The Best Lesson: A short story of Life, Love, and Loss

by Misty Fields

Our loss experiences are such an intrinsic part of being human. We often try to keep them somewhere deep in the corners of our lives. But grief shouldn't remain in the shadows. When we share our grief stories, we bring them into the light. This is how healing begins for us, as individuals, as families and as a collective. When we open up and share, we unite in something very human - the stories of life, love and loss that we all carry. I wrote this story during the first year that my mother passed - it's been some years now as I share it here. I hope you find something meaningful. I hope this story sheds light on the loss of perhaps our most intimate relationship - that which we have with our mother.

There is no more foundational relationship than the one we have with our mother. For most of us, memories from our childhood are tricky to navigate as adults, no matter our circumstances. We often have to come to terms with family patterns and even pathology that have been "handed down" whether through genetics, epigenetics,or experiential.

I would describe my early relationship with my mother as unstable and even uncaring. It took me a long time to grasp that her detachment came from years of watching her own mother abused at the hands of her father. These family patterns of dysfunction carry through generations and my mother always told me that she hoped that someday I would understand. I’ve worked hard to gain that insight. For all our human frailty and flaws, I honestly can say that my mother and I did reach an understanding during the last years of her life. Following the loss of my brother, I was determined to build something meaningful with my mother. By the time I turned 40, I had set boundaries, realigned our relationship and found a turning point of acceptance, if not quite yet forgiveness. This did not come easily because we had many issues to resolve.

One thing I know for certain is the relationship between mothers and their children, is unique among all other relationships, and that includes the good, the bad and everything in-between. Here’s to the struggle many of us have endured in trying to better understand our mothers and ourselves - as we overcome old patterns and work to create new ones.

Although we knew that my mother was terminally ill, I could not believe that the time had come as I sped behind the ambulance that carried her to hospice. It had been a long, difficult night and it was time for Dad and I to get some help in taking care of Mum. I reassured myself that after a couple days, we would be bringing her home again, to all her beloved things and to her "wee" dog, Dhoulie. I flashed back to memories of my childhood. But that was then and this was now - and it hurt too much to go there right now.

Once at the hospice, the nurses fluttered around my mother like angels, speaking to her with soft voices, easing her into fluffy pillows and clean sheets. I felt oddly removed from the whole scene. My dad stood in shock, looking worn and tired, sensing that he was helpless to prevent his wife of over 50 years, from leaving him.

I remember the kind words from the doctor, her soft brown eyes reassuring me that my mother would be kept comfortable at all times. Then suddenly, Dad and I were alone in the room with Mum. It had been the three of us that bid the final farewell to my big brother only seven years before. Now it was just us three, and Mum was moving further away, closer to where my brother had gone.

After standing there numbly for I don't know how long, my thoughts were brought back to earth when in walked the hospice chaplain. She was a straightforward woman whose manner in some ways reminded me of my mother. She put her arm around my shoulder and asked if I was ready to say goodbye. Goodbye?!? "No" was all I could utter - as I thought to myself that I would never be ready.

The reality of the moment swept over me like a tidal wave. I could not stem this tide, no matter how I might try - I knew in some distant part of myself that my mother was dying. I let tears run down my face – I couldn’t have stopped them if I tried. I needed to find the courage to face the inevitable.

The chaplain read the 23rd?Psalm standing by my mother’s bedside. I could see my mother’s expression, though her eyes remained closed, she seemed to be straining to hear her favorite psalm. Then, with a trembling voice, I told my mother how much I loved her, and I told her that she was free to join my brother.?

I said it but I didn't feel as though I meant it. I reminded myself that this was not my decision - a humbling thought.

The rest of that day is a blur in my memory. My kids came to say goodbye to their Nana. Each one saying goodbye to chocolate pudding in a little cup, to bagpipes playing on the stereo (my mother was born in Scotland and had a collection of bagpipe tunes), goodbye to her hearty laugh that could fill a room and to her fascination with clowns, goodbye to her silly wigs and kaleidoscopes, to “magic” feathers, bird whistles and wind chimes, goodbye to sharing a "cuppa" tea and a butter biscuit.?

It's overwhelming when it’s goodbye to the person who brought you into this world - someone you’ve known your whole life. The ties between a mother and her children are not easily broken and I realized that everything that had gone before was, for me, just water under a bridge. What mattered was knowing that I loved her and that she loved me in the way she could – in whatever ways she was able or unable to show her love. I loved her. My mother, with her Scottish brogue and stern ways, the impoverishment and abuse of her own childhood reflected in the deprivation of acceptance and love in mine. The many cruelties I endured as she struggled with her own history. The hold that feeling like an unloved child in my home had on me, that hold needed to be released for me to fully live my own life. Forgiveness – holding on or letting go – the magnitude of this experience gripped me. In this moment, I let go of as much as I could, while I held onto the knowledge that my mother and I had found a way to love each other, imperfect but true. Acceptance was the path that led me to that love and to forgive the indefensible. Then the waves began to roll over me as I was caught in the storm of grief.?

