# 5 May 12, 2025, Grief ... My Mom

May 10th is my mom's birthday. Unfortunately she died when I was in my second year at St. Francis Xavier University. I was only nineteen and it was rough after losing two brothers as a young girl and child. Death lived in the walls and in the furniture and at the front door.

I think death has a way of changing us, inside where the deepest emotions are felt. It wraps its tentacles and hurts to the core thus getting deep into where our spirit lives. For a time grief erupts like a volcano and emotions spill like molten lava burning and tearing us apart as we try to control it, while it controls us. For a time at least.

It sleeps with us, joins us for our morning tea or coffee, and hangs over our shoulders as we try to go about our day not thinking of the loss, not feeling the pains raking through our entire being as we absorb that we will not laugh, or cry, or share stories with our special loved one again.

One of the best ways to deal with grief I have learned is to talk about those who have died, allow them to live along side us in spirit, to share who they were to us and to others. They too had their place in the world, and letting others know that allows them to live on ...

Within these pages it is likely you will eventually meet most of my family.

My mom was a quiet thinker; she loved the ordinary in life. And what a great cook and baker! We kids won big time with the special treats spread on the counter when she had time. I can smell her cinnamon buns and carrot cake as if in our very kitchen.

Raising two boys and six girls was no easy task. She was a busy lady always with a threatening dark cloud hanging above her, storms constantly brewing unexpectedly. I guess in every family there is good and bad; it's how we deal with both that makes the difference in developing character or not.

Special memories, those we should share include images of her trotting off to bingo after she squirrelled her money together for those special Tuesday evenings. Sometimes she took one of us kids with her. Back then we sat in a smoke-filled room, our eyes burning and itching, and our clothes stinking. We'd shift back and forth on uncomfortable chairs, but it was worth it for a chance to win money. And the hundred to two hundred people gathered blotting numbers on a card must have felt the same way. Under the B. Under the O. Under the I. Under the G. Under the N. Does that spell bingo? A line, four corners, X, or full card. Variety is the spice of life. It was great fun, and remains in my memories fifty-five years later.

Special moments spent are like that. They are deep-seated. As such, we can sift through the immense data storage of our brain and retrieve them. The time she won the jackpot. I can still see her sitting on her bed and throwing the dollar bills into the air, allowing them to drop freely back down to her bed. She smiled then. Maybe that is why I remember it so clearly. She did not smile much at home with us. Life was not easy for her but she did the best she could in her circumstances and I forgive her for the times she did not. That is important if we are to move on from any crud in our past. We must forgive for our own hearts to lift.

A connoisseur of cooking up our father's wildlife, she stewed rabbits or partridge, roasted geese, ducks, deer, eels, and anything else brought home. Our rural way of life involved lots of hunting and fishing, although we kids never went, but we did try snaring rabbits, and I think we captured a few. Fragments of trudging through the woods, smell of spruce and fir slip in every now and again. Back in my childhood days animals were killed for food.

The most disgusting smell that still clogs my nostrils ... the putrid odour from holding a rabbit up high with its hind legs in either of my hands as mom pulled down, skinned and cleaned it. Boy, did I have to hold on tight. The reeking air was so revolting you had to close your eyes and imagine yourself anywhere but in that foul room, and still you were nauseous. But what was revolting to me was commonplace for her.

To this day I love playing cards. Her favourite game was auction, and after supper when the dishes were done, she'd sit with the deck in hand and ask my younger sister or I to play with her. It was great fun and allowed us to relax on quiet evenings throughout the year.

So many good memories. I can even access a few which is nice after my head injury. They mostly involve her, not my father. She would fry my sister and I home-cooked, crispy potatoes for lunch, on school days, which were our favourite. For decades I tried to recreate that flavour, but never could. I think she put a part of herself into them, could be why.

I suppose it makes sense to remember my mom on her birthday and on Mother's Day. It is always with mixed feelings because she has been gone so long. I miss not having her around in my adult life to ask questions and get advice.

In retrospect, I was clueless as a young woman, wife, mother, and homemaker. My girls, as mothers themselves run circles around where I ever was. We all need a mom or at least a mother figure in our lives. I missed out on that, and that is a sadness I carry, although I celebrate what I can of her whenever I can. Yes, I still grieve, but it is with a full, rather than an empty heart.

And so on this day of days when grief floods in as it always does, it helps to remember my mom and the times shared and moments created. My heart flutters and pains, and yet it sings knowing she will be with me forever. No one can take that away from us. Our memories are our own.

Sometimes those who have passed on live with us much longer than the people we live with. A thought to ponder when grief consumes.