I try not to talk about my faith too much. I am Catholic, I go to church and I am both a cantor at mass and the funeral cantor of my church. At many times in my life, the predictable comfort of weekly mass was the only constant in a life that was rife with uncertainty and unpredictability. While I have serious philosophical issues with some of the man-made tenets of the Catholic Church organization, I can't imagine practicing my faith anywhere else. However, I also believe that God doesn't care what building you are sitting in, what language you use, what missal you follow or what prayers you pray as long as you talk to Him somehow, and try to follow His ways.
Both my parents were deeply faithful. My father was Jesuit educated, and he was a member of Cursillo. He raised hundreds of dollars for churches over the years, lending his fundraising expertise free of charge. The church where both my parents are buried still use the nativity figures he donated to the church in 1962 when he found out the church couldn't afford to buy them. The altar of the church where my daughter made her first communion recently is framed by wooden pillars that my father helped to raise the funds to create. The Community Living house across the street from the church we attend now came into being because my dad raised the funds to make it happen.
My mother's faith was both simple and profound. While she was anchored by the gospel passage about God's house having many rooms, she also lived in terror of angering God. Her father's family were Protestant (he became a Catholic to marry my grandma) and fire and brimstone was in her DNA. My mother attended daily mass until her health prevented her from doing so, and then we watched it on television. While she was dead set against things like an open casket ("I'll reach up and close it and then I'll haunt you"). visitation ("why would we waste all that money. No one is going to come anyway") and using the funeral home cars (we'll just drive ourselves) she was definite about wanting a full mass and a "proper Catholic burial". Ritual mattered to my mother almost as much as her sense of decorum and proper behaviour. (and what her daughter was wearing...)
So when I was planning my mom's burial for the May long weekend, the first thing I did was contact the English priest at the parish down home. My parents' grave is located behind the village church in St. Eugene, Ontario. My grandparents were married there, my mother and all her siblings were baptized and receive their sacraments there, a few of my aunts and uncles were married there, and many of my family members are buried behind the church. However, the church is now French, and only has a priest once a month. The English church is about 20 minutes up the road, so I contacted that church first before making any other arrangements. The priest agreed immediately, set the time that would work in his schedule and we made all the other arrangements accordingly based on the priest's availability.
And then he didn't show up. The time of the burial he had chosen necessitated various family and friends travelling several hours to be at the graveyard in time. My mom's two lifelong best friends, aged 86 and 88 respectively, stood in the sun with 50 other family members. At first we attributed the delay to a street festival in the adjacent town that had a detour. By 1110 hrs, I was asking the clerk of the church to call the English church. He spoke to someone who confirmed the priest should be enroute. By 1130 hrs, my uncle, my mom's baby brother, and his son had to leave because they had another funeral to attend. The clerk even tried to reach the Deacon of his church...and then he handed me the book with the Catholic Rite of Burial...and I presided over my own mother's burial. I guessed my way through the prayers, thanked everyone for coming, and ended with the committal song from a Catholic funeral because I didn't know what else to do.
Various family have told me that it was nicer and more personal than if the priest had done it. Many have said that my mother would have been proud of me. But here's the thing. First of all, my mother wouldn't have been proud at all...she would have been mortified. I am not a priest or a sister or a deacon...I have no business using the Rite of the church. She would have been happy that I had "gotten on with things" because people were standing in the sun and my daughter was up a tree (literally) from anxiety, but she would not have been comforted by me doing the ritual of her burial, because it would not have met my mom's definition of a "proper Catholic burial."
The priest was apologetic and claimed to have the wrong date in his phone although the date was correct in the planning calendar at the church. (if he used the phone for scheduling, why could no one reach him ON the phone that day?) He says he has offered a mass for my mom, and also said that he went to the graveyard the next weekend and said the burial prayers over my mom's grave. I have only his word to go on about that.