Dad and I agreed that after a sleepless night and a long day, I would go home since the doctor reassured us that my mother would be with us for a few more days.??I still don’t know how I managed but I went home to the warmth of my family - my kids, the cats and our dog - the hum of my life. The stark contrast stood out in my mind, home to my husband, who wrapped his arms around me, no words needed. As I lay down to an exhausted but restless sleep, I found myself praying - nothing in particular. The words really didn't matter, no words could express such deep emotion. It was my heart speaking to the universe. Every time I woke, I was engulfed in grief followed by a sense of calm, as if everything was as it should be and there wasn’t any more that I could do to change things.?I knew that this was the natural course of life.

I woke up early and rushed to hospice – it was still dark and the roads were almost empty.??I felt I couldn't get there fast enough and cursed at any traffic that slowed my travel. How could it be so indifferent to the fact that my mother was dying?! When I arrived, there was my mother, laying peacefully and my father, looking forlorn, as he said, "My bride is dying and there's nothing I can do." I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between my mother's restfulness and my dad's distress.

I remember certain moments from those final days that are forever in my memory. Like the time a young aide stood over my mother to change her sheets. His hands moved swiftly and gently. As he stood fluffing her pillows, he quietly spoke to her. He didn’t know that I was watching but I’ll never forget his kindness – like many that cared for her in her last hours. When I saw his name tag, I smiled. His name was Jesus. Those who care for the dying are unsung heroes. Another time, I was swabbing my mother’s dry lips, I wanted her to take some liquid from the swab. Stubbornly, she tightly pursed her lips together and wouldn't let the watery swab in her mouth. Her expression was so much like the woman we all knew - she could be so stubborn - I had to laugh.??

At times, it felt all right to laugh. My mother had told me that she was at peace with the fact that she was dying, even though I struggled hard against a fact that was right in front of me. She had been telling me for some time, but I didn’t want to hear. Only a week before, laying in the hospital, she pointed at the tubes in her arms and said, "This is not for me. You know I'm dying and it won't be long. I'm ready to go."?

No I wasn’t ready to let her go. I was afraid of losing the love we had finally found.

The rest of the day passed as I sat holding my mother’s hand. Looking into her eyes which were half-open, glazed, just staring, I wondered, "Can she see me, I don’t want her to see me crying." So there I sat with an implausible smile, as tears streamed down my face, wondering if this would be her last image of me. Courage became the watchword of those days and I reminded myself frequently.

As the day slipped into night, we waited for my aunt's arrival. Her flight was due around 9:00 that evening, so I told Dad to lie on the couch in the room, and finally he fell asleep.?One of the nurses told me that if I wanted, I could climb onto the bed next to my mum. I put on some music and crawled up onto the bed. No, she had not been affectionate, but like most children, I loved her dearly and ached at the thought that soon she would be gone.

Everything that our mother represents to us – our childhood, our sense of where we come from, and even our struggle against becoming like her. She represents our beginning, our birth and our coming into being - so much of who we are. How could I let this person, who knew me from the womb, go from my life? Everything we had shared to reach an understanding of each other – would all that effort just be wiped away? I felt the answer deep within. No, child, that love would remain.

As I lay there I wondered how the years had gone by so fast. Holding my mother’s work-worn hand, I felt comfort being next to her. As the hours ticked by, I listened to her breathing. At times it seemed to stop and then suddenly start again. It was so shallow that with each breath, I wondered if the next would come. I whispered to her that my aunt was coming and to hang on.?

My thoughts turned to the next day, my daughter's fifteenth birthday. I wondered if my mother knew what day it was, and I worried if she died on my daughter’s birthday, how that might affect my daughter. The hospice nurses reassured me that she would wait. I wondered, did she remember what day tomorrow was when my daughter kissed her goodbye that afternoon? Would she still be with us - tomorrow?

What about the day, 15 years earlier when I brought my tiny baby girl - as my mother called her, my 'wee bairn,' home from the hospital??Now we would no longer be three generations of women. I think back to the generation of my grandmother, who I had always tried to imagine living in the green hills of Scotland. The truth was that hers, mine, ours, was a coal mining family who lived in poverty and my grandmother was beaten by an alcoholic husband – my grandfather. She fled that life, taking her four children with her on a cargo ship to Canada. My grandmother is my personal hero – although I never met her and have only an old photo of her with her children. My mother had been orphaned at 18. After her mother died, she too fled the poverty of her life to seek the American dream. My mother worked hard for acceptance with her thick brogue and foreign ways. In her own words, she was a scrapper. I admire the strength that the women in my family have shown through the adversity of their lives. Their strength lives on in me and my children - their efforts paved a way to a better life. I speak to my grandmother in my mind - calling up her courage especially during these days.

When my aunt finally arrived, a pink flush washed over my mother’s face and her breathing became stronger. I could see she was happy to hear Aunt Gwen’s voice with her unmistakable Canadian accent. My aunt bent over and kissed her, holding her hand there in the dimly lit room – she sat down by the bed and I watched my aunt's silhouette as she gently talked to my mother about old times. I left them alone for the rest of that night.

The next day, we visited by my mother’s bedside all afternoon. The nurses noticed that her vital signs were stable throughout that day and they told us, "She’s enjoying your company." When the chaplain asked my dad if he had said goodbye yet, he said that he would?not?say goodbye. Later that afternoon, my husband and I took my aunt to lunch and left Dad alone, hopefully to say his farewell. When we returned, his eyes were brimming with tears and I knew that he had told her she was free to go. It was agonizing to see my father grieving again just a few short years after burying his only son.

I was reminded that Death is a private affair of the soul - I learned this from my brother seven years before (at the writing of this story). You see, my brother had spent his last months, making peace with everyone he’d known in his young life, being sure to say all that he needed to say. From him, I learned about dignity and courage in the face of the unknown. I learned about faith - trusting in something greater than oneself. Why does life give us such hard lessons?! Now I was to learn something more from the last - and the best lesson that my mother would ever teach me.?

As my mother lay there, in many ways already at rest, I pondered her serenity. She was preparing to journey to a place where I will go someday. Where my brother had gone and I imagined he was waiting for her. Who knows what important things happen within the mind and spirit during the final hours when time is no longer measured: Eternity yawns, awaiting an earth-weary traveler whose body is now just a heavy load to be shed.?

Fly on, Loved One… my hope is that better things than I’ve ever dreamt will greet you.?

She passed away at 4:57 in the morning on a sunny June day. My mother and I had shared many June days together and now this was to be our last. How could the sun shine so bright? It was the day after my daughter's 15th?birthday - and three days before my own. When Mum took her final breath early that morning, she was surrounded by my father, my aunt and a hospice nurse.

The pain we feel at the moment of our loved one’s death is a reminder of the beauty and dignity of human life to the last breath. I've questioned why I wasn't with my mother at the moment she passed, but I believe that had I been there, she might have had a hard time letting go. I represented much of her life's work and now, when I look at my own daughter - I wonder if she will hold my hand or stroke my face at the close of my life. It was a year after my mother's death when I first wrote this story - and in the ensuing years, I see my mother every day whether in my daughter's expressions - or in?the mirror.??

My mother's memorial was on my birthday. A Scottish bagpiper played "Amazing Grace” as he marched down the aisle to her coffin. Mum would have loved it - there was not a dry eye in the room. As I gave her eulogy, I knew that just as my mother had given life to me on this day, I was there to send her on her endless journey. That night, I accompanied my mother’s coffin on a flight across the country where I would lay her to rest by my brother. When my brother became ill, he chose the spot he wanted to be buried – on a hillside cemetary in our old home town. For my mother, we bought a plot next to him since my father was to be buried in Arlington - and she wanted to be by her son. Now they lay side by side. I can still picture in my mind’s eye, the piper - yes another piper - on the hillside near their final resting place, as he played, “Scotland the Brave.” Again, not a dry eye amongst the friends who came to be with me as I buried my mother.

Bittersweet memories of life, death and the struggle to hold on when our loved one slips from our grasp. Letting go hurts so deeply, the grief rocks me to my core.?Yet as I sit in these memories, I recognize a great mystery in life - as though my grandmother, my mother, my children, and I are connected in a never-ending circle. A circle of loved ones reaching through generations. My mother had saved her best lesson for last and for that, I’m grateful. I feel certain that death is not a permanent separation because my mother remains an intrinsic part of me – as I am a part of my children.

Even with this understanding deep inside of me, I hear myself whisper, "I miss you, Mum. I miss knowing that you are on this blue planet with me, as we grow together, then apart, then together again, through the dance of our lives. I don’t know how to let you go and you’re no longer here to tell me. So I look for you every day and cherish little things that I like to believe are messages from you to me.” Who knows – maybe they are because they seem to be all around me. And so we dance…

It is a difficult and painful passage we travel when we say our final goodbye to our mother – no matter our relationship. The loss of our mother brings profound implications for us as individuals, and as human beings. We are left with a sense of yearning, like a longing for home, even if that home is only in our dreams.

My mother and I went through many ups and downs during our time together – perhaps there were more downs than ups. But the space that we were able to create for each other as mother and daughter is like no other relationship in life.

The best lesson that my mother taught me is - that Love never dies. I never really let my mother go because she is always a part of me. I carry her with me wherever I am. I hear her echoed in a million little ways that surround and comfort me.

In forgiving and loving her, in embracing her as my mum, I’ve come to love, forgive and embrace myself.?

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