In August, for the first time in over a year, I had the urge to call you and chat while I was walking home; 8 months after the chances of you picking up the phone were reduced to zero.
I have tried to write about Mom many times over the past twelve months and never found that any of the attempts were fully realized; there have been at least a dozen beginnings since I reflected on eight days post-Mom and how I experienced her presence at Christmas time.
Perhaps none of these ideas made it into writing because I’ve had one of the busiest years… ever?… only slowing down when forced to by sickness. Or, maybe, it is because it felt impossible to put into words a feeling that hadn’t (hasn’t?) set in yet: How can I reflect on the absence of someone who I’ve yet to fully process as being “gone”?
Mom’s being gone feels both like something that has always been the case and something that hasn’t happened yet. Her birthday was on November 1st, and it surprised me as being the most difficult of all the “firsts” from the previous eleven months. Maybe this was because she didn’t like to make a big deal out of her birthday, making it harder for me to “fill in” for her as I have on other occasions and unable to channel her spirit and direct it toward someone or something else – because the subject of what I would celebrate was notably absent. Maybe it was also a painful reminder of last year, when she asked to celebrate her birthday again on December 1st, seemingly knowing that she would not be there to do it on her 63rd.
“What would Mom think?”
This is one of the recurring questions I find myself asking whenever I am navigating a moment that she would typically have a stake in (music and dancing, being single, changes at work, brand-new friendships she would embrace, existing friendships she would love to see deepening). Probably even more than the headliner events are the small moments where I want to share a mundane part of my day with someone who had a genuine interest in whatever might be crossing my mind in a given moment; I wish I could send her a message and receive a heart or question or phone call (because she was out for a walk) in response.
She did not have a deep understanding of my field of work or what I studied in school, but she knew the ins and outs of my schedule and the actors in my life and the interplay between all of these things, and she would be sincerely glad to be informed if I was having Starbucks on a rainy day in a different province. I miss having that always-up-for-a-call-about-nothing-or-everything buddy the most, I think.
I’ve also grieved the loss of getting to know her more deeply as a person beyond her being my Mom. I feel we were entering a period of our lives where that could happen, and I would come to understand more of what was beneath the curated version of herself that she shared. In the months immediately following her death, I felt like I didn’t know her well at all and it made me feel sick and lost. However, with time, I have come to see that I did know her – she just didn’t share certain parts of herself explicitly. These implicit parts were shown through her actions and relationships and what she chose (and chose not) to share with the world. I have also found it cathartic and informative to speak with others who knew her during different periods of her life. At first, I was nervous to do this for fear of discovering how little I knew about her, but it has been more of a dot-connecting exercise than a shame-inducing one, and I realize that I’ll continue to learn more about her by doing this.
October of this year was characterized by visceral memories of what life felt like one year ago in October; stress, extreme fatigue, anticipatory grief, deep frustration, and a sense of having no control. This year, the month shifting into something darker and cooler along with these memories seemed to nudge my mind, “Hey, remember that thing that happened almost a year ago? Maybe you should start thinking about that.”
So, here I am.
It seemed fitting to cap off a year without Mom by fleeing the continent and wandering around a beautiful place by myself for a month. I caught my first flight on her birthday and then promptly got bumped from my second due to logistics issues, forcing me to wait until the next day to begin my adventure. While this was initially quite upsetting, the unexpected 24-hour layover granted me time with a friend I wouldn’t have otherwise had, ultimately adding something special to the journey that felt like a gift.
I got one week of travel in before fracturing my foot, forcing me to reconsider my plans for the remaining 3.5 weeks of my trip and forcing me to slow down. While painful (physically and emotionally), I have had some truly lovely encounters with others as a result of this. Another gift that seemed to fit the year’s theme of, “I would rather that thing didn’t happen but I have gained beautiful things from it.”
A (pop) philosophy book I read in 2022 said that to live a good life is not to live a life without hardship or pain, but rather to know those unpleasant things so that we may recognize what is truly good and to appreciate it when we see it: this is what makes a life “good.”
I read this before Mom died and, at the time, I shared it with her as encouragement to reframe her thinking around the cards she had been dealt (and hopefully inspire some miraculous medical recovery as a result). It would be almost a year without her before I saw how it applies to my grief of losing her.