But here's the thing-I don't have the solace of witnessing the burial ritual. I don't have the comfort of the ritual and the knowledge that mom's final wish was fulfilled. I did my best under extraordinary circumstances, but I still feel like I failed my mom in her last wish.
I know that my mom is in heaven and I know that the mass is the important part, but I still needed the solace of the burial ritual to complete mom's last journey. I needed the comfort of the ritual, and more specifically, I needed the comfort of someone else DOING the ritual. Presiding over my own mother's burial was just another thing that I never thought I would have to do for my mom...and it was the hardest of all.
Eternal Life grant unto her O Lord, and let Perpetual Light shine upon her.
I'm sorry mom. I tried.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Friday, April 5, 2013
Earrings and Easter Eggs
When you are a member of a church choir, Easter is more busy than Christmas. From Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, a church choir member has a lot of singing to do. Since I am both a church choir cantor and a member of the Grand Philharmonic Choir, with a tradition of singing a major Bach work on Good Friday evening, Easter means I am stupidly busy.
I abdicated hosting Easter Sunday dinner a few years ago, because I am usually (more of a) babbling idiot by Easter Sunday afternoon after the busy week I have just completed. Singing, especially singing at the level of the Grand Philharmonic Choir, is physically and mentally demanding and exhausting.
Since I was a child, one of my favorite things in the lead up to Easter was decorating Easter eggs. It ranked right up there with the first bite of Easter Bunny ears. I have passed my enthusiasm on to my daughter, and I had promised her we would decorate the eggs on Holy Saturday.
Having a child with OCD and Anxiety means dealing with a child with a laser-beam focus...and a need for constant reassurance. She went to bed Friday night knowing we were decorating Easter eggs on Saturday. She had been asking 30 times a day for 2 weeks when we were going to decorate the Easter eggs, and she checked the contents of the kit as many times a day...
At 3am Saturday morning, she was up and ready to decorate Easter eggs, because it was now Saturday. Yes, you read that right, 3 am. She STAYED up for the day and didn't crash until 10pm that night. We had gone to bed around midnight, and 3am is not a good time of night for me. I ended up going back to bed around 6am for a couple hours to try to beat the migraine into submission. The Kid came and woke me up at 7:30 am to inquire when we were going to do Easter eggs because the movie we had put on at 4am was over. She asked again at 9am. She asked again at 10am...We decorated the Easter eggs in the afternoon. They were lovely, at least I think they were, I was too tired to notice.
There are times when her challenges are exhausting, and when she is on a broken record about something, in absolute frustration I have said to her "don't ask again." And then I realize she can't help it. the combination of OCD and Anxiety creates a loop that she can't help. She will often answer "I can't help it." And she really can't. And then I realize it and feel like the world's worst mother. Maybe is a word we do not use in our house, because maybe means yes. It doesn't mean maybe.
Easter hasn't really been a big deal in our family tradition-wise (see Paragraph one). I was doing fine on Easter, until our music director handed me my mom's earrings, that my daughter had left at church on Good Friday. Minutes later, we started a hymn called "We Who Once Were Dead"... and I had to go and sob in the coatroom again. The combination of mom's favorite earrings and a hymn about death was my undoing.
I miss you, mom. I miss you in a million big and small ways every single day.
I abdicated hosting Easter Sunday dinner a few years ago, because I am usually (more of a) babbling idiot by Easter Sunday afternoon after the busy week I have just completed. Singing, especially singing at the level of the Grand Philharmonic Choir, is physically and mentally demanding and exhausting.
Since I was a child, one of my favorite things in the lead up to Easter was decorating Easter eggs. It ranked right up there with the first bite of Easter Bunny ears. I have passed my enthusiasm on to my daughter, and I had promised her we would decorate the eggs on Holy Saturday.
Having a child with OCD and Anxiety means dealing with a child with a laser-beam focus...and a need for constant reassurance. She went to bed Friday night knowing we were decorating Easter eggs on Saturday. She had been asking 30 times a day for 2 weeks when we were going to decorate the Easter eggs, and she checked the contents of the kit as many times a day...
