To the Adventure!

The last week has been ... interesting to say the least. Hubby started chemotherapy yesterday morning. His schedule was given to us at that time. So his next chemo treatment is on July 29 (Wednesday), and then he gets a 1.5-week-long break from it. In between each treatment, usually during the run of a week, there are blood tests, oncology consultations, home visits from Home Care nursing, physiotherapist, occupational therapist, dietician, and on and on the merry-go-round goes.  Then he goes back on August 10th for the first treatment of his next cycle. 

I'm learning the vocabulary of cancer treatment. At first it was confusing, but I'm catching on.  

The time between the first treatment of one period of time and the first treatment of the next period of time (usually 4 weeks but in this case it's 3 weeks) is called a cycle. The period of time between the first treatment of the first cycle and the last treatment of the last cycle (which is 3 months) is called a round.

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After the first round of treatment cycles, he will have a CT scan to determine if the drugs have had a shrinking effect on the tumors and lumps. If it is working, we go to the beginning of the next (3-month) round. Perhaps at that time, they'll move to a 4-week cycle (3 treatments, 1 per week, followed by a fourth week off). It depends on how well he handles the medications. There are at-home medications for him to take for the day of treatment and for the 2 days after treatment.

So far, after only one treatment, he seems well. He is not bothered by nausea at all, and if he is, then we have medications for him to take as needed for that. The best thing so far is that after we reduced his pain medication so that he wasn't quite so "out of it", he is more alert ... and even with the reduced medication, his pain seems to be less. What a relief!

On July 30, he will see a radio-oncologist to address the oozing / bleeding in the stomach cancer that was observed on July 8th. We'll probably set up some sessions to irradiate that specific area (that is, hit it with radiation) and get the bleeding under control (perhaps) as a result. I have no idea what that will look like or how often he will need to have these radiation treatments. Once I know, I hope I will have the strength to keep my readers informed. 

Caring for someone as close as my husband is to me - he is my best friend, after all - is taxing. Not only do I need to look after his nutrition and medication needs, I need to watch him closely so that he is sure to follow the requirements for looking after his toileting ... specific procedures like sitting to pee, closing the toilet lid, flushing twice, and then washing his hands. These procedures are to help to protect the other people in the house from exposure to his bodily fluids, as they don't know what the long-term effects of that exposure would be for those NOT in treatment. I also have to make sure that if he soils his clothing, it is kept separate from our laundry and double-washed.

And that is heaped up on top of all the things that need to be done to run a household, which, to my shame, has all been handled by my husband - until he was no longer able. Now, my daughter and I have to share the chores: dishes, sweeping, laundry, trash, cat's boxes, feeding the animals, keeping them hydrated, letting the dog out several times a day, groceries ... and also the unexpected duties that crop up. Neighbors have offered and still are blessing us with things we can't handle, like the lawn. Some have dropped off food. It all helps, but the day-to-day can be tiring.

There is much we don't know about all of this. For example, we are not sure if our insurance will cover the cost of the medications they are giving him, or if they do, how much they will cover (and how much they initially cost!!) and even though we have applied for PEI's Catastrophic Drug program, we have not heard whether he will qualify for it. 

At any rate, we are determined to be transparent about his journey and our own parallel journey as we walk this road beside him. His attitude is positive, and so far, so is ours. We surround ourselves with people and music and news that is/are positive, and we speak healing (see previous post) daily into his body. We know so many others are praying for him and sending him healing vibes. And I know that he is loved - so much more than he would ever believe - so very much by so very many. 

In a sense, even though we live on a fixed income, we feel rich, because we have the love and support of family, friends, and neighbors. And we are looked after by our Higher Power. What more could we ask for?  

The Waiting Room ... Again

 Since my last post, most of the time has been spent in waiting. Day-to-day duties and chores are getting done, even if a bit late at times. The main feature of our moments has been hubby's pain management, as the tumour on the pancreas presses in on his spine and causes nerve pain, which we are managing with prescribed pain-killers. 

We have been charting the little victories: the chiropractor whose treatments and whose prayers over him have reduced the severity of the pain - as the muscles around the area are very tight and increase the pain, and discouragement also increases the pain - and we look forward to those sessions.

