Tag Archives: story

Be Telling Nana Stories

I can’t wrap my head around that my mom is dead.

What happened?

I never really understood cancer, how it morphs and changes, how it can consume.

I feel sharp edges of grief.
Rough, hurtful, prickly especially when I think about my mom’s unnecessary pain and hospital stay.

These sharp edges are immediately smoothed over when I hear stories of my mom, our Nana.

Like a soothing balm, these stories cover the edges and ease the pain… until the next wave comes on this ocean of grief.

Last night, we went for a walk to the field at the end of my parents’ street. As we walked, I was remembering walking their with mom, tobogganing, having the dogs out there.

Suddenly JC and CC ran ahead of us, across the field. They sat on two pieces of wood standing up. They sat there for a long time. Then JC called us over. I don’t know what the boys said while they were sitting on those logs, but JC was very clear in what he told me.

Mom, I sat on those logs with Nana. The last time I had a sleepover by myself.

JC was lit up with joy by this simple memory my mom created with him.

Beautiful memory.

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Breathtaking sunset.

Thanks mom!

Be Asking Me How My Christmas Was

Ah, dear friends, my heart aches tonight.

My heart aches for my dad who has lost his wife. His retired plans shattered.

My mind hurts for my children who will not be able to experience my mom’s continual thoughtfulness, laughter and excitement for birthdays, back to school and activities.

My body is numb thinking about our future without my mom.

BUT today it also hurts for a lovely woman God has brought into our lives through our children’s schools.

We moved in the summer to KCity, the next day mom was diagnosed with cancer, 5 hospital visits, about 27 days overall in the hospital and mom dying on Boxing Day sums up the last five months. Ah ya, also must add in unpacking a new house, finding activities for the boys, where to get stamps, two weeks of pneumonia for me plus a family bout of stomach flu.

Back to today! S, the lovely lady works at JC’s school. I ran into her today as i went into the main building to drop off a cheque. She was her usual bubbly self and she threw out, “How was your Christmas?”

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My mind stopped. My throat went dry. I thought to myself, am I going to be honest or give the canned answer of “Fine, how was yours?”

I looked at her genuine smile and realized only the truth would do. I answered, “Not great! My mom died!” Her empathy was immediate and caring. She rolled with my answer and didn’t flee (like my neighbours have been doing).

She provided a moment to sit with me in my grief. What a gift from a very lovely woman.

Thank you S! I hope I haven’t instilled a fear in her asking how people’s Christmas’s were.

Be Living 25 Days

Note: Click on the blue links to see the whole twenty-five day story…

Twenty-five days ago, I left my home.

My mom was in an ambulance with excruciating pain.

Twenty- five days ago my mom was in the ER, in pain. I never saw my mom read or watch TV again.

Excruciating pain.

In the next seven days, I watched mom be in FIVE different rooms of the hospital. Not one nurse offered to wash her or change her gown. Mom never did get that bath she was looking forward to for six weeks.

Still in pain.

I encountered a surgeon who told mom she would die, a doctor who empathized, an anaestesologist who overruled our oncologist who wanted mom to have more pain meds, nurses who laughed and were afraid, nurses who advocated and hid. A social worker who stood strong and stole chairs and a palliative care coordinator who finally helped mom be pain-free.

Mom was continually trying to ‘conquer’ her pain (mom’s words).

I watched mom lovingly hold dad’s hand, I watched her hug my boys. I heard her never complain nor whine about her situation.

Not once. Not ever.

Twenty days ago, Wendy and I had a sleepover with mom. Sleeping in chairs. Mom still in pain. Chasing nurses for meds. Laughing. Crying. Massaging. Comforting.

I watched mom try to put one foot in front of the other. I saw her desperately want a drink of water. I put lip chap on her lips, got her ice and massaged her sore hips.

One moment at a time.

Nineteen days ago, I went by ambulance with my mom to hospice. . Dad and my boys greeted us there. You should have seen mom’s face light up. Finally pain free with a grin on her face.

I savoured watching snowflakes flutter onto her face as she entered this holy place.

I watched my cousins, my uncles, my sister, her family and our wonderful friends arrive to comfort us. And we saw food, wine and more food come through those doors.

All with my dad steadfast at her side and my Sexy Neck a pillar of strength.

I saw my boys playing peek-a-boo outside mom’s window, I saw JC kiss her hand one last time, CC give her a big hug and OC a high five.

Sixteen days ago, I heard mom say hi to me for the last time as I walked into her room in the morning. Room number eight.

Always kind, always thoughtful, always just mom.