At 3am Saturday morning, she was up and ready to decorate Easter eggs, because it was now Saturday. Yes, you read that right, 3 am. She STAYED up for the day and didn't crash until 10pm that night. We had gone to bed around midnight, and 3am is not a good time of night for me. I ended up going back to bed around 6am for a couple hours to try to beat the migraine into submission. The Kid came and woke me up at 7:30 am to inquire when we were going to do Easter eggs because the movie we had put on at 4am was over. She asked again at 9am. She asked again at 10am...We decorated the Easter eggs in the afternoon. They were lovely, at least I think they were, I was too tired to notice.
There are times when her challenges are exhausting, and when she is on a broken record about something, in absolute frustration I have said to her "don't ask again." And then I realize she can't help it. the combination of OCD and Anxiety creates a loop that she can't help. She will often answer "I can't help it." And she really can't. And then I realize it and feel like the world's worst mother. Maybe is a word we do not use in our house, because maybe means yes. It doesn't mean maybe.
Easter hasn't really been a big deal in our family tradition-wise (see Paragraph one). I was doing fine on Easter, until our music director handed me my mom's earrings, that my daughter had left at church on Good Friday. Minutes later, we started a hymn called "We Who Once Were Dead"... and I had to go and sob in the coatroom again. The combination of mom's favorite earrings and a hymn about death was my undoing.
I miss you, mom. I miss you in a million big and small ways every single day.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Firsts
When someone you love dies, the "first" events are agony-the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first Mother's Day, Father's Day...the "firsts" reopen the wounds and shine a spotlight on the hole in your life.
My mom died in November, and Christmas and my 50th birthday followed in rapid succession. I knew they would be hard. The "firsts" always are. I braced myself for it, and gave myself permission to feel whatever I was going to feel.
What has caught me off-guard, however, is not the firsts in my life, but the firsts in my daughter's life. I was prepared to miss mom for my firsts-my daughter's firsts are knocking me on my butt.
I had already bought my mom's presents for my daughter at Christmas, so my daughter's birthday was the first "first" for her without my mom. My mom would buy her beloved granddaughter everything under the sun. We all knew that time was finite, and I tried to pick the mountains I died on, within reason.
At the end of January last year, mom and I were out shopping for my birthday and my daughter's birthday. Mom was not herself that day- she was confused, she kept asking why we were at the mall...she had had what I know now was a TIA, but it was the first one, and I didn't know what it was then. We bought my birthday present, and then headed to my daughter's favorite store "Build a Bear." We bought a purple stuffed animal and my mom recorded a special message for my daughter "Grandma loves you..." When we got home, mom phoned 30 minutes later, in a panic because she didn't have a birthday present for me. It was sitting in a prominent place on the kitchen table and she had forgotten why we had gone out that day. She called and asked me 2 more times in the next hour. I went back to mom's apartment and discovered that she hadn't taken her pills for days, and had forgotten to eat. It was the day when everything started going wrong and marked the beginning of the spiral downwards to her eventual move to the nursing home, and her death 10 months later. On that day, I almost didn't take mom to Build a Bear because she always spent too much money in there. I'm glad I did.
My daughter makes her first Communion this year, and my mom was looking forward to it. Faith was a foundation of my mom's life and she was very pleased I was giving my daughter the foundation of faith as well. My dad was a man of faith, and he would have been over the moon watching his granddaughter make her first Communion, even more so than my mom.
As the lead up to first Communion, my daughter had her first Reconciliation this week. The church that is associated with her school is not the church we normally attend, but I have a family connection with it. It is the church that my parents attended until my dad died, and it is the church where we held dad's funeral. There are large wooden screens at the back of the altar that surround the sacristy. My dad led the fundraising campaign at that church to build them. They remind me of my dad.
