As those of you who have been followers of L&P for any length of time will perhaps remember, I would occasionally reference my elderly mother who I have supported in various ways, including, quite pertinently to this blog, the provision of vast amounts of reading material; she was a book-a-dayer these past eight years, ever since my father’s death in 2006.
A week ago Sunday morning, June 15th, she called me as usual in the morning; we had a pleasantly normal chat, and I told her that I would be in to see her in a day or two, to drop off yet more books. Later that day, mid-afternoon, my sister called me to tearfully inform me that the nurse at the seniors’ residence had just called her: Mom had quietly passed away during her afternoon nap.
Though Mom was physically extremely frail – hence her residence in a complex care facility these past ten months – her death was absolutely unexpected.
And I find myself quite bereft.
It was not at all a tragedy in any real sense of the word; Mom’s ending was the classic “best way to go”, as everyone tells us, and as we tell each other and ourselves. She was 89; she had had some serious health issues, and a few close calls. Several surgeries. A bad fall last summer, which put her in hospital for months. Several bouts of pneumonia. She had just been put on full-time oxygen.
But still…
So, everyone, call your mother, if you’re lucky enough to have one in your life. Go see her, if you can. Take her some flowers, or take her out to lunch, or just sit and have a chat. If it feels right and the timing works, tell her you love her. Yes, she already knows that. But do it anyway.
Those of you who have also lost your parents, perhaps you will agree that this is such a surreal feeling. This is it. We’re all alone. Orphans, in fact. My goodness. Rather sobering.
Life does indeed go on. The grass grows and needs mowing; the garden needs watering and weeding; the flowers I picked for Mom’s funeral are drooping and are almost ready to be thrown out onto the compost pile. The books I had ready to go in to town for her are still sitting on the kitchen counter; the books I collected from her room along with her other personal belongings are needing to be sorted out and put away. The floor needs sweeping, meals must be made; the food from caring friends is mostly gone. And I am very much able to laugh at jokes, to smile, to be happy much of the time, despite the tremendous sorrow that shadows my days right now.
And books are still good. I know that they brought Mom endless and reliable amusement and interest and comfort; I read right now with a nod to her shade. Nothing too challenging: from the stack I had ready for Mom, Elizabeth Goudge’s The Castle on the Hill, Norah Lofts’ Lovers All Untrue. An E.B. White essay collection, and tonight I think perhaps something from the Margery Sharp shelf.
Back to writing now as well. I have a review to formulate for Shiny New Books; I have things to say about recently read novels; I have loads of catch-up to do on my favourite book bloggers’ sites; I’ve neglected those particular email notifications this past week.
Thanks for listening, everyone. Now, go call your mom!
Mom in January 1962, moving to the Cariboo region of British Columbia from central California. She drove up in her beloved Taunus car. Behind her, Dad’s truck is loaded with her furniture and household treasures, and, yes, many boxes of books. I love this picture, especially the totally unsuitable footwear. Mom never did really resign herself to wearing proper winter boots; I swear her feet were cold for the next 50 years!
Mom and Dad, 1962. At home in the Cariboo.
And a few years later, now with children in tow. This looks like we’re going Sunday visiting; all dressed up. I’m the one in orange; check out the homemade haircut!
One of my German cousins just sent me this picture, taken in the summer of 1981. Mom has just come in from the garden. (I know this because of that distinctive hat; she wore it every time she set foot outside between April and October.) She could be shelling peas, or hulling strawberries; that look of concentration and her slight frown is utterly typical. My family tells me I look just the same; our faces share a rather sombre cast which does not necessarily reflect our actually happy moods.
Just a few years ago; one of the last photos I have of Mom. She was deeply self-conscious and hated having her photo taken; this one was stealthily snapped from across the room while I was “experimenting” with a new camera lens.
Leaves & Pages 
No matter how often anyone tells you it was the best possible way to go (you know this anyway, of course) you will of course be grieving, and so you should, it’s natural and normal. But what wonderful memories you have, and how blessed you were to have such a great mother. Just look after yourself — gardening and reading the best medicine. x
Thank you, Harriet. Love of both gardening and reading were things we shared all our lives; I do feel extremely close to my mother when engaged in either. 🙂
Your mother looks such a darling woman. Mine died (in her sleep) last year at 88. She’d been blind for a decade and “read” most of Trollope on tape – she was so glad books on tape had been invented in time for her. It’s definitely a new stage in life, hard to believe the dear old ones can truly be gone. Warmest best wishes to you as you weather this. Of course I want more story – what made your folks decide to leave California for B.C.? That was brave and pioneerish of them!
My mother was (mostly) very sweet. With enough stubborn individualism to keep things interesting! 😉 Mom lived in California and was working as an accountant/bookkeeper; Dad met her there when he was visiting a friend whom he had emigrated with after WW II. Friend was an engineer and worked for IBM in Los Gatos/San Jose area; Dad had gone north into Canada to team up with a cousin who had settled in the little cow town of Williams Lake to set up shop as a welder. Dad did many things, but eventually settled into carpentry, getting his certification in the late 1950s. Anyway the two made acquaintance somehow. Never could get the details of the actual where and how – introduction by mutual friends, perhaps – Mom & Dad were both in their 30s and had no previous serious romantic involvements that they’d admit to, though in later years friends would occasionally drop intriguing hints of rather fuller lives than Mom & Dad divulged to their children! 😉 I rather suspect something in the line of a “blind date” or a “set up” meeting… In any event, Mom made the transition quite wonderfully well to the Cariboo, and travelled back home every year or so to visit the California family, something which greatly enriched my own childhood and perhaps gave me my strong liking for “road trips” as a desirable break from routine.
Condolences to you, Diana, on the loss of your own mother. One feels rather cut loose, doesn’t one? Like an anchor has gone missing… It will all be ultimately “okay”, but definitely needs some coming to terms with.
My condolences. It is always hard, even when we know it is coming. But what a blessing to have had your mother with you for so long! The memories, the life she lead! Something to celebrate indeed! My mum was taken at age 50 when I was 25 and I always wonder what it would have been like to have had her part of my adult life.
Thank you, Nicola. Condolences to you for the loss of your own mother. That must have been extremely difficult. In my own case, it seems that our relationship had a chance to come full circle – from the closeness of young child/mother to many years of fully independent lives, to coming together again in the last few years, with a reversal in roles of myself and my sister becoming the caregivers to one who once cared for us. And fortunately we were able to enjoy a new and rich relationship, on a very adult level. I am very grateful for that; we were indeed blessed.
As I found out with my father a few years ago, no matter how well you know it could happen any time, it’s still a shock when it comes … I live with my 87-year-old mother, who is mentally nearly as sharp as ever and almost a book-a-dayer, but who hasn’t gotten out of her wheelchair in about a year. My mom came from Newfoundland with her sisters when she was in her early 20’s, first to Boston then to Connecticut, and denies still having a tiny bit of an accent (“Elm” is two syllables, and we love to hear her talk about squirrels…)
She’s always, always been a constant presence in my life – and so I’m going to be crying over this beautiful post for a little while …I’ve long planned to sit with her and get her talking about her childhood and youth while i had a recorder going, and I will do it this week. And I’m going to use your method to sneak a couple of pictures of her without her knowledge… Thank you for sharing this post.
Oh, do enjoy your conversations with your mom! So fortunate that she is still so articulate (as my own mother was); we see so many of our friends dealing with parents in various stages of dementia and that is so terribly difficult for most of them; much worse than mere physical challenges, as Mom said many times. Though the physical frailties are tremendously hard to deal with, too, just the logistics of life confined to bed/wheelchair. Until she decided to enter residential care just under a year ago – she was no longer able to walk more than a few steps in a walker and required two-person lifts/assists – I also provided personal care to Mom – an intimacy which made for much shared rueful laughter on occasion! One never really visualizes that one may be (for example) bathing one’s own mother… But it was just fine, and was a part of our evolving relationship. Stay strong; I suspect that some of your days are more difficult than others; “elder care” has its decided challenges as well as its wonderful rewards! 🙂
When I first started reading this my heart sank to the bottom of the world…having just gone through this with my own dear mom I know there are just no words that are sufficient to offer comfort; but then I kept reading and it was YOUR words that gave me comfort. 🙂 what a lovely tribute you wrote! Beautiful. I enjoyed the pictures and the trip back in time (your bowl haircut is adorable!) and enjoyed getting to know your mother a bit. She and my mom were quite alike in their resistance to wearing Sensible Shoes. 🙂 All the best to you–the comfort of knowing she died peacefully and loved will grow with time.
Thank you so much for the condolences; I am so glad that you found a bit of comfort for your own grief. I am finding, first with Dad’s passing and now Mom’s, that hearing the experiences of others does indeed help one feel less alone in one’s bereavement. On a logical level we know that death of loved ones is inevitable, but the emotional ups and down sometimes feel as if one is somehow not coping “appropriately” – the experiences of others are a welcome touch-point in a strange place. Mom’s peaceful passing is indeed an immense comfort.
I am just back last evening from a brief vacation and was finding reasons not to go over to my mother’s today. But after reading this, my priorities are realigned, and I am heading off to give her a big hug. Your words about your dear mother are enormously moving. I especially love the picture of her from Germany with the garden hat. This is quite an exceptionally moving tribute to your dear mother.
Thank you most sincerely for the kind words. Yes, our mothers are indeed something special, difficult though the mother-child relationship sometimes can be… it’s not always sunshine and roses, is it? 😉 But ultimately the love is what matters, and how we all manage to express it, in deeds as well as (or sometimes instead of?) in words. 🙂
What great photos, I especially like the last one which looks so natural. You were so lucky to have her for so long though, but it is strange to think that you are now the older generation and even years after both my parents died I still find myself thinking – I must ask mum/dad about something – and of course, it’s too late.
Oh yes! It’s very disconcerting to realize that they are no longer “there”. My dad has been gone 8 years, and I occasionally still forget. I know that it will be a very long time before my first thought when the phone rings at 10 AM won’t be, “Oh, Mom’s calling to check in…” Today I’m heading into town; just a little while ago I found myself debating what flowers I could cut for her in the garden – I kept her in bouquets year-round and she loved the garden flowers & wildflowers best – before I remembered that I wouldn’t be seeing her…
I was indeed lucky to have had her for so long, and on such good terms.
I’m sending you and e-hug: (((((L&P))))).
A blessing for your mom that, though she is now gone, she kept her memory and reading ability for so long. (My mom, a lifelong voracious reader, can now, at 92, only hold the book and turn the pages, but she’s not retaining anything. I hope going through the motions is a comfort for her)
Thanks for sharing all those pictures. When we look back over our mothers’ years, it’s always astonishing, I think, so see how many lives they really lived.
Thank you so much for the “virtual” sympathy! Greatly appreciated. 🙂
Yes, I am beyond grateful that Mom was so fortunate in keeping her memory to the end. It was a huge comfort to me in dealing with the difficulties of Mom’s physical failing these past years; she kept her sense of humour, too, and was marvellously pragmatic.
I do hope your own mother is finding comfort in going through the motions; I am sure there is something going on in her mind which benefits from the persistence of that habit. The mind is a curious and complex thing, isn’t it? As we realize when it is no longer functioning quite like it once did… Very hard to cope with, I know. I think I should be sending back a virtual hug to you! 🙂
Amazing what our mothers saw in their lifetimes…the changes they experienced are almost unbelievable. Mom was born in 1925, grew up in the Depression, experienced her brothers serving in the armed forces, pursued a successful career as a working woman – she and her sister bought a house together and lived independently as bachelor-girls – both married later than the norm, in their thirties. She married, had children, created a new life for herself far from her family, and she was extremely conscious of and watched and marvelled at new technologies and advances in science and medicine – she was on her *third* artificial hip and she was exceedingly well aware of the advance in medicine that made such things possible. Her life spanned nine decades; from farming with horses to man on the moon to the computer revolution. Absolutely amazing, on both a personal and a “historical” level.
My sympathy to you in your loss. My dear mother went to heaven six years ago, rather unexpectedly. Dad left us nine years before that. Mom was quite a reader. She preferred reading to almost anything else. I miss them still, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.
I enjoyed your memories and photos of your parents. Thank you for sharing them, in the midst of your sorrow.
Thank you, Julie. And condolences to you as well on the loss of your parents. Yes, we will always miss them, no matter how much time goes by. And that is in itself somehow comforting; it underlines the importance of their lives to those of their children. They do indeed live on in our memories.
Nice to hear of your good and loving relationship with your mother. I lost mine at 61, mostly due to her not being able to take care of herself. I only really got to know her when reading the letters she wrote to my father when they were forcibly separated when living overseas. When I read what she went through and what she felt for the first time I felt close to her. On the other hand I knew what my father felt and he was the reader. I got my love of the word from him. Sounds like your mother was a wonderful woman.
I am so sorry you lost your mother so soon, June. That must be a constant regret. Much as we think of these women as “our mothers” first and foremost, it is sometimes rather a surprise to realize that they were also other people, and that their role of motherhood was only one of many other varied stages in their lives. So glad that you were able to find some insights from letters.
Thank you most sincerely for your kind words; it is greatly appreciated.
Many, many, many hugs. I’m so sorry for your loss, and your family will be in my thoughts this week.
Thank you, Jenny. Your kind words are so greatly appreciated. It is indeed a difficult time. Not overwhelmingly or outwardly so (and Mom would not have approved of my inner impulse to howl like a baby at her sudden departure, “No fuss” being something of a motto of hers) but quietly brutal nonetheless. Good memories are a balm, and also the consolation of her peaceful ending, and the comforting words of those around us. Again, thank you.
My condolences. I don’t think anything ever prepares us for that loss. I got the same kind of phone call, 3 years ago, and I still miss my mom every day. Those are great pictures that you shared.
Thank you, Lisa. And condolences to you as well on your own loss. I suspect one never quite stops missing their mother, if the relationship was at all a positive one.
What a lovely portrait of your mother you have written here. I am so sorry for your loss. My own mother died seventeen years ago. I can’t believe it has been so long. Yesterday would have been her 71st birthday.
Oh, Patience, so very sorry to hear of you losing your mother at so much too young an age. That must still be a very hard thing to bear.
I am myself comforted by the thought of my own mother’s full life. It wasn’t all wonderful and happy – she had numerous challenges to deal with, in these latest years especially – but in general a very good run indeed. I grieve, but am at peace with her passing, too. We were fortunate, to have her for so long, and for her to retain her personality and mental capabilities so well; so many are not so lucky.
I’m so sorry for you loss, Barb. Thank you for sharing your memories of your mother with us, as well as all of those lovely photos.
Thank you, Claire. It somehow felt appropriate to share those memories with the rest of you, with Mom so tied up with my involvement in books and reading. She passed on her deep love of reading to me, and one of my roles in her life these past years had been as a provider of her books – a rather daunting undertaking as she was going through them at an amazing rate – generally a book a day. And though our tastes were similar in some things, they definitely weren’t identical. I had some lovely hits, and a few misses as well, which were all good for discussion 😉 so both doubly useful in their way!