Free photo from Pixabay

I've been waiting specifically for any contact from Oncology. Thankfully, two days ago (Friday, July 3) we got a call from the Cancer Centre with the information we'd been waiting to hear: he has appointments this coming week - July 6, 7, and 8 - culminating with a consultation with the medical (chemo) oncologist who will be working with us. I say "us" because we are just as much a part of hubby's treatment as the chemotherapy drugs will be. 

We've been asked to bring a few things: his health care card, his medical insurance number, and his pills (including supplements and over-the-counter meds) in their actual pill bottles. That leads me to believe that they will be billing his medical insurance for the chemotherapy drugs, and they are NOT CHEAP. Since his plan covers only 80% of the cost, there will be a cost to him for the treatments that have the purpose of trying to kill the cancer while saving his life. 

Wow. Just ... wow.

To ask for help is not in our nature, so I'm not going to do so at the moment. People have been very kind, offering help in tangible ways like mowing the grass or transporting garbage bins, etc., and we are grateful for every single act of love and support we have been receiving, knowing full well that there is no way we can repay anyone for their kindness. We are so humbled by their generosity. We are so blessed by their love and their prayers and positive thoughts toward us. 

Nobody has been negative - at least, not on purpose - and we are grateful for that as well. We can feel the love holding us up, the prayers acting like a life-jacket in deep water, the social media likes and comments that remind us that we are not in this alone. It all helps. So, even though it feels so NOT enough for me to say, I say it anyway: THANK YOU ALL. 

We still believe in miracles, whether they come instantly or gradually. And we look forward to what our Higher Power will do through those whom He has gifted with special talents and gifts.   

Love Heals More

The last few weeks has been somewhat of a whirlwind combined with a nightmare. My daughter and I have been concerned about my husband's weight loss and loss of appetite, especially after he stopped trying to lose weight, because his appetite has stayed near zero and his weight loss continued. 

Finally, while consulting for low iron, the doctor ordered a colonoscopy, which revealed no internal bleeding. Yet the numbers were still low. So, he ordered a CT scan of his head and of his torso (shoulders to pelvis). The scan was on a Friday. The following Monday, we were called into the doctor's office and told that there was a 7.2 cm mass on the tail of the pancreas, and some suspicious "spots" on his liver and on his right adrenal gland. The next few minutes were a blur of talking about Oncology and about a biopsy they needed from the liver site, as the pancreas could not be reached by the type of biopsy they were planning to do.

Telling our daughter was hard. Losing one (or both) of us was her worst fear. She kind of knew when she hadn't received a text from me ... but it was still hard to see the sadness in her eyes. We wondered when the biopsy would be. "Sooner rather than later," the doctor said. 

The biopsy occurred within a week. And we waited, hoping that the results would be benign.

They weren't. Another trip to the doctor to discuss findings, this time with our daughter. Metastatic pancreatic carcinoma, with spread to the liver and that adrenal gland, we heard. 

I felt the sudden rush of panic I had felt in the first meeting, but I saw it coming and decided to compartmentalize my own fear for his sake. For their sake.

No amount of preparation or bracing can prepare you for that kind of news. It's like having nightmares of monsters, finally relaxing because someone is there to chase them away, and then realizing that they came for the one who chased them down. There's fear, panic, grief, sadness, anger, and pain all bound up into one entity that I try to push away from me because it's too much all at once. 

I am the ultimate catastrophizer, the quintessential awfulizer. I can imagine scenarios upon scenarios if I let myself. I have a vivid imagination, and sometimes, it turns on me. I can't imagine living without him, and yet, now that imagination leads me to that place where I feel forced to do just that.

And yes, I know it's not healthy. As a counsellor, I can identify all the negative patterns of thought. But I also understand that those feelings are absolutely normal for what the situation is. 

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As a practicing Jesus-Christian, I believe in divine healing, absolutely! And from the moment this first became "a thing," I've been speaking healing, strength and life into my husband's body, telling the cancer to cower, to shrink and to be expelled in Jesus' Name. Dozens, maybe even hundreds are praying for his healing as well. Those who don't believe the way we do are still sending positive thoughts and vibes toward him and toward our little family. 

