It's in the Blood

IT’S IN THE BLOOD 1593 words

Dear Mom,

I remember the summer I was five years old. Dad took me by the hand up to your room in the quiet little country hospital and I wondered who that person on the bed was with her face wrapped in white gauze bandages, until I looked to see your beautiful turquoise eyes smiling at me. I knew it was you. Fifty years later, I took dad up to your quiet room in the hospice and he was wondering who that thin, fragile woman laying under a quilt could be. And then you smiled and all the world was right for us again in that moment.

I was with you- rather the whole family was - the afternoon we had the car accident. I was the only one with you though, the morning when you took your final breath. Your beautiful eyes closed forever, but I still see them in my mind smiling down on all of us. And now as I hold my newborn grandchild in my arms, I want him to know what an amazing, sacrificial, strong, courageous woman his great grandmother was.

You were seven months pregnant with four children in the car when dad drove over the hill and we collided head-on with the other car. You smashed through the front window. When we would ask you about the scars on your face, you would tell us, they were reminders of how precious life is. You never had plastic surgery because your beauty shone through your eyes and as you aged, there were only a few visible scars left to remind you of that fateful day. Those fifty-two stitches were only symbols of the beginning of the pain you would endure as you raised a family and encountered the hardships on your life’s journey.

You climbed to the mountain top.

You were a pillar of strength for our family, but especially to our father. You pinched pennies and saved, so that, as a couple, you could eventually buy an acreage to raise your growing family. You spent tireless days managing children, cooking, and helping dad as he built the house of your dreams. During those early years of change, you had to bury your father just six years after you lost your mother. That must have been difficult, but I know you had your three sisters to support you so many times throughout the years. Funny thing is, they told me that you were the one they looked up to. You were the strong one, even though you were one of the youngest.

“Your mom is one tough cookie,” your oldest sister would tell us. Our aunt would laugh and tell the story of you falling out of the tree as a kid and breaking your arm, but didn’t want to let on that anything was amiss. You would share stories too. Chipping the ice off the water trough in the winter so the horses could drink. Skiing to school for miles because you loved to learn. Helping grandpa pick rocks in the sweltering heat of summer. Maybe that’s where you got the idea of a large garden.

Your gardening skills tired us as we helped you shuck the peas, husk the corn and dig the potatoes. Then you would walk to the fridge and take all the leftovers to supply us with a gourmet meal every evening after you were exhausted from chasing kids, changing diapers, doing laundry and tending to our multiple needs. You would drive us to all of our activities and ensure that our band and piano practice was up to par and that our homework was completed. You even managed your daycare through it all.

You were determined to complete your high school diploma which you did, as you were sending the oldest off to university; the youngest was entering Grade one. We cried together in the pea patch that day I left home. You were giving me my wings and I was just learning to fly.

Three girls and three boys. We were family.

And when one of the daughters came home pregnant, you knew it would be too much for dad to handle, so you arranged for my sister to have the baby and give the child to a family who desperately wanted to adopt her. You knew how hard that was for her and for you – it would have been your first grandchild. During the Depression, your parents had told you that if they had to choose one of their daughters to give up because there was not enough food to feed the family, that they would have chosen the strongest one – you.

And just when life looked like things were going well with your new store, you were diagnosed with breast cancer. I don’t know if giving up the store or having to go through your treatments hurt the most, but you seemed sadder after that year. You tried helping your son with his depression, but you were fighting your own. After his attempted suicide, you stayed strong even when the cancer returned. This time, they took your breast, but you were resilient and fought back with your life. Those days you carried the load of your son who needed you, your husband with his heart condition and beginnings of dementia and your own health recovery. My sisters and I always looked to you for advice and even though you were in the middle of all your struggles, you found time to send encouraging cards and offer advice, support and love to our growing families. When you could, you would assist needy families and were always willing to give of yourself to help others. You showed all of us what compassion was.

I remember dad telling us one time when you were going through your cancer treatments that there was a homeless fellow sitting on the sidewalk. You were on your way to the car after your appointment. You approached him and asked him if you and dad could buy him breakfast. He shared his heartbreaking story with you over a table at Tim Horton’s. Too many people would have walked by and not bothered to help him, but you weren’t afraid to share your life, your time or money with others.

I always laugh when I remember you shouting from the top of the water slide on the Caribbean Cruise that we girls were on with you - one of our many trips. You were seventy years old then and the laughter in your eyes as you splashed into the water at the bottom, showed once again, your fearlessness. After all, you were the one who convinced me not to get freezing for my fillings at the dentist. When I sit in the chair, the hygienists are in awe and want to know if I am sure I don’t want a needle for the pain. I tell them, my mother never did, so I won’t.

And then your vocal-chords started to fail you. You loved to sing and when you couldn’t, we sang louder for you. They tried a procedure to give you back your voice. You were coughing up blood. Thankfully they saved you before you bled to death. Little did we know that we would be singing at your funeral later that year.

Even though your strength was always visible from the outside, there was something inside of you that held you together. After your oldest son died a tragic death, your heart was broken. To lose a child before you die, is crushing. That’s when the cancer progressed and went into your bones. I will never forget sitting with the Oncologist when you asked her, “how long do I have?” The doctor didn’t want to say, but you insisted.

“Less than a year.”

You dabbed your eyes and walked out of that building with a new determination. Not only were you trying to manage your deteriorating health, but you were dealing with dad’s failing mind too. We all admired your courage as you endured the pain and agony of knowing you were at the end of your life.

You sat so eloquently at your 80th birthday celebration surrounded by loving family members, but we knew you were in pain. After you told us that you were pulling yourself up from the toilet with the towel hanging in the bathroom, we knew it was time to get you more help. And then when you called me that morning to come quickly, I sprinted to my vehicle, drove like a mad woman and took you to the hospital. That was the beginning of the end.

And here we are remembering you today, as we say goodbye to your oldest sister on Facebook of all things. We can’t be there to hug, share stories and memories or even go to the funeral because of COVID, yet we know that you would want us to be strong. To face whatever obstacles and adversities we are encountering these days with protocols, rules and vaccines, and social distancing.

Mom, we all carry a little of you in our hearts and know that God kept you alive all these years to be such a model to your children, your sisters and so many families whose lives you touched.

We stop by your gravesite to remember. We keep your picture and cards as visible reminders of you throughout our homes. And we pray that your courage from your DNA would be passed on to the next generations for the battles they are going to face. Thanks for showing us the courage to be, to live, to love and to stay strong despite our circumstances.

You have conquered the mountains of fear and we love and miss you.

Happy Mother’s Day

As always,

We love you.