As I sat in the church waiting for my daughter to make her first Reconciliation, grief overwhelmed me. What surprised me, however, was the grief I felt for my mom AND my dad. They would have been so proud of their granddaughter. Missing dad is usually reserved for Remembrance Day...this grief caught me by surprise, to the point where after my daughter returned to the pew, I had to excuse myself for a private cry in the bathroom.
There are a number of other firsts ahead of me, and I have to accept that some will be worse than others. Tears showed I loved. I can own that.
(Sometimes I sneak into my daughter's room and play the bear. "Grandma loves you." and I answer "she sure did.")
Friday, February 1, 2013
This Business of Grieving
It's a funny thing, this business of grieving. Or more specifically, it's a funny thing, this perceived business of grieving. Why is it that people judge you by the way you seem to be grieving, or not grieving, as the case may be.
I just celebrated a milestone birthday. Many people were expecting me to be an emotional wreck as I approached the day, both because it was a birthday ending in zero, and it was the first birthday without my mom. I was not. The age part didn't bother me in the least. And I miss my mom every minute of every day. I never understood why my birthday was such a big deal to her, far more so than to me, until I became an adoptive parent myself. Then the penny dropped and it all made sense.
One year ago on my birthday, I arrived at my mom's apartment to find a note on the table saying "Happy birthday, you were the best thing in my life. I love you." Mom was lying on the couch, weak, disoriented and waiting for it to no longer be my birthday so that she could die. You see, she promised me she wouldn't die on my birthday, but the next day all bets were off. When I arrived at her apartment the next morning, she had left me another note that said "I hope all this is over. I love you." That day, I took her to the hospital for a 27 hour wait, a two week hospitalization and the beginning of the year of hell that this blog has captured which ended with her death in November.
.In the last month before her death, mom often told me that she wanted to "move on" so that I could "get on with my life." I kept telling her that she was a big part of that life, and I was just fine with that. In the week she was dying, I changed my opinion. I told her that I loved her and would miss her, but it was time for her to go. Her favorite scripture passage was John:14-there are many rooms in my Father's mansion. She took comfort that there would be a place for her. Mom started dying on Tuesday and by then, sepsis had been confirmed. She was still lucid, and I told her that her room was ready. "Have you booked the movers?" she quipped, and I replied I was waiting for her to give me the date. And then I told her that it was time for her to go, and I would be fine. I told her that a few times over the next few days. I knew mom would fight to stay if I tried to hold onto her, and in the face of the extreme pain she was in, I couldn't do that. The hardest thing I've done was tell my mom it was okay to die. It was also one of the most loving things I've ever done.
In a weird way, I did too good a job of being "okay." I couldn't grieve and I couldn't cry. I think my subconscious decided that if I broke down, I wasn't keeping my promise to mom about being okay with her dying. After 2 weeks of insomnia, debilitating back spasms and complete numbness, I told mom that I needed to be able to grieve for her. I've cried a bit since then, but it's still a loss deeper than tears. Let me be clear. I miss my mom every minute of every day. My whole life needed to be restructured and reshaped and I'm still working on that.
My mom knew about my plans for a birthday celebration. My last birthday celebration was probably my 15th birthday. I was snowed in on my sweet 16 and nothing much has happened since. Mom thought it was grand that I was going to have a party. She also thought I was nuts, but anyway...
I think some people were surprised that I went ahead with my birthday celebration. People expected it to be a sad day, whereas I welcomed the new age and was thrilled so many of my friends came to help me celebrate. Confession time...I had a party in high school, my only one, and it was an unmitigated disaster. No one came, and the couple who did come left. It scarred me for life and entertaining has not been something I've enjoyed since. The fact that people came surprised and thrilled me, although I had been posting tempting things on Facebook all week...I baked myself into a stupor but I wanted it to be a thank you to all my friends, as well as a celebration of the new decade of my life. So many times in the last year, my friends were the ones who got me through, let me vent, let me cry, and supported and held me up through the worst year of my life.
