Witness

We accept that which we cannot
control, understand, or change.
Life is a course we must navigate - wrought with both
uncharted perils and incredible vistas.

And if by chance, or the grace of our Creator
we live every moment allotted us;
squeeze every molecule of life out of our earthly body,
the end may not be glorious.

For a body that, for more than ninety years,
has served as trusty vessel for spirit that has
soared across abyss and weathered swells and storms
finally wearies, and bears the scars of every voyage.

The end, like the beginning, is a process.
Death - like birth - is not to be hurried or coaxed.
And sometimes, bearing witness to suffering and unspeakable pain,
Bears unspeakable pain and suffering for the beholder.

And sometimes, the remedy for the soul departing
and the onlooker is the same:
love expressed; tender whispers, and hand held close,
And for we who escort their loved ones to the precipice of their eternity
it is nothing less than a privilege -  for which I am truly grateful.

Sitting Vigil

Hubby's grandmother is a fighter - all four feet ten inches of her. She has spent the past four days with her willpower tightly clenched around life, defying medical reason, going out just as she lived - on her own terms. No use leading her to the light... she'll let go when she is good and ready.

We tried to offer MIH some respite - she has been holding a one woman vigil, unwilling to leave her mother's side just in case she would pass away alone. When we arrived, MIH was dressed in a flamboyant turquoise outfit of blouse and capri pants. Apparently they let her shower at the residence and the only clean clothes at her disposal were her mother's. Hilarious when you realize that my MIH is at least five foot nine or ten and her mother is under five feet tall - hence the "capris". Yes, there is still humour to be found in the hallowed halls of nursing homes and bedside at deathbeds.

Nana was no longer resting peacefully - but rather, waking up after only short naps bewildered and distressed. Her squeals of terror were jarring and it took MIH's constant reassuring and kisses to convince her that she was safe. Not our idea of "making her comfortable".

And so the cycle continues. The end of our lives is very similar to the beginning. Helping someone die is reminiscent of child birth with its excruciating pain and unpredictability. And it's something you have to go through to get through. At the other end: bitter-sweetness. In death there will be no baby, but there will be a life to celebrate.

The Long Goodbye

Hands of love from MIH

The room is dimly lit. And by your side, in a soft chair fit for your diminutive height, is your devoted daughter.

The journey has been long – at ninety-nine years - longer than most. We’ve watched as bits of you slowly fell away, and you fell into yourself. Alzheimer’s is cruel that way; it robs the family of the familiar and imposes a long, painful, reluctant goodbye.

And painful it has been; your rage against your aging and loss of independence ever-present, simmering barely beneath the surface; your daughter braving smiles and brandishing hugs as you ask her where your daughter is…

Pound for pound you are the strongest and feistiest woman I’ve known. You like things done your way, and you have always been a lady who knows exactly what she wants. And you have been fighting to live.

And now, as the time for final farewells draws nearer, you surrender to peace. The rigid line of your jaw relaxes, and your eyes finally close and your body relaxes into deep slumber.

And in a soft chair, fit for your diminutive height, sits your devoted daughter, by your side, to usher you lovingly to your eternity.

Much love to my dear MIH.

Memory Jolt

I was singing in the car on my way home from work. The sun was low in the sky under a blanket of gray and the wipers swiped in tandem with the music. I squinted to see the lines on the highway -- forgot my glasses at my desk -- and dodged pools of water that looked like small lakes.

And then it popped into my head - randomly, without warning: thoughts of my grandmother. I could see her  face and hear her faint, raspy voice. Flashback to my final visit with her. She told me to be a good wife and mother, and to have a happy life. She said not to worry, she was tired and ready to go. I kissed her and  whispered "I love you Gram", and she clasped my hands in hers and said, "I love you too Lyn. Every once in a while stop and say a little prayer for me".

And with that I walked to the door - looked back at her tiny, frail frame propped up in the bed - and said "Bye Gram. I love you". She smiled with great effort and mouthed "you too".

And so Gram, I kept my promise. I thought of you today -- and said a little prayer. It was random and unexpected, but memories are like that. Sometimes we choose them and other times, they find us.

You've been gone for twenty years; I still miss you.

Airport Stories

She's back. Kidlet got in late last night from her Costa Rica adventure and hubby and I went to meet her at the airport. The moment I set foot in an airport - arriving or departing - that familiar tingling feeling in my tummy signals excitement. I have always found airports to be exciting places.

As I stand waiting for my loved one to appear from behind the baggage claim area, I try to be covert as I witness the seemingly endless stories unfolding in my midst. New chapters are being written as new Canadians arrive, wide eyed, luggage cart stacked high with huge suitcases and bulging boxes held securely with duct tape. Stories find their endings here as well ... families clutching one another in desperate embraces, tear flowing until that very last moment when they must finally disappear into the departure gate, turning for the final goodbye.

Greetings. Reunions. Farewells. Tears of joy, cries of anguish, looks of longing. So many stories unfolding in my midst. And the best one of all emerged with Kidlet -- who cried all the way home, and into the wee hours of the morning as she recounted the details of her journey. People she met and doesn't want to forget. The faces, smells, tastes and colours of Costa Rica. In her own words, she came home "full" (to overflowing). All that already at seventeen. And her story has just begun ...

Now -- to work on the mountain of soggy, smelly laundry that awaits. What a souvenir!

Farewells and Reunions

Today my sister and I dropped our parents off at the airport for their flight back to Florida. Luckily we were all busy unloading luggage, hugging goodbye, and exchanging last minute instructions - which removed the emotional teary quotient from our farewell. I usually get a lump the size of Alaska in my throat when I have to say goodbye to Pops and the family. I just swallowed it whole and kept my mind busy. I just wasn't up for sadness. But when I drive by and their house is dark, and no one to hear my honk .... : (

The drive home - which included a border crossing (and a lengthy wait) - gave my sister and I a rare opportunity for uninterrupted chatter. Not that we need an excuse but still, it was a nice treat.

Tomorrow I am taking a road trip of another sort with MIH. I know she has great anxieties about it but in my heart I know she will make a memory tomorrow that will become a treasure for her to cherish always. She is going to celebrate her first mom's 75th birthday by taking her to lunch and I know that no matter what, that will be the best gift her first mom will get this year. And they both have waited a lifetime for it.