And some of those who are able ... have offered help in tangible ways. Mowing the lawn, for example. Neither I nor our daughter can do it because of allergies, so others have offered and we have accepted their offers.  The hardest part of that is accepting the help and learning to receive it, because he has always been the one to give to others. So now, we've started telling him that it's HIS turn to benefit from being given to. So when our daughter or I do the dishes or take out the trash or whatever... it is one less thing that HE has to do (see "Every Snowflake Counts", my feature post, visible on your PC.) 

And we are grateful for every single day. All of us. Because love - that is the only thing that heals. And it heals more than all the pills, injections, and treatments can do. It's healing us all on the inside, where it counts. 

And all I can do - all we can do - is be grateful. 

 

 

The Child Within

 She's been with me ever since I can remember.

The child - me as a child.

She wants to be cherished, loved unconditionally, and protected.

She's learned that the world isn't like that. 

Free image from Pixabay

She's afraid, self-conscious, shy, lonely, and at times even suspicious. Suspicious of new things, of new people, of letting her light shine.

Afraid of others' judgment, she hides and defines herself the way her abusers did: small, insignificant, a country mouse, a bumpkin, unworthy of belonging. Or love.

She and I have gotten to know each other lately. I helped her see her abuse as not her fault, and as a mistake her abuser made. I told her she was brave, and that her heart was loving and sincere. She started to believe me. I want her to believe that she has something worthwhile to say. But she still shies away from the spotlight; she has for decades.

And now, we face another time when she and I will face the spotlight again. In a few weeks, I'll be giving a presentation I created at a national conference in Halifax, NS for the counselling association I belong to. And I'm bringing her with me. I'm being intentional about inviting her to watch, to see how people react, to experience this honour with me. 

Now, I know that that little girl turned into the woman I am now; I haven't lost my marbles (haha). However, that small child, that afraid little girl, is real to me. I can see her plainly in my mind. She learned early on to cower ... because cowering made her safer. And I'm trying to teach her that while cowering kept her safe then, it doesn't serve her well now. I've been giving her something she never got: compassion, love, and a sense of belonging. She's learned to trust me (that is, grown-up me) ... but she's still unsure about others, even though I have been telling her that they care. Now, I believe she needs to SEE that caring, in action, to understand that she IS worthy of love and belonging, of positive attention, of the gratitude she never got.

I'm not sure if any of this has made sense. I just needed to write it.   

The Machine

 I remember when my mother got diagnosed with obstructive sleep apnea. She came home with this Machine. It roared like a white noise maker, sometimes "bubbled" - and she put on this mask every night. The first time I saw her with it on, I took one look at the mouth-mask that changed the shape of her profile, together with the black velvet-like straps that held it on, and I couldn't help but think of Bessie the cow with her halter on, waiting to be milked.

 I burst out laughing. I laughed until tears started spilling out of my eyes.

So when I went to the doctor at the end of summer this year, and mentioned to the doctor how tired I was all the time and how I never seemed to get much real deep sleep, he ordered blood tests for me to rule out thyroid and organ function problems, and he also referred me to the local sleep clinic. He informed me that it was likely that I had sleep apnea - and that those people who got treatment noticed an increase in their alertness level, and many of them lost weight because the stress was less during the night from trying to get enough oxygen. 

The blood tests came back normal. I took my sleep study home on September 11, a weird contraption that was a band around my upper chest, a nasal tube like you see in hospitals and an oxygen monitor that you clip on your finger for the night. (The thought crossed my mind, regarding the date, that my own "twin towers" might get hit - that my laughter so many years ago was coming back to bite me!!) To my surprise, I was able to sleep that night. (Preconceived notion of a machine being too intrusive? Gone.)

When I took the diagnostic machine back to the clinic, I picked up a brochure with all the models they had in it, as well as some information about what CPAP is (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) and how the new generation of machines is so quiet. (Another preconception dismissed.) 

A week later I got a call from the clinic with my results. Yes, I had obstructive sleep apnea (OSA), and could I come in on November 27, 2025 to pick up a CPAP machine? I made the appointment and put it on my calendar. Two. Whole. Months? 

The same day, I got a call from my doctor's assistant, who had received my test results and wanted to know if I had any questions. I wanted to know more details. So, I learned that my OSA was moderate, with 24 episodes of apnea and/or hypopnea (there's a word - it means snoring!) per HOUR.

