Author Archives: blaak sheep

I just looked at 2043 West 14th Ave, Vancouver, on Google Maps, hoping to get a view of the bonsai-like tree that rested on the front lawn. This tree is important to me. I have a memory of my 30-something birthday party with my roommate, friends and family sitting under it on a hot, sunny mid-August afternoon, enjoying games of crocket, bocci ball and eating barbecued hamburgers that I made from scratch. The tree wasn’t very tall, maybe about six-foot something, flat on top, and its leaves draped down like vines to the ground below. It was the perfect tree for Bengal, my tiger-striped tabby cat. She was fearful and sensible and wouldn’t climb up anything else, thank goodness.

My roommate had a black short-haired cat named Sophie who Bengal tormented by chasing her all over the place when they were inside. They were mostly indoor cats and we let them out occasionally with supervision. They never strayed very far. We called Sophie the queen of outdoors because when they were out together, Bengal looked to her for protection and submitted to her. Today, however, Bengal was the queen.  Her throne? That tree.

While we enjoyed the cool protection of the shade, she gingerly climbed up its narrow, gnarly trunk and slithered through the tightly-knit branches, resting somewhere in the centre of the tree. She sat there for hours, just enjoying the view and being higher than everyone. She looked down at us with big black eyes, tail swishing, ears flat. She wasn’t afraid of anything and felt safe with all of us around.

I went inside to get some watermelon slices to feed to my parched guests. When I came out platter in hand, I looked over at the tree and poking out from its flat top, I saw two pointy ears and a stripey head,  just her head, as if she was grinning at me saying, “Look at me, Mom!” The queen had become the confident and sly Cheshire cat, leading the way for others to follow.

She has led me through so many phases in my life, all the way to her last. Just before she took her last breath, she snuggled her head against my body and moved towards my purse which used to contain a small bag of catnip. She was whiffing away and then suddenly dropped as the sedative kicked in. She didn’t fight, she just rested. And she rested peacefully until her heart stopped, allowing her to be free of the body and mind that with age had betrayed her.

When I found the picture of the house, I saw that the tree had been removed. My heart sank but maybe that tree had suffered too. It had served its purpose on this earth just like she had.

Climb that tree and be the queen of everything, Bengali pet, because you were just that to me.

 

I loved my new room. It was tiny, only my bed fit and a small shelf at its foot. All I could see was pink and white flowers when I lay down to stare at the freshly wallpapered sloped ceiling. I looked up. Beside the tiny window framed with lacy, cotton curtains, a little brown wicker lamp dangled from a white-painted pipe that went from floor to ceiling. All the spiders were gone. The ivy growing outside of the window seemed to be dancing with joy as the breeze fluttered its leaves.

I looked to the right. She had even painted the wooden slat door that housed a tiny, fold-up ironing board. This must have been a kitchen back in the day, or a maid’s room. All my knick-knacks and games were neatly displayed on the built-in shelf, my books lined up according to size, and my dolls proudly sat next to them.

The tiny door at the far end of the room beckoned me to open it. Before my mother had redecorated this room, the door was covered by boxes of junk which were draped by pumpkin-orange and  blue-striped curtains. The brightness of the green plaster of the walls and ceiling always kept me up at night. I thought there were little monsters behind those curtains and they were responsible for the decor.

I crawled to the foot of the bed and reached over to the door. It was blocked by a Delft-blue and white patterned plank that was held up by two large, grey stone bricks. I moved the plank away from the door causing my stuffed animals to slide down onto the floor. I tried the door and it only opened about an inch. The plank needed to be moved entirely. I raised it over my head and placed it on the bed. The door creaked as I pulled it completely open to reveal a cement wall with an empty black space over it. I stuck my head between the space and the wall. Nothing. Just darkness.

I slammed the door shut, convinced the monsters had left the boxes and were in that space. I needed to get a good lock on this door. Or maybe a flashlight so I could scare them off.

I lay back down on the bed and took a deep breath. The sunshine peered in through the window above and cast a glow in the room. My mother had transformed this place to call my own while I was away camping. It was a large closet housed within my parent’s room that I didn’t have to share with my two sisters or three brothers. All mine. Including monsters.

 

Aiden is learning about bees at daycare. He is now fascinated by them, and at home, it’s everything bees.

“Bees can sting you,” he tells me.

“Yes, but not all bees will sting you,” I say.

“No, ALL bees will sting you!” he retorts, a flash of anger in his eyes.

“Okay, Aiden,” I quietly say, frustrated that I can’t convince him about the bumble and  carpenter bees.

The next morning, Aiden tells Daddy the same thing.

“Bees will only sting you if you bother them,” says Daddy.

Aiden is silent.

Don’t bother the bees, and you won’t get stung.

 

Around this time of year, I always feel an unexplained source of longing, an ache, a heaviness. I can’t figure it out until the Mother’s Day ads and articles appear on my news feed on Facebook. Mom.

This article says if I had spent more time with her, maybe she’d still be alive.  If I had done this, if I had done that, maybe. It’s hard to say. When she was alive, it was difficult to call her. I’d hear the heavy pain and alcohol in her voice. She’d make no sense. She’d lash out.

I’ll never forget her last Mother’s Day. I wasn’t with her. I was thousands of miles away, living the business of my life. I was going to call her on Sunday. I kept reminding myself. But I forgot. Or did I? Was I avoiding it for the above reasons?

A week after Mother’s Day, I got the call. She was in the hospital, they didn’t know what was wrong with her. But she was getting better. I didn’t need to come. But I knew something was really wrong. I trusted their words that she was going to be fine. I clung to hope.

I couldn’t call her at that time. There were no cell phones and her room didn’t have a phone.

Then I got the other call. My sister told me the nurse said, “If it was my mother, I’d come now.” She was clinging to life. This was it.

We took an overnight flight. We arrived red-eyed and full of angst as we sat over breakfast preparing for what we’d see. I was worried about me too, how I’d handle seeing her, what she’d look like, would she be conscious? Would I have a nervous breakdown?

We arrived at the hospital, cautiously walking through the ICU, shocked and sickened by the droves of people attached to tubes and machines, eyes vacant, bodies casted and paralyzed, loved ones touching their faces, trying to communicate.

Then I saw her, eyes closed, a giant, light-blue crinkly tube coming out of her mouth. Her skin was yellow, but she looked peaceful, sleeping. Whew. Not as bad as I thought. I don’t know what I was expecting.

The hours that followed were difficult and tumultuous. She went in and out of seizures, her eyes suddenly flashing open and closed, mouth flailing. They attended to her quickly and brought them to a sudden stop. I overheard