The author also noted how most people, on average, are able to continue on with some semblance of normalcy just a few months after a loved one dies, and that humans are generally quite resilient in the face of this sort of loss. I see this in the news everyday, as entire countries rally and find strength in the most traumatic and challenging of circumstances, and I have been surprised to find it is true in my own little world, too.
Losing Mom is something I’m still processing and probably will for a while (forever?) but, I feel that a few things have become clear. One, is that it has granted me a sense of freedom to get “lost” and explore who I am – something I didn’t realize I felt limited in. The loss would also be the first of a few things that would look very different about the next twelve months (ha).
Another thing – and one of my favourites – is that it cracked my heart open and gifted me deeper, more fully-felt connections with so many people and experiences. My propensity for crying from gratitude for my friends or the sight of an awesome mountainscape is dangerously (but sort of beautifully) high now. My willingness to compliment or to offer to take pictures of strangers has increased. I’m definitely more annoying with the frequency and fervour with which I giggle. I have forged relationships with people I now hold dear that I may have missed out on if not for losing Mom.
She had an unmatched ability to remain close to people and embedded herself in their lives in small and large ways. While this means encountering frequent reminders that her life ended prematurely, I know it also means that when one year becomes two, and then five, and then ten, and then more, that she will remain omnipresent through the relationships and emojis and Starbucks gifts and XOXO card sign-offs she imprinted on me and those around me.
I have even noticed, for the first time, that we look alike; I’m sure it would irritate her that I am only observing this now (sorry!) but: I can finally see a resemblance as I near the age she was when I was born. It makes me feel closer to her.
The day she died – December 4, 2022 – was a beautifully sunny and cold winter day. The atmosphere at home was intense with emotion, but the house was filled with people from all corners of her life (with more on their way), and that seemed on-brand.
Mom was a connector; from her days as a travel agent to an entrepreneur to the Chief of Staff of our family’s life, she put other people at the centre of her world. She managed the most detailed agenda of birthdays, anniversaries, death dates, new jobs, tv shows with new episodes airing, and holidays. No one was to be forgotten, and I would always be reminded to touch base with someone if an important date in their life was coming up. So, it made sense that, regardless of what dynamics unfolded in their time knowing her, those years of her not letting her people forget that they were on her mind and in her heart would pull everyone toward her in those final moments.
It also felt fitting to me that she left us right in the bustle of the holiday season (at almost precisely noon, no less), a time of year when her giving spirit probably shone the brightest (even with a spirit as sparkling as hers in this regard). Her ability to account for not only family and friends at this time of year, but also the partners and friends and children and doctors and dentists and receptionists and Starbucks baristas (“her kids”) and owners of shops she frequented, was undeniably impressive to anyone that witnessed “Santa’s workshop” in December.
She had lists on lists and gifts galore that would find their way to almost anyone whose life had touched hers (or that of someone she loved); gift-giving was certainly a love language of hers. I would count yourself lucky if you were ever bogged down by an enormous Cadbury chocolate bar or received a Cookies by George delivery at this time of year.
Now, whenever the season rolls around, she will be top of mind, and I’ll be able to think about and channel her as I go about my own holiday activities. Admittedly, I used to find her tendency to give gifts in a quantity-over-quality manner frustrating, because I would keep everything and carry it around forever. However, over the past couple of years, I think that I have come to understand that giving gifts (or disseminating information such as life updates, photos, birthday reminders) served to express her love in a way that she could not do with words.
One year.
I’m not sure that I have the words to put a bow on this reflection of this particular anniversary; it seems similar to how it’s tough to put a bow on grief and the complicated feelings and emotional fissures that arise from it. I think I’ll even grieve this first trip around the sun without her; it will be less poignant when I tell people it happened years ago instead of months, even though it will still be felt deeply in my body and heart.
One year of roaming the world without one of the central figures of mine seems both like a very short and long time, but I think she did decent work in leaving me with the necessary tools to do it.
Mom: It has been quite a year, and I wish I could have done it with you. In a way, though, I have, because you are present in all of my friendships and walks along bodies of water and sunbeams bursting through the clouds (“It looks like Heaven’s gates are opening up,” you would say). I’ve said it before, but you really are still everywhere. Love you more. ❌⭕