Mom may not have been there in body, but she was certainly there in spirit. One of the last conversations we had before she slipped into a coma, I told her I knew she would never be able to let me dress myself and would always be whispering in my ear. She left and said that was probably true. She was certainly not going to let a little thing like death slow her down. The morning of my party, I chose an outfit that I really liked until I looked in the mirror. Clear as a bell, mom's voice in my ear said "that's not going to look very nice in pictures, dear." And mom was right, so I went and changed. Later, in one of the group pictures of friends I have known since high school there is a very distinct orb in the photo, right beside my head. It's not in the next picture of the same group. For angel workers and intuitives, orbs are clear signs that angels and spirits are present and I am a firm believer in the presence of both angels and our loved ones. I felt mom there all day, so she popped in to show me. She was still a part of things.
I got the sense that some people feel I'm not grieving enough because I had the party anyway. My mom would haunt me for all eternity if I had called off the party because of her death, just like she would have haunted me for all eternity if I'd cancelled my daughter's Christmas party because it fell the morning after mom died. Mom was very stoic and matter of fact about things, and living and dying was something we talked a great deal about. She was emphatic and firm about me moving on with my life after she died. One of the last conversations we had revolved around that topic. I also know she's in heaven using her influence to throw new opportunities my way. And I know she's around me always.
Grief is personal. There is no right or wrong way, no time frame and the only way to get through it is to go through it. I can manage the big things, but the little things will trip me up, like watching the Queen's Christmas message alone for the first time in my life, or finding something in mom's handwriting while sorting through a box. I promised mom that I would be okay, and I mean to keep that promise. She also made me promise that I would get on with my life, and I'm trying to keep that promise too. She had little tolerance for "moping" when she was alive, and I doubt that has changed. My mom would never let a little thing like death stop her from communicating with me, and I'd like those interactions to be positive. So I straighten my shoulders, raise my head and keep moving through this, some days better than others. It's how my mom expected me to cope.
I just celebrated a milestone birthday. Many people were expecting me to be an emotional wreck as I approached the day, both because it was a birthday ending in zero, and it was the first birthday without my mom. I was not. The age part didn't bother me in the least. And I miss my mom every minute of every day. I never understood why my birthday was such a big deal to her, far more so than to me, until I became an adoptive parent myself. Then the penny dropped and it all made sense.
One year ago on my birthday, I arrived at my mom's apartment to find a note on the table saying "Happy birthday, you were the best thing in my life. I love you." Mom was lying on the couch, weak, disoriented and waiting for it to no longer be my birthday so that she could die. You see, she promised me she wouldn't die on my birthday, but the next day all bets were off. When I arrived at her apartment the next morning, she had left me another note that said "I hope all this is over. I love you." That day, I took her to the hospital for a 27 hour wait, a two week hospitalization and the beginning of the year of hell that this blog has captured which ended with her death in November.
.In the last month before her death, mom often told me that she wanted to "move on" so that I could "get on with my life." I kept telling her that she was a big part of that life, and I was just fine with that. In the week she was dying, I changed my opinion. I told her that I loved her and would miss her, but it was time for her to go. Her favorite scripture passage was John:14-there are many rooms in my Father's mansion. She took comfort that there would be a place for her. Mom started dying on Tuesday and by then, sepsis had been confirmed. She was still lucid, and I told her that her room was ready. "Have you booked the movers?" she quipped, and I replied I was waiting for her to give me the date. And then I told her that it was time for her to go, and I would be fine. I told her that a few times over the next few days. I knew mom would fight to stay if I tried to hold onto her, and in the face of the extreme pain she was in, I couldn't do that. The hardest thing I've done was tell my mom it was okay to die. It was also one of the most loving things I've ever done.
