First memory:
Yellow flowers in a bed of ice crystals: brown eyes, the closeness
and full volume of love, the dewy sweet breath of summer,
your face eclipsing the sun.
I
paced the room quietly, mind racing and heart pounding as images emerged like
stills in a vintage projector, a Kodachrome of bright colors and grainy
transitions, a lifetime of memories playing out simultaneously: picnicking by
the Rideau Canal, camping up at Keswick, Christmases, first days of school,
first days of summer, sitting in waiting rooms, waking from surgeries, drinking
tea, delicious fish curries, a pristinely white nursing uniform, the cold bite
of winter on her cheek, warm hugs and kisses, collectively, a full and complete
celebration of life, every moment recorded by memory, magnified and savored,
sacred with meaning.
That
night when I called for an ambulance, I knew in my heart that mom wouldn’t be
coming back home. The dispatcher kept me on the line for forty-five minutes
assessing the situation until paramedics arrived: time spent in silence
attempting to navigate the inevitable. All my life, I dreaded this moment; the
acute and seemingly irrational anxiety I felt as a child stayed with me, never
overwhelming but always present. And, when death came, I reacted far
differently than I thought I would.
Parkinson’s
had taken its toll on mom for more than ten years. Dementia had started roughly
two years prior to mom leaving us. Her cognitive abilities seemed to have
abruptly switched off. She withdrew and became reserved, which she always was,
but to a degree that was out of character and alarming. She spent most of the
day and night sleeping. By now, my family was working around the clock
addressing every need and concern, administering palliative care at home, attempting
to maintain a sense of normalcy that was gradually slipping away.
I
remember the day when mom (and we) realized that she could no longer feed
herself. She was proudly independent, enjoyed doing the fussing, never one to
be fussed over, but this was different. There was an understanding in those
beautiful brown eyes that were resigned to the fact that life was changing and
she would have to let go and trust her family: and she did just that. My sister
became mom’s primary care giver, doting over mom like she was her own child,
dad and I took secondary roles: medical supply, transport and in my
case, research and comforter. I spent as much time with mom as I could, trying to offer the
same love she offered to me when I was on life-support twenty years earlier. It
was for her and because of her that I fought to live.
The
paramedics placed mom on a stretcher and strapped her in, it was heartbreaking
to witness and painfully apparent that she had turned that corner. She was a
thin, tiny slip of the girl she once was, and to me, will always be.
The
hospital environment like any other hospital was sterile and unfeeling. While
mom was having scans and x-rays done I walked through the lonely hallways, the
closed cafeteria (it was well after midnight), lost a couple of dollars at a
vending machine, and witnessed the faces of strangers waiting on a sick loved one: frightened, alone, and silent, living out a sad and never-ending cycle.
Many
years before, I watched my mother walk through the very same doors of the
hospital (HRRH/York Finch) where she now lay as a patient; treading an
adventure, working two jobs, earning a higher education, negotiating a new
world full of hope, and managing to raise two very grateful children. The name
had changed and so to the faces—and yet it was strangely comforting in that she
had returned to the very place where she was most happy during her nursing
career.
We
lived a quiet bliss within the safe haven my mother created for her family. A
moment was a lifetime with her and each in succession were savored within and
without. She elevated our understanding of the world and our place in it to a
holistic awareness of presence and conscience. In happy times and in troubled
waters we remained constant and centered. Our lives were inextricably
connected, woven together by her faith in God and her unwavering courage. She was the kind of mother everyone wanted:
you never doubted for even a second that you were profoundly loved.
The
doctors indicated that mom had under two months left. I was hoping she would
last through the summer, and prayed for more time, even planned for it. Love is
a most desperate hope, to live a few more moments in that simplest and most
difficult of human endeavors: being silent in one another’s company.