Blink. Blink. Processing.

That night, I  put my diagnosis on Facebook and a dear friend of mine, who also has OSA, commented, "Welcome to the Snuffleupagus club!" I laughed - at least she didn't say the Bessie club... 

Yesterday, after 2 months of counting off the weeks, then the days, I picked up my machine. (Technically it's not mine yet; I have it on a 30-day trial). My appointment lasted an hour. Laura Lee (not Secord) went through my results, asked questions, let me ask questions, and then brought out the Machine - in a smart, black, canvas-looking case. She showed me how to put it together and what to do with each part. The mask was made of medical-grade silicone (so no acne or skin irritation!) and the air supply hooks to a strap that goes over my head; the hose hooks to a 360 degree elbow-joint (made of hard plastic) that allows me to turn over in bed with no problem, and the whole thing is held on my head by a strap that goes under my hair at the back of my head. She turned the Machine on after she fitted me for the mask, and there was no sound. NONE. My tongue went automatically to the roof of my mouth as I breathed normally through my nose, just like babies do! Laura Lee had to tell me the machine was on. I didn't know.

Huh.

I didn't feel suffocated.

Huh. 

I learned that I have to use distilled water in the machine to humidify the air that goes through the mask because the air by itself would dry out my nasal passages and my throat. 

Huh. 

(Note to self - those big bottles of distilled water are soft-sided, so be careful when putting water in the reservoir. I won't say how I found out...)

Finally, bedtime! I kissed hubby goodnight  . . . 

And I turned the Machine on and found a comfortable position. 

Free image from Pixabay!

The next thing I knew, it was 1:00 and I'd been asleep for an hour and a half! I unhooked the hose, went to the washroom, and got back in bed and reattached the hose. Aside from turning over in bed, I slept.

I usually wake up around 10 or 11 in the morning.

This morning I woke up at 7. SEVEN!!  More refreshed than usual (which is NOT refreshed!) And I laid awake with the Machine still on, until about 8 o'clock. 

And I got up.

Huh.

When I checked the sleep summary on the Machine, it told me that I averaged 13 apnea / hypopnea events per hour last night. (Down from 24 in my diagnostic test.)  When I checked my Garmin app (which measures stress levels and heart rate etc., through my watch) my stress levels had gone down significantly from all the previous nights. My heart rate was in the 60s (not the 80s) ... 

Huh! 

My jaw dropped. 

Blink. Blink. Processing.... 

And so begins my journey with the Machine. It's much easier than I thought to adjust to, and I like the results so far! Could this be ... part of self-care?

Huh. 

I go back in a week to get my machine read, and to adjust the flow of the air, as well as to make sure the mask still fits properly. 

But for today, I think I'll go do something else that is good for my self ... maybe get a haircut.

 

Worthy of Love and Belonging*

 * - Brené Brown

Most of my readers probably know that I'm a psychotherapist (aka a counsellor). My practice includes adults age 16 and up, individuals and couples. 

What some might not know is that in training, student counsellors are taught that it is considered necessary for every counsellor to HAVE a counsellor. So yes, I have one. My therapist helps me stay on track personally, holds me accountable for important things I often forget when I am busy. In particular, such things include self-care, which is written into the Code of Ethics of my certifying body. In fact, it's in the very first article of that Code! 

Blossoms - free image from Pixabay

Since seeing this particular therapist, I've been taking more time to do some of the things I let slide before. I spend more time out in Nature, marvelling at the handiwork I see. I reach out to friends and to people that have touched my life in some way, even if just to say thank you (those are powerful words, just saying). I look after my emotional needs. I tell people that I care about how I feel about them. I spend time thinking about any unresolved feelings about past events that may be hindering me, and I work to clear those things the same way I help my clients do the same. (How can I help them to heal, unless I first heal myself?)  I take time to enjoy the relationships I have in my life.