In a weird way, I did too good a job of being "okay." I couldn't grieve and I couldn't cry. I think my subconscious decided that if I broke down, I wasn't keeping my promise to mom about being okay with her dying. After 2 weeks of insomnia, debilitating back spasms and complete numbness, I told mom that I needed to be able to grieve for her. I've cried a bit since then, but it's still a loss deeper than tears. Let me be clear. I miss my mom every minute of every day. My whole life needed to be restructured and reshaped and I'm still working on that.
My mom knew about my plans for a birthday celebration. My last birthday celebration was probably my 15th birthday. I was snowed in on my sweet 16 and nothing much has happened since. Mom thought it was grand that I was going to have a party. She also thought I was nuts, but anyway...
I think some people were surprised that I went ahead with my birthday celebration. People expected it to be a sad day, whereas I welcomed the new age and was thrilled so many of my friends came to help me celebrate. Confession time...I had a party in high school, my only one, and it was an unmitigated disaster. No one came, and the couple who did come left. It scarred me for life and entertaining has not been something I've enjoyed since. The fact that people came surprised and thrilled me, although I had been posting tempting things on Facebook all week...I baked myself into a stupor but I wanted it to be a thank you to all my friends, as well as a celebration of the new decade of my life. So many times in the last year, my friends were the ones who got me through, let me vent, let me cry, and supported and held me up through the worst year of my life.
Mom may not have been there in body, but she was certainly there in spirit. One of the last conversations we had before she slipped into a coma, I told her I knew she would never be able to let me dress myself and would always be whispering in my ear. She left and said that was probably true. She was certainly not going to let a little thing like death slow her down. The morning of my party, I chose an outfit that I really liked until I looked in the mirror. Clear as a bell, mom's voice in my ear said "that's not going to look very nice in pictures, dear." And mom was right, so I went and changed. Later, in one of the group pictures of friends I have known since high school there is a very distinct orb in the photo, right beside my head. It's not in the next picture of the same group. For angel workers and intuitives, orbs are clear signs that angels and spirits are present and I am a firm believer in the presence of both angels and our loved ones. I felt mom there all day, so she popped in to show me. She was still a part of things.
I got the sense that some people feel I'm not grieving enough because I had the party anyway. My mom would haunt me for all eternity if I had called off the party because of her death, just like she would have haunted me for all eternity if I'd cancelled my daughter's Christmas party because it fell the morning after mom died. Mom was very stoic and matter of fact about things, and living and dying was something we talked a great deal about. She was emphatic and firm about me moving on with my life after she died. One of the last conversations we had revolved around that topic. I also know she's in heaven using her influence to throw new opportunities my way. And I know she's around me always.
Grief is personal. There is no right or wrong way, no time frame and the only way to get through it is to go through it. I can manage the big things, but the little things will trip me up, like watching the Queen's Christmas message alone for the first time in my life, or finding something in mom's handwriting while sorting through a box. I promised mom that I would be okay, and I mean to keep that promise. She also made me promise that I would get on with my life, and I'm trying to keep that promise too. She had little tolerance for "moping" when she was alive, and I doubt that has changed. My mom would never let a little thing like death stop her from communicating with me, and I'd like those interactions to be positive. So I straighten my shoulders, raise my head and keep moving through this, some days better than others. It's how my mom expected me to cope.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Stuff that memories are made of.
I've been AWOL for the last while, because I was frantically trying to deal with the contents of my mother's apartment, which had to be emptied by September 30. Some things were sold. Some things have a new place in my home, and some things were donated. All the remnants of my life with my parents have now been dealt with. I'm not going to lie. It was emotionally draining, and in some cases, heart-breaking. My mom felt terribly guilty for leaving me with the task, which I dealt with by myself. I needed to have time to grieve the loss as I packed up the memories of my parent's life with me.
