Brigette’s Story

Mom’s obituary gets re-written and revised in my mind trying to find the words to precisely capture and convey all there is to know about this amazingly imperfect woman. Specific words and anecdotes to embody who Christine was (who hated when we called her that) is an enduring project in my mind to fortify her place in this world.

“Beach Bunny” was her handle on the CB radio we used as a deterrent for boredom as we set out on family road trips. We lived in a rural community where she vowed she wouldn’t stay more than 5 years which turned into almost 40 years – death being the ultimate factor.

However, “It is with a heavy heart” … that is how we chose to begin mom’s obituary to announce her death on October 16, 2014. Careful consideration went into using this common obituary introduction. Simultaneously, we attempted to convey the woe we experienced and celebrate mom’s flair for dramatizing more than a few situations. Often, these precise words were uttered by her to communicate news less sorrowful than death. We lovingly mocked her about her choice of words and still do in fond memory. She had won “Best Actress” in Grade 8 for acting in the Mikado and dearly held onto that honour until her dying breath.

Cancelling Christmas, Thanksgiving, and threatening her absence from my wedding were some awful and highly reactive suggestions she was capable of uttering. Her childhood was fraught with instability held tightly and tenderly together by the relationship she had with her father and her siblings. My grandfather encouraged the completion of her undergraduate degree even after having a child and becoming the first in their family to earn a degree. She was only 36 when he died and was cemented with guilt after finding him dead and alone on the floor in his home. She never forgave herself for delaying her lunch visit with him the day before.

Reflecting on these situations now as a motherless mother, they’re perceived as reactions fueled by sadness, frustration, and fear. They were by no means her defining characteristics.

Her compassion, love of life, and humour would have been able to fill a world larger than we know. Drunkenly, she once labelled my sister and I as “bitches” for not stopping at KFC on our way home from a wedding. Other times uncontrollably belly laughing at the weirdest jokes causing my dad to become slightly ticked we couldn’t stop laughing, obviously fueling more hilarity among us. These are a just a sampling of memories we laugh about and remember with levity and love.

Cured of cancer once without chemo over a decade prior, this second cancer proved more challenging and hungry for her life. Though we desperately hoped for a miracle, it began the countdown to her final curtain call. Despite our family’s heartbreak, we were rewarded with time to grieve separately and together. We learned more about each other; and were afforded the opportunity to say goodbye. My heart still aches every day and yearns to hold her soft hands, laugh with her, and to duck the odd shoe if it meant she was alive again.

Family repeatedly teased my umbilical cord remained attached to her well into my adult years. She was my bestie and the one person who was rewarded with seeing my truest vulnerability. We went most everywhere together – though at times, with a bit of drama. We even finished one another’s sentences and often exclaimed “I was just about to say that”. That is all lost now. A lifetime of security vanished in a matter of moments as we sat as a family at her bedside. Just the four of us – the way she would have wanted it.

For better and worse, she lives on in mementos, photos, emotions, our childhood home, and I can’t bear to lose those tightly held memories.

The last nine years, I have:

• Tried to find myself without her, feeling lost in this vast world

• Avoided grieving her with the depth and passion she deserved, and

• Heightened my self-doubt about absolutely everything.

She was valued for how she attempted to make people feel accepted and loved; her need for justice (at almost any cost); how her hand felt in mine as we crossed the road or raised them jointly as we conquered the Wheel of Fortune puzzles; the lessons she tried to teach; and the impact her mothering continues to have on me. Not to mention all the instances when strangers approached us and divulged the issues they faced in life while we shopped for groceries. Those people still find me surveying the pasta sauce aisle from time to time.

Intensely keen to be a more present mother than the one who raised her, mom was imperfect in every way – she was the best! She and my dad strove to provide my sister and I with a memorable and love filled childhood. This effort is a notion I am grateful for each day and attempt to emulate with my family. She even beat me at Gin-Rummy about a week before she died. Mom goaded and taunted me saying “and that is on Fentanyl” trying to manage her pain as she laid all her cards out in triumph.

Hurdling towards her death, my sister and I assisted her to the washroom one day. During this supremely vulnerable moment, my strongest negotiating strategy was attempted – “Mom, if I got pregnant, could you hold on for 9 more months?” We both knew the answer would be a resounding no. But her response was filled with humility, humour and fatigue, “Yes - but we both know that is not going to happen”. Gosh – her weakened voice uttering those bleak words who knew her destiny is still audible. She died in short days after my negotiation strategy was defeated.

A few years later close to my mom’s birthday entered my daughter with all the dramatic genes passed along from her venerable “G”. Undoubtedly, mom’s love for her would have run deep, just as it did for her only other grandchild who she formed a unique and strong bond with.

Though difficult to understand as a child – as a motherless mother, imperfection is the name of the game for raising a tiny human. Embracing the unknown is essential for accepting and living life to its fullest. My career mostly deals with death, but also the potential to improve life. Every day, the fragility of life dangles as a reminder to be unafraid of the future and live life – a platitude which occasionally becomes a reality.

Summed up mom’s obituary should have read: She fiercely loved and protected her family and regretted dying at such an early age – “It’s not the way it was supposed to end” she’d say to my dad. My dad’s home country of Portugal was where they dreamed of a partial and deserved retirement. She valued education, drama, and wine. She loved all types of music and would dance when she could. She was proud to be a judicial secretary and even more proud to be an overly doating mother – my sister and I were her “best accomplishments”.

Every year on the date of her death, I choose to celebrate the life I had with her while dreaming of a life where we would “just be” 800 kms away on the phone – being silent, but together; where she would be ever present in the life of my daughter; and where she was enjoying a retirement of sorts in Portugal with my dad.

She was imperfect and we wouldn’t have changed her for the world – I wish you would have known her.