The other day, I was outside on our property. Our pink weigelas are in a riot of bloom, and there is a honeybee hive not far from here. Coming in close to the bush, I could smell the gentle but heady scent of the flowers. And then I saw her. A honeybee had crawled into one of the weigela blossoms. I could only see the back half of her as the flowers are trumpet-shaped. As I watched, I could see her hind end rhythmically going up and down as she drank deeply the nectar that was inside of that flower. Time seemed to stand still. There was only the bee in the flower. And I marvelled at how bees have two stomachs: one for nectar and one for pollen. And I considered in my soul how the bee takes only what she needs to feed her body, and gives the rest to the hive to feed the colony. In so doing, she is nourished to be able to contribute to the good of all, and she tastes the sweetness of what she will give to her sisters at the hive. What a beautiful picture of self-care in the context of a natural care-giver! 

I've carried that picture with me ever since, in my mind's eye. It's okay to gain strength as I give to those who need some of that same strength. It's okay to look after me on a regular basis - it helps me to better help others. 

The secret - and I think the bee knows this instinctively without having to be taught (unlike us humans) - is in adopting and believing in a phrase that Brené Brown uses often: "[I am] worthy of love and belonging." The bee is a crucial member of the hive and knows instinctively her role and her worth. She is listened to when she returns to the hive to tell the others where to find nectar. She is believed. She is respected. She belongs. And ... just so ... in my new and renewed relationships with those who are my equals, I belong as well. I am valued. I am worthy of love ... and respect ... and friendship ... and belonging. That reality brings me such gratitude. 

These are thoughts that have been percolating in my mind lately. And these thoughts are the reasons why I have been reaching out to people who are in my life, letting them know how much I appreciate them, spending time with them, sending a note to connect with them, and realizing more and more that I grow in attachment with others. Not necessarily in a crowd (because that's not my style) but in individual connections with one or two people at a time. As I do so, I get to remember how very rich (not in dollars, but in the depth of those individual relationships) I am. I'm so thankful! 

As Time Goes By

On Monday of this week, I awoke as any other day, and during breakfast I noted the date and remarked that we were into the final week of February, "finally". 

Something niggled in the back of my mind, something I couldn't quite name, but it felt kind of important. I felt "off" all day long. Yes, I did the usual things with my family. Yes, I looked after myself and my business. Still, something was ... I dunno ... missing.

Not until the phone rang that evening did I realize what it was. Monday, February 24, was the five-year anniversary of my brother Ben's death. 

Free photo from Pixabay

The caller - someone very dear to me - said he'd been thinking about Ben all day and he wanted to call me to let me know it. We had an amazing conversation for a good half-hour. It was wonderful to hear his voice again. 

As he was speaking, it occurred to me that I had almost forgotten this was the anniversary date. Okay, I HAD forgotten.

But my subconscious, even my body, didn't. 

And today, at the breakfast table, I remembered how much I missed him, how lost I felt without him - especially at first - and that even though I would not wish him back to the suffering he experienced every day because of his physical conditions, I truly miss his humour, his talent, his presence. I miss how we would talk about important stuff, how we would sit together and sing and play our guitars together - "jamming" we called it.

Grief takes many forms and each is valid. One never stops grieving a loved one, but the shape that grief takes might change over time. Let me be clear: time does not heal this wound. Time does not heal trauma.  But love?  Love heals. And unconditional love heals best.

I can remember Ben today and honour his memory and his talent. I can smile at the memory of his antics and his single-minded loyalty to me, his desire to protect me from harm, and his pride in me as his 'little sister' ... I can laugh at his old jokes and how he could make people laugh with just a facial expression. I can close my eyes and listen to him sing his songs with me. I can hear him play the guitar - in his inimitable thumb-and-forefinger style.

And I know that someday, perhaps not soon, but someday - I will see him again. And we will jam together. 

The Unwrapping

"Unwrap him, and let him go." - John 11

It has been nearly 16 years since the above scripture became much more meaningful to me. I am a Christian. I have been ever since I was a teenager. However, my Christian life (my "walk" in churchy terms) left something to be desired. And then, when I was about 48 years old, my "walk" actually became a WALK.  Not a hop. 

To explain that last sentence, I refer to the story of the raising of Lazarus, from where the above scripture comes. The burial custom of the day was that when someone died (after several rituals meant to make certain the person was dead) they were wrapped like a mummy in strips of cloth with spices sprinkled between the layers... to hide the smell until the funeral was done and the person laid on a stone shelf inside a tomb, which often had a round slab of stone rolled in front of it. Jesus arrived at Lazarus' home to find Lazarus' sisters and a whole lot of other relatives, mourning outside his tomb. He had died 4 days previous, so decomposition had started to kick in. Jesus told them to roll away the stone, and after a bit of protest (but he's stinking by now!) they did as He asked. Jesus wept when He saw their misery and lack of hope. He then called out to the dead man and told Lazarus to come out of the tomb. 