I knew when I started dismantling mom's apartment that I was only going to be able to keep a few key pieces. I wanted to keep the oak bookcase that I can still picture mom stripping by hand in the garage when I came home from grade school. I wanted to keep the marble-top chest that always held the pumpkin my dad would make at Halloween that had olives for eyes, green pepper eyebrows and a carrot nose. We wanted to use the chest and dresser from my parents' bedroom set because they are solid maple and in better shape than the ones from my husband's parents that we had been using. I wanted to keep some of the artwork, and I wanted to keep the chair that I always sat in at home. Everything else had to go.
Trying to price my mom's furniture needed the wisdom of Solomon. I researched comparable items on sites like Kijiji and priced things accordingly. My mom took scrupulous, meticulous care of her things and they were all solid hardwood and well maintained. I was trying to sell as many of the pieces as I could so I could replenish mom's bank account. I had to drop the price a few times to sell the couch, the kitchen table and chairs, the twin beds, the coffee table and the bedside tables.
A little piece of my life with my parents died with every piece of mom's that I sold. The couch went to a lovely young couple, newly immigrated from India and building a new life in Canada. I wished them a happy life. I wanted to tell them that my dad used to snooze on the couch, just so. Mom spent many hours there in the past few months. And that spot, right there, that's where my cousin Murray sat the last time he was here. The couch had seen a lot of happy family memories and now it's gone off to help a new family make new ones. The kitchen table and chairs went to a young couple who had just moved here from Ottawa. That spot there, with the faint cigarette burn that mom couldn't quite remove when she refinished the table-that's where my dad used to sit and do his crossword puzzle. We had lots of discussions about politics around that table.
I ended up donating several pieces to the Salvation Army. I was raised to give what I was able to give to those with even less, and I knew that mom would approve. Still, some of the pieces that were donated broke my heart. There was the wicker loveseat that always sat in my bedroom when I was a child and held all my stuffed animals. There was the funny wicker standing magazine rack that held the newspapers and magazines. And there was the old cricket set-the love seat and matching little rocking chair where I sat day after day in recent months. When we drove away after leaving the little rocker, I burst into tears. I simply didn't have space for it, but alot of memories were tied to that little upholstered chair.
It wasn't all horrible. I discovered my father had kept every card I had sent him for his birthday or Father's Day. My dad was not sentimental. My mom, who threw out papers with abandon, had kept all the birthday, Christmas and Mother's Day cards she had received, both from me and from her mother. I found a letter my grandmother wrote to my mother on Mother's Day about how she hoped I would be as good a mother as my mom is. I'm trying Grandma, I'm trying. And then there was the letter. While sorting through a box of my old children's books that I almost donated without checking, I found a letter from my dad from Father's Day 1973 when he was fundraising in Halifax to build Dalhousie University. He told me in writing that he was proud of me and loved me. Those words were rare as I got older. Were it not for an old box of children's books that I nearly donated without sorting, I would have never found the letter. I certainly don't remember it. It was probably meaningless to a 10 year old girl. To a 49 year old, it's precious.
The china, the crystal and the artwork came home and are in transition to new places in our home. I emptied as many boxes as I could in the week between the closing date for the apartment and hosting Thanksgiving at our house. My mom was eager to see where all her things had been placed in our house, so we had to have the main things in place. Mom was able to see where some things were, and the rest will be done by Christmas. We used the china at Thanksgiving my dad had purchased for me when I was a teenager. Because I had always left the china at mom's, mom decided I didn't like it and was always instructing me to get rid of it. I don't think we'd used it since just after mom moved to the apartment, so it had been 20 years or more since it had seen the light of day. It's much prettier than I remember.
As a wise friend said to me, at the end of the day, it's just furniture. The pieces I've kept have special meaning and are already being used in our home. The pieces that were sold or otherwise disposed of are now being used in new homes by new people. May they carry with them love, friendship, good conversation, warm hugs and laughter. I've got pictures and memories. The rest is just stuff.
