The Early Years: 1950s-1960s

Lovely Susee: assorted pics from the Anandaraju family archives

Posted by Suhasini

The Long Journey Home

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