Lazarus was still in the mummy-wrappings. So the only way he had of moving forward from the ledge was to take small little hops and hope he didn't fall over (because he was unable to extend his arms.) 

Freeze frame right there. Lazarus had been raised from the dead. Everyone could see that. It was a bona fide miracle! But for Lazarus, it was taking all his strength just to stand up. That is what my Christian walk was like, with wrappings others had put on me, just as others had wrapped him. Neither of us could move without risk of great harm. 

And Jesus spoke to the assembled crowd. "Unwrap him, and let him go." As they did, the putrid strips of cloth, which by now overpowered the spices his sisters had so lovingly put there, started to loosen and Lazarus could move. A little at first, then more. And more. And more. He could finally benefit from the miracle that was already his - this newness of life. 

And in my life, as I began to drop the grave-clothes of old habits and prejudices from me, I learned how to really be alive and not be hindered by the bondage that made me try to live the Christian life by my own efforts (hopping). I could walk. I could run. I could breathe a deep breath. Lazarus and I were both raised by the Master, and loosened / unwrapped to fully enjoy life. 

The process took longer for me than it did for him. I was several months getting those stinky old things off me ... and there are still times when I find a hanger-on from my old self-effort life, for which I get help to free me. Together with the lifestyle I learned during that time, I can enjoy life, as Lazarus did. I look with pity on the person I was before that time, and I revel in my new-found freedom. All that I had lost, all that I could not touch because of the grave-clothes, came back to me. 

I talk about my spiritual life occasionally on this blog because it is part of me, just like any other part or role that is mine (wife, mother, friend, counsellor, etc.) And I do so as living, walking, talking proof that there is One who delivers, and those who loosen the bonds; each serves a role. 

And me? I'm grateful. That's it, that's all.  

Ready for Christmas?

It's a question I hear every year. And I am not sure my answer is satisfactory, at least to me. But I say it anyway.

"Are you ready for Christmas?" .... I think people mean, "Have you gotten your Christmas shopping / baking / decorating done?" To that intention, I usually answer, "Almost," and I would be telling the truth.

Summer 2011 - all of the family

But part of me is never ready for Christmas. The part of me that remembers that it was Arielle's favourite holiday, the part that remembers how she'd fill her mouth to the bursting point with Christmas dinner and then try to talk (as a joke), the part that misses her and her quirks. That part of me is never ready.

All the preparation I do for the holiday seems bittersweet. It's not as bitter as it was when the loss was fresh, I'll admit that. But there is a certain wistfulness about it for me. I wish she could enjoy it with us, or that I could be aware of her enjoyment. For all I know, she IS with us every Christmas dinner - it happened once that I was aware of it - that first Christmas. That was SO special. I hug that memory to my heart often.

But people don't need me to bleed on them when they ask something that for them, is more like a "hello, how are ya?" kind of thing. So I say, "Almost," to their query about my 'readiness' for Christmas, and they can go on their merry way. Only those who know me best understand what my response means. I guess that means I have grown as a person ... the "old Judy" would have made them feel uncomfortable by being brutally honest and ruining an otherwise great day for them. I'm not like that anymore. People have a right to feel happy (or whatever they feel) even if I can't quite attain that level of joy myself. And here I go comparing happiness and joy - two totally different experiences. Happiness is usually (for me) dependent on circumstances, and joy speaks more of an inner peace in spite of circumstances.

And yes, I have joy. I can honestly say that as deep as the loss of losing Arielle is, it would have been a deeper loss never to have known her, never to have borne her. There was a time I couldn't get there because the loss hurt so much, but now - I think - I can honestly say that our lives are richer for having had her in them, even if her presence is only a memory now. And I do have the sure hope that one day, I will see her again - without the faults that made life with her less than perfect, that made us - and her - so frustrated. I look forward to building an eternity of experiences with that girl: the one we couldn't (and can't) help but love. Do I miss her? OH yes. Every day! And grief's shape has changed over the years to make space for me / us to honour her memory in little ways that would only matter to us.

