My mother would have been 96 on the day I鈥檓 writing this column. She died four months ago, at 95. In our frequent conversations, mostly over the phone from two provinces over, and in her last four days as I sat at her bedside, never once did she forget her age. She forgot everyone else鈥檚.
鈥淗ow old are you?鈥� she asked me, three days before she died. A stroke had distorted her speech. She battled for every word, but she got them out somehow.
鈥淔颈蹿迟测-别颈驳丑迟.鈥�
An expression of horror crossed her face, as though she couldn鈥檛 comprehend having a child that old. 鈥淣o! Really?鈥�
鈥凌别补濒濒测.鈥�
She shook her head in amazement. 鈥淎nd how old is Rick?鈥�
鈥淪ixty-one, I think.鈥�
She lifted one tiny blue-veined hand. Dismissed sixty-one as one would a pesky fly. 鈥淧ffft. He鈥檚 just a boy yet! And how old is Anthony?鈥�
鈥淯m鈥� thirty-five, now? I forget my kids鈥� ages too, Mom!鈥�
鈥淭hirty-five? Thirty-five?鈥� she squeaked. 鈥淗e鈥檚 just a BABY!鈥� She continued her interrogation. 鈥淗ow long have you been married now?鈥�
Numbers dart willy-nilly through my memory banks, blithely ignoring my beckoning. I fudged. 鈥淲e鈥檝e got a long way to go to catch up to you and Dad. You two have had... sixty-two years!鈥�
She sighed. 鈥淧oor Daddy. He鈥檚 a GOOD man to put up with me for such a LONG time.鈥�
I hooked our anniversary digit as it do-si-doed through a gray cell. 鈥淲ell, we鈥檙e getting up there too. Rick has put up with me for me鈥� for鈥� uh鈥� thirty-eight years!鈥�
鈥淎nd THAT鈥檚 going some,鈥� she shot back. No hesitation. Eyes twinkling. Enjoying my mock indignation. How did God do that? I wondered. Mom鈥檚 stroke and heart attack devastated her freedom of movement, garbled her speech, and robbed more of her already fading memory, but the mischievous streak survived intact.
I haven鈥檛 wept hot, bitter tears for my mother. Not like those I had for my older sister, Sandra, a decade and a half ago. Those tears have evaded me. Sweet tears of laughter and joy have not. Laughter at decades of good memories. Pure, undiluted joy that she has no more pain. I am more prone to weep for my father鈥檚 grief, my brother鈥檚 (the favourite, as he likes to remind us girls) and my sister鈥檚 鈥� she who, living nearby, for decades had the burden and blessing of so much hands-on care of our mother.
Ninety-six, Mom would have been today. This morning, as the Preacher and I said grace over our cereal and toast, I asked God to tell her we love her and miss her. To give her a hug from me. To whisper 鈥淗appy Birthday.鈥� Of course it鈥檚 happy, my heart says. She鈥檚 with Jesus. But it felt right to ask, and Jesus cares about things like that.
Grief is a long debt, I tell people, and it must be paid. But let no one dictate the coinage you must use. Today, this is mine.
