The Best Momma

I said to my son the other day that your own momma is always the best momma. Then immediately felt sad thinking about Mom. This is something you easily forget as an adult as you go about your busy life but it never stops being true. 

The day Mom was dying, when she slipped into an unconscious state and lay on her bed breathing laboriously, the whole family gathered at the cottage. At 5 am my sister Hilary called around to everybody to tell them to come down; that this was probably the end. My 89 year old Nan, my Mom's mother, insisted that someone stay with Mom the entire time, either holding her hand, rubbing her back or talking to her. Different people took turns being there in the bedroom with her. Sometimes in small groups, sometimes alone. Some people wanted some privacy to say some special words to Mom. Her best friend happened to call in the morning and we held the phone up to Mom's ear so she could speak to Mom one last time and hope that Mom understood. They were supposed to take a trip to the Arctic together this year to celebrate their 65th birthdays. 

When I found myself alone in the room with Mom I sat with her and held her hand. I noticed how her hand didn't look like how it normally did. It was hot and swollen from the medicine and dying. I didn't recognize it and that felt strange. Not recognizing a hand you've known all your life. I stroked her hair and her face. I told her I loved her. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I felt like I should say more, like a scene in a movie. Like I'm sorry for being a difficult teen, or for moving half way around the world. Or I'm sorry for always trying to steal your St Pierre & Miquelin t-shirt when I was younger. That I should hold her hand and weep. But all I could do was say: I love you. It seemed like the only thing that had any meaning at the time. 

Thinking about it now, after she's gone, I think I would tell her how much I appreciate all the things she did that held the family together. Holiday traditions, the activities and daily routines at the cottage and in the rest of our lives. These things that glued us all together as a family in a large part came from her. Sometimes just her presence alone did that. Since her death her brothers and sister have remarked how much they didn't realize Mom was an anchor for the family. Even now, as Christmas draws near, I can feel us floating away.

We found out recently that Granddad might be sick too. Possibly lung cancer. He started coughing up blood about a month ago. He's 91. I don't know what you do with a 91 year old with lung cancer. I suspect he won't take treatment even if it's offered. My middle sister thinks Mom's death impacted him physically and emotionally more than even he thought it would. I can't imagine reaching 90 and having to watch your child die before you. It doesn't seem right. Certainly not fair. Mom was the eldest and I think Granddad saw a lot of himself in her. I will never forget the image of my 90 year old Granddad arranging his aging body in a lying position behind his daughter to stroke her back in her dying, telling her: "It's okay baby, it's okay to let go".  

As a new mother to my son, I've also come to appreciate how hard it is raising a child and what a tough job Mom must have had raising the three of us. This must be part of the rite of passage on becoming a mother: the realisation of the hard work and sacrifices your own mother made for you and all the mothers in your family before you. Truly understanding this on a physical, emotional, and intellectual level. 

If I could sit there with Mom now, stroking her hand that wasn't her own, I would tell her all of this. And that I'm sorry I didn't realize this before. That she meant so much to all of us even if we didn’t know it. Your own momma is always the best momma.