When
I remember my mother, I do so within the framework of the lucid dream blur of
her vapor trail, her ferocious speed, her understated elegance, and her flawless
grace. It’s all there, stored within the conscience, every movement and moment,
a history of a life well lived and an
immeasurable legacy of love: this was her gift to everyone that ever knew
her.
Mom’s
life was not easy. She suffered with health complications stemming from a
difficult birth and continued to do so for the rest of her life: she underwent
a hysterectomy, three cancer scares, several surgeries, extreme stress, vision
impairment, excessive high-blood pressure, a heart defect, a heart-attack,
three mini-strokes, a brain tumor, Parkinson’s and finally Dementia.
As
daunting as this list reads, it still understates the complexity of her
suffering. To add insult to injury she also survived a
concerted and contrived bullying campaign that started early in her family life
and extended well into mine. It’s complicated. I feel compelled to elaborate in
great detail the abuse my mother endured, and I can, quantifiably, with shocking
specificity, but it would serve no justice to her memory if her life became a
moralist narrative where she is depicted as a long-suffering victim, because she
was not—she was the strongest person I
have ever known. She was made to endure an immeasurable slant of moral
licensing, which she did with her usual resolve and her faith in God. She did
suffer—immensely, to the point where her health was significantly
compromised—but I don’t believe she’d want to be remembered in that way. I am
but one of the many that bore witness to her suffering. Most turned a willful
blind eye, but as her son, I could not. Collateral damage often transpires
unconsidered by a moral compass turned on its head. I don’t expect the
complicit to comprehend the metric they’ve perverted, but the God they choose
to believe in, does. At some point a conscience has to be birthed, however
painful. At the end, through this prism, the patterns become increasingly clear, and some of the questions I’ve
asked throughout my life seem to have the beginnings of answers.
The
clinical canvas of the hospital setting allowed for quiet introspection; time
shared between contemplation and anxiety, with the latter taking precedence. My
family spent the remainder of our time with mom on pins and needles: hearing
things we were afraid to hear, navigating the world of patient and family in an
uncontrollable environment. The floor was divided into geriatric and palliative
care; a cumulative hum of lives streaming into that inevitable silence. It was
us and everyone else, alone in a world of loneliness, holding on until there
was nothing left to hold on to.
At
this point we were just hoping for more time: but it was not meant to be.
Late
on the evening of April 12, 2015, my sister (who spent every night with mom for
the duration of her stay in hospital) offered a quiet prayer, held mom close
and whispered her affection through tears. I witnessed their love first hand,
as my mother cradled her daughter proudly in her arms for the first time, and
the juxtaposition of love as my sister held her mother in her arms for the last
time. The hours passed and with meds administered, she pulled up a chair and
settled in as close to mom as was possible.
A
few short hours later, I received a call from my sister at 4:52am and rushed
over to the hospital with my father. My mother's beautiful face was, as it had
been when I left the night before. Even in death she was perfect. I loved her
and did my best to look after her. She was a free spirit, always happy, beaming
with joy and unconditional love. At the end, there were no tears, instead there
was heartfelt respect and reverence for a most remarkable life: a mother, a
wife and friend. Our Susee Mable: my
beloved mother.
Amid
the emotional upheaval, the insults and injuries, the prayers and well wishes,
my mother heard God’s call. It is an immeasurable loss and we will never be the
same again. With broken hearts, we carried love and love carried us. We enjoyed
the happiness and poetry she brought to our lives. She was a profoundly
beautiful human being and during her long and successful journey through life,
never once compromised her principles of kindness,
compassion and forgiveness nor a relentless devotion to the truth. She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. She was silly
and charming, thoughtful, intelligent and inquisitive. She loved and was loved.
I learned a great deal from my mother. I did my best to do right by her in
life, which at times required considerable restraint where my anger was
concerned. I have always felt a welcome
obligation to protect her in life and will fiercely defend her memory in like
terms. My mother always made me feel like I was someone: I am her son after all, and she was the living embodiment of love.
Posted by Anil Anandaraju
