It will be my Mother's 91st birthday tomorrow.
Would have been.
She was born on Saturday May 20th, 1933.
She died two years ago.
She had just turned 89.
I still miss her.
I had a dream about her last night.
I was visiting her in her nursing home.
I was sorting some laundry for her.
I didn't actually see her face.
But I knew she was there.
It would be fair to say we had some turbulence over the years.
There were months we would go without talking to each other - some perceived slight taken way too far.
It's funny what you remember.
And what you don't.
Our last tiff ended in early 2015.
We hadn't spoken for several months before that.
Turns out she had fallen, broken her hip, and wound up in the hospital.
She had not called me.
Nor my brother, Wayne.
It was the hospital that finally called me directly; the social worker there determined to build a bridge, be the olive branch that was so desperately needed between a mother and her daughter.
When I finally spoke with her, it was like no time had passed at all.
Could I please stop by her apartment on the way over and pick up some clothes for her?
Sure thing!
As we sat in the social worker's office, I noticed there was a form that my mother had filled out stating she had no next of kin, no family, no friends.
My heart sank.
She was a stubborn woman, to be sure; I come by it honestly.
But that seemed a bit much.
After taking her home, a hair appointment was in order - she looked like Albert Einstein on a good day.
We got that sorted, and I stayed with her as much as I was able to while she was on a waiting list to go into a long term care facility.
It was determined that it was no longer safe or viable for her to live independently, on her own.
The social worker had arranged for personal support workers to visit several times per day to make sure she was fed and cleaned and doing as well as she could be.
I was often there when they visited, and they were nothing short of angels in their scrubs.
Knowing she was going into long term care, she was ready to give away/sell much of her furniture.
The PSW's were happy recipients for her dining set, her day bed, and other accoutrements.
When she was finally moved into her room, just a couple of weeks later, it was with mixed reviews.
She had a roommate, an older lady named Flo, who seemed to have a lot in common with my Mum; she liked to get dressed up and put on her makeup, and they were both talkers.
Although my Mum railed against the nursing home, there was really no other choice in the matter.
She could not live on her own; we did not have the ability to care for her.
And so, the facility it was.
She made the best of it, despite her complaints about the food, the staff, other residents, the roommates, of which there were a few after Flo passed away.
She made a few close friends with some of the staff. They were happy to have a resident who was ready for a chat and a laugh or three.
Those relationships were what got her through, I believe.
I made a commitment to visit once a month - and we did have some good visits.
The mall was her favourite stop, and when she could no longer manage getting around with just her walker, we would rent a wheelchair so she could sit and enjoy the scenery and sights.
Those days are engrained in my memory; we had great visits and long days, making the most of our time together.
When the pandemic shut everything down, we visited via Skype video chats.
Her hair grew longer, as did mine, and finally one of her nurses put hers into a lovely braid.
She wore that until the end.
After a fall and fracturing her ankle, she spent two weeks in the hospital.
I visited every other day during that time, always bringing her beloved Tim Horton's double double and a Boston Cream donut.
When she returned to her nursing home, I stepped up my visits to at least once per week.
I was making up for lost time during the pandemic, and I also felt there was more of an urgency now.
She really never left her bed again after that hospital visit, save for a trip to the in-house dentist, when she was hoisted into a wheelchair by the staff and I wheeled her down.
A follow-up visit to the hospital to x-ray the healed fracture involved hiring a transport team who lifted her onto a gurney and there she stayed for the entire trip, x-ray, and drive home.
Mobility was lost.
Her arthritis worsened, she became stiffer, weaker, smaller.
I massaged her feet, continued to bring her Tim Horton's double double and Boston Cream donut, along with other treats as we had a "picnic" in her room every Sunday.
About a year later, the visits increased.
She was sleeping more, eating less, and the staff had placed a needle into her thigh, hooking her up to an intravenous hydration system as she was not getting enough liquids.
She was fading.
But she was still up to our Sunday matinee's, ready to watch a DVD together after we had our lunch.
The last movie we watched together was The Fly, starring Jeff Goldblum.
Probably not the nicest movie to remember was the last with your Mum, especially the final scenes, but there you have it. She did love her sci-fi.
A week before she passed, the staff said she was asking for me all the time and kindly set us up with Skype video calls when I could not be there in person.
She would often fall asleep during these calls; it was then I knew we did not have long left.
She told me once that a couple of "thingamabobs" told her they were waiting for her.
I asked her if they were angels - she said she thought so.
I knew she was in good hands then.
I asked if she had seen Wayne, who had died the year before.
She said she hadn't - but should she expect to see him?
I said yes, probably.
A few days later the doctor at the nursing home called me to say that my Mum had stopped eating entirely.
And she was not speaking anymore.
However, when he asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital, he said she yelled out a resounding "No!"
When I arrived for our next visit, she was on her side, eyes wide, staring into infinity.
She did not speak to me; could not speak to me.
There was no strength, no will.
I played all her favourite music for the duration of our visit.
The nurses came to turn her, putting padded boots on her feet to help with the bed sores that were forming from lack of movement.
Two days later, a nurse called to say my Mum was going.
I raced down - only to miss her by mere minutes.
I was pulling into the parking lot when the nurse called again.
I ran to see her - breaking down in tears in the hallway where the nurse met me and gave me a big hug.
Other nurses were surrounding her bed, being with her, not letting her go alone.
And there I stayed with her, holding her hand, playing music, while the doctor came and pronounced her, while another nurse took a final post-mortem Covid test, until the funeral home came to take her away.
Several staff came in to offer condolences and to say goodbye to her.
She was a resident that left her mark, that was for sure.
She would be missed.
Many of her favourite staff were off that day - I know they would be very sad that she was gone.
Another nurse came and read a passage from the Bible.
Another nurse played some hymns on their iPad.
It was a beautiful send off - I was touched - I am sure my mother was moved - or perhaps she was just very glad to get the hell outta there.
Her body was posed in such a way she looked like an angel ascending - her leg was permanently bent at the knee due to the arthritis, fused in a position that made her look like a statue rising to heaven.
The doctor told me he had ruled her cause of death as "Failure To Thrive."
He had that right.
As it is for all of us at the end, I think thriving is the last thing on our "To Do" list.
And so, Mummy, as I still shed tears at the thought of you being gone, of missing you so much, just a couple of years later, knowing that you could not still be here, yet wishing you were, longing for one more trip to the mall, one more Sunday matinee, one more lunch at Tim Horton's, sobbing as I write this, feeling wrenched inside knowing that what we had is all that we will ever have, my tears being drowned out by the neighbour mowing his lawn on this sunny Sunday morning, the day when I used to look forward to driving down to see you, I just want to say: I love you.