I knew when I started dismantling mom's apartment that I was only going to be able to keep a few key pieces. I wanted to keep the oak bookcase that I can still picture mom stripping by hand in the garage when I came home from grade school. I wanted to keep the marble-top chest that always held the pumpkin my dad would make at Halloween that had olives for eyes, green pepper eyebrows and a carrot nose. We wanted to use the chest and dresser from my parents' bedroom set because they are solid maple and in better shape than the ones from my husband's parents that we had been using. I wanted to keep some of the artwork, and I wanted to keep the chair that I always sat in at home. Everything else had to go.
Trying to price my mom's furniture needed the wisdom of Solomon. I researched comparable items on sites like Kijiji and priced things accordingly. My mom took scrupulous, meticulous care of her things and they were all solid hardwood and well maintained. I was trying to sell as many of the pieces as I could so I could replenish mom's bank account. I had to drop the price a few times to sell the couch, the kitchen table and chairs, the twin beds, the coffee table and the bedside tables.
A little piece of my life with my parents died with every piece of mom's that I sold. The couch went to a lovely young couple, newly immigrated from India and building a new life in Canada. I wished them a happy life. I wanted to tell them that my dad used to snooze on the couch, just so. Mom spent many hours there in the past few months. And that spot, right there, that's where my cousin Murray sat the last time he was here. The couch had seen a lot of happy family memories and now it's gone off to help a new family make new ones. The kitchen table and chairs went to a young couple who had just moved here from Ottawa. That spot there, with the faint cigarette burn that mom couldn't quite remove when she refinished the table-that's where my dad used to sit and do his crossword puzzle. We had lots of discussions about politics around that table.
I ended up donating several pieces to the Salvation Army. I was raised to give what I was able to give to those with even less, and I knew that mom would approve. Still, some of the pieces that were donated broke my heart. There was the wicker loveseat that always sat in my bedroom when I was a child and held all my stuffed animals. There was the funny wicker standing magazine rack that held the newspapers and magazines. And there was the old cricket set-the love seat and matching little rocking chair where I sat day after day in recent months. When we drove away after leaving the little rocker, I burst into tears. I simply didn't have space for it, but alot of memories were tied to that little upholstered chair.
It wasn't all horrible. I discovered my father had kept every card I had sent him for his birthday or Father's Day. My dad was not sentimental. My mom, who threw out papers with abandon, had kept all the birthday, Christmas and Mother's Day cards she had received, both from me and from her mother. I found a letter my grandmother wrote to my mother on Mother's Day about how she hoped I would be as good a mother as my mom is. I'm trying Grandma, I'm trying. And then there was the letter. While sorting through a box of my old children's books that I almost donated without checking, I found a letter from my dad from Father's Day 1973 when he was fundraising in Halifax to build Dalhousie University. He told me in writing that he was proud of me and loved me. Those words were rare as I got older. Were it not for an old box of children's books that I nearly donated without sorting, I would have never found the letter. I certainly don't remember it. It was probably meaningless to a 10 year old girl. To a 49 year old, it's precious.
The china, the crystal and the artwork came home and are in transition to new places in our home. I emptied as many boxes as I could in the week between the closing date for the apartment and hosting Thanksgiving at our house. My mom was eager to see where all her things had been placed in our house, so we had to have the main things in place. Mom was able to see where some things were, and the rest will be done by Christmas. We used the china at Thanksgiving my dad had purchased for me when I was a teenager. Because I had always left the china at mom's, mom decided I didn't like it and was always instructing me to get rid of it. I don't think we'd used it since just after mom moved to the apartment, so it had been 20 years or more since it had seen the light of day. It's much prettier than I remember.
As a wise friend said to me, at the end of the day, it's just furniture. The pieces I've kept have special meaning and are already being used in our home. The pieces that were sold or otherwise disposed of are now being used in new homes by new people. May they carry with them love, friendship, good conversation, warm hugs and laughter. I've got pictures and memories. The rest is just stuff.
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