So am I ready for Christmas?

Ummm, almost.  :)

Mother's Day - a journey

I have had a love-hate relationship with Mother's Day for almost all of my adult life. From the moment I realized that my own mother was - shall we say - not the best mom in the world, and vowed never to be like her, Mother's Day has been fraught with feelings of anger, shame, jealousy of those who had "the best moms in the world", and confusion about how I should feel about the day - and the role. And her.

When my mom was diagnosed with dementia in 2016, and gradually forgot what she had "done to me" - the confusion grew, the existing emotions were an exercise in frustration, and there were more feelings: hatred for the disease that was making her more and more helpless, guilt that I couldn't forget my childhood like she did, and much, much more. All the while, the 2nd Sunday in May was a day I would always dread. I would even make one post early that day and then leave Facebook alone as I didn't want to read all the gushing messages and posts from people whose mothers seemed so much more saintly to them.  I railed against the idea that the "saint" was what others saw, while I got to see what she was like behind closed doors.  I could see both sides in her, but nobody would believe my version of the woman. Nobody, that is, except my older brother, who saw things up close and personal.

I knew all along that she would never change - that she never once thought she did anything wrong. I knew that she would always treat me like I was six years old. What I didn't realize until a few years later was that her own emotional development - through her own trauma of being the victim of child abuse - was stunted. I was raised by a grown woman with the emotional maturity of an 8-year-old. That stark realization, which I came to in therapy in 2019, freed me to see her for the woman she had become in her dementia. All the masks were stripped away and she showed who she really was to everyone, not just to me. She could be so kind, and in the next breath, critical and cruel. But it was still hard to watch. It was harder to listen to people excuse her behaviour by saying, "It's the dementia." 

When my older brother died in February 2020, I lost someone very important and dear to me, whom I still miss terribly. I also lost my only witness, which was just as hard for me. However, I came to understand that it didn't matter what used to be, just what "is". She could no longer recognize me when I went to tell her about Bro. To her, her daughter Judy was six years old, not some sixty-ish woman. And her short-term memory only lasted for about 5 minutes on a good day. By the end of the visit, she asked me how Bro was doing. I couldn't bear to see her grieve all over again, so I said, "Better than ever, Mom. Better than ever." 

And then came the day that she passed away. April 2, 2023, around 8:40 pm, the phone rang, and a nurse told me that my mother had died.

I didn't know how to feel. At first, I thought it was some cruel April Fool's Day joke so I checked my watch. No, it wasn't that. In a fog, I thanked the woman for telling me, and then started going through the motions of the only surviving natural child of someone who has died. Funeral arrangements, phone calls to inform extended family, travel plans, and write-ups occupied my mind - as did the inevitability of preparing to greet the people who would come to the visiting hours and to the funeral. I don't know how I would have gotten through all the preparation without the help of the funeral director, Erin. She was a God-send.

The overwhelming sensation I felt (and still feel) was relief. She was out of her emotional pain, with a perfect memory, re-united with my dad who had died in 1993, and with both of my brothers (the oldest died in 2010 and Bro in 2020). She also knew everything that I was feeling and had felt. For the first time, she understood me. I can't describe how that felt. It gave me ... rest, I guess. Peace.

The funeral was amazing - but surreal. I decided to let people believe about her what they wished, without making her special memorial about me. I wrote up a biography speech for the pastor to read at the funeral... a list of her accomplishments, things that folks there would remember her doing. I learned that so many people loved her - and that I loved her, in spite of everything.

Mom and Dad on my wedding day in 1981.
He was nibbling her ear.

Mother's Day last year felt like a blur. I was still processing some pretty heavy emotions and realizing some new and interesting things about myself. Now, I imagine Mom being the person she always could have been, totally healed from her own childhood trauma, and able to love and be loved without shame, without false modesty, and without fear. It comforts me. It lets me love the good about who she was, to honour the sacrifices she made, to remember the good times.

As Mother's Day approached this year, I also realized something else. I wasn't dreading it. Strange how that is. Instead, I had come to understand that all these years, I was robbing others of the joy of wishing me a happy Mother's Day and keeping them from celebrating ME as a mom. Wow. 

I've been freed. I can't explain much more than that.