Fourteen days ago, I watched the family from my childhood (dad, sister, cousins) eat Christmas dinner together, listen to Christmas carols and drink wine. I heard stories and quite a ruckus being made in room number eight. I watched tears flow, mom’s hand being held and felt her body next to me as I lied with her.

I watched my family grieve, my cousins step up, my boys soak in the love of everyone and my dad continue to walk forward with his love.

I looked at mom’s beautiful skin, incredible blue eyes and felt her warmth and kindness flowing out of her, as it always has.

Thirteen Days ago, mom took her last breath. Dad sitting at her side.

I was awed by love, snow, hugs and fluttering butterflies.

Thirteen days ago we started planning, writing, savouring, cherishing.

Eleven Days ago, we celebrated mom’s life at her favourite beach, held the people who love her and cried tears of love over and over again.

Ten days ago we said goodbye to many departing for home and then it was just us and dad. Staying at mom and dad’s house. Puzzling, talking, organizing, crying, drinking wine, skiing, leaving roses, smelling the flowers, taking down Christmas decorations and talking about stuff.

Today, I return to our home in KCity .

Today, this is how my husband found me as I wrote this blog:

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Disclaimer: For my Prayerwalking friends, my lying down is a regular occurrence. For my new grieving self, it is a daily occurrence. Just rowing my boat… in my quiet laundry room.

Don’t worry, I am not alone. God is with me, my friends close, boys sleeping and Sexy Neck woowing me with warm muffins.

Can you leave me a wee comment? It will give me something to read while I lie on the floor.

Be Sharing your Story – Katie

It is with honour and gratitude that I introduce our guest blogger today, Katie!

Katie’s the beautiful blonde holding the cutie in light pink in this photo.

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We have journeyed through motherhood together as our oldest children are only months apart. Her daughter being a few months older than JC. We have now journeyed through our mom’s having cancer. Her mom being diagnosed two seasons before mine. Her mom is on the right of this photo. They celebrated a wonderful Christmas together as a family!

I feel humble gratitude for Katie going ahead of me on this crazy cancer journey with my mom. I really appreciate all our parking lot conversations and hugs!

Here’s Katie’s story:

I first met Joanna at Baby Talk (a parenting group here in Vernon), over 6 years ago. I think we literally had our babies in our arms when we first met. JC was maybe 3 weeks old, and my daughter was 2 months old.

Then our babies grew into pre-schoolers, and they went to the same pre-school together. Because the pre-school relied heavily on parent (and grandparent!) volunteers, both my mom and Joanna’s mom volunteered often at the pre-school. I know the kids loved it when a grandparent got to volunteer. It seemed to be something extra special. (I think all the kids even called them Nana!)

Before we knew it, pre-school was done and it was time for our oldest “babies” to start Kindergarten. It was September 2012, and my daughter and JC began Kindergarten at the same elementary school. It was an exciting time. Then a week into that school year, my mom was diagnosed with terminal colon cancer. I remember explaining to Joanna this devastating news when I first found out my mom was sick. For some reason I remember telling Joanna in the school parking lot. I could barely say the word “cancer” out loud. It was too new, too raw of a feeling. At the time I didn’t know anything about cancer. I struggled with the thought of losing my mother, and I struggled with the challenge of being present for my own two daughters at the same time.

I remember seeing Gwen volunteer in JC’s kindergarten class that Fall. I loved seeing this energetic, smiling Nana stroll the halls at the school. A couple of months later, Winter 2012, I would see Joanna, Steve and the boys skiing up at Sovereign Lake. And quite often I would see Gwen with them. As I watched this amazing, active Nana walk around the lodge, I remember wishing my mother was healthy enough to take on an activity like cross country skiing. My mother was only an hour away in Kelowna, but while I watched Gwen I remember missing my mother terribly. Even though my mother was only an hour away in Kelowna, at home, I was already grieving.

Flash forward to Spring, 2013. Joanna shared her concerns about her mom, and the change in Gwen’s health. I think Joanna also told me this in the school parking lot. (It’s funny what you remember when you’ve had intense conversations) Over the next few weeks I did my best to share with Joanna some parts of my mother’s cancer journey. I told her what I knew about chemo, blood tests, markers, anxiety, oncologists, social workers, CT scans, etc. It’s steep learning curve if you’ve never encountered all of this terminology before.

I think it is a strange and powerful grief when you learn your mother is terminally ill, and that one day she will not be around to “mother” you anymore, to share things with, to watch her be with your own children. Because we are mothers. And yet we are also daughters who need our own mothers. And although I didn’t know your mom well Joanna, I’m sure she was extremely proud of you as her daughter, and who you’ve become as a person, and as a mother.