ground. That's where I admit I'm still struggling.

I expect I'll be struggling for quite some time.

Goodbye, Mommy. As much as I will miss you, at least I know that you aren't in any pain anymore. With any luck, as your grandson says, you're up there with Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.