To say it has been a rough couple of weeks would be a grave understatement… pun intended.  

My husband’s brother Karl returned to Ontario on Saturday July 4th leaving us alone with their dying mother.  We spent all day every day by her bedside, leaving only to grab a quick meal and to sleep when Sal came in to spend the night shift with her.  The nurses brought in a cozy recliner for him to nap as he was able and he often awoke covered with a blanket that they had placed on him in the night.  They offered him a cot but he wanted to be able to get to her quickly if she woke or needed anything so he refused the bed.  It was sweet to see him so devoted.  He was able to get a little sleep during the day knowing we were with his beloved Katy.

My mother does therapeutic touch.  We have always referred to it as “voodoo” and I’ve never been much of a believer.  I prefer to mock that which I do not understand.  My MIL believed in it however and often when she was unwell or recovering from something or another my mom would stop in and give her a treatment… which consists of a transfer of healing energy without actual physical touch.  Yes it’s odd but I look at it the same as I see chicken soup for a cold, it might not help but it can’t hurt.

Saturday evening my parents came to the hospital to see Katy, mom did a little voodoo and left the room crying.  I went outside to see if she was ok and she told me that my MIL was ready to die but someone was holding her back.  “Sal?” I assumed.  

“I’m not sure but I think it might be Ken.” she said.

When I returned to the room I sat next to my husband and took his hand and said “Honey, are you ready to let her go?”

“No.” his voice was small and pained.

“You know she is not coming back from this right?  You know that there is no miracle and no chance that she will survive this?”

“I know.”

“Then tell her it’s ok to go.  Promise her that we will take care of Sal and each other.  Let her know that she will find peace where she is going and that her god is waiting for her.  There is nothing left for her in this world and it is unfair of us to keep her.  I don’t want to lose her either but it is not about us, letting her go is the kindest thing you can do for her.”

I left the room to let him take some time with her.

When I returned he was kissing her goodbye.  I did the same and told her I loved her, knowing at that point that it would be for the last time.

The phone rang at 6:00 the next morning.  She was gone.

Two minutes later the phone rang again, it was Karl letting us know he was home.  My husband had to tell him not to bother unpacking.

We got to the hospital by 6:30, Sal was by her side, still holding her hand.  We spent a few minutes with her before they took her body downstairs and then we all went over to their house to start making phone calls.  

Monday we met with the funeral director and since my husband and Sal were both pretty out of it most of the decision making was left to me.  We kept everything fairly simple, cremation (her ashes will eventually be buried with Sal), a service at her church and a tea courtesy of the Legion Ladies Auxiliary (she was a member).  Still there was a lot to do, paperwork, choosing a guestbook and an urn, deciding on the little funeral flier thing… I spent hours going through photos to find just the right ones and I happened to know who her favorite poet was so I had to find something suitable from her too.  We spent the entire day on the details and I even borrowed a large electronic photo frame from my aunt and I scanned and loaded tons of pictures of Katy on it for the tea.  It turned out to be a really nice touch.  We also placed bread, salt and water on the table with her ashes and the flowers.  The trio is a Doukhobor tradition (custom?) that signifies “Toil and peaceful life.”  I think she would have appreciated that.

Tuesday we cleaned our house from top to bottom and I cooked the world’s largest lasagna.  It is imperative that I am the consummate hostess even in stressful times.

Wednesday night my Boy, Karl, his wife May and their son and Earl all arrived together from Onterrible.  

Thursday was the funeral.  It was also our (uncelebrated) 21st anniversary.  The service was lovely albeit a bit churchy (imagine that!).  I laughed when the pastor said that Katy wanted him to talk about Jesus during her funeral.  The brothers rolled their eyes thinking it was just the clergyman’s way of throwing a little religion into things.  I told them I wouldn’t be surprised at all if their mother had actually said that just so her boys would be force fed a dose of God since they were a captive audience.

There were so many tears.  I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone in the church and I couldn’t look at her photo.  And then my mother started singing.  Not just her, that would have been really weird.  My MIL’s favorite hymn was Just a Closer Walk With Thee and as the congregation began to sing I immediately distinguished my mom’s larger than life voice.  I leaned over to my son and whispered “Can you hear grandma?”  He started to giggle.  I started to giggle.  Fortunately we were in the front row so everyone else thought we were sobbing.  I think Katy would have gotten a kick out of it too so I can’t feel too bad about it, besides, it felt good to break the tension.

Friday was family day, we hung out here, visited and looked at old pictures.  My husband had the biggest glasses in the world when he was a teenager, Karl had a perm that made him look like Alex Trebek and Earl had the shortest short shorts ever… with his mullet.  Whenever I need a laugh I now know where to look.  I even scanned their nightmare fashions onto my computer so that even if they destroyed the originals I still had a copy.  Fun is fun ’til we’re looking at photos of me!

On Saturday the clan went home leaving us with a too-quiet house and more flower arrangements than we know what to do with… and no leftover lasagna, obviously it was a hit.

I was going to write a tribute to Katy but I can’t, at least not yet.  I wrote her obituary and it took all I had just to do that.  I think I did right by her, and her sons.  I hope I made her proud and showed her what she meant to me.  She is in my living room, between Buddha and the gargoyles.  It’s still hard to believe that in such a short time this woman, this mother, this true Christian, this kind, generous, honest, gentle, charitable, reliable, humble person has been reduced to eight pounds of ash in a cherry wood box.  I hope there is a god and that she is with him, she deserves that much at least.

As for us, we’re alright.  We miss her but they tell us it gets easier.  Beyond that we are simply exhausted.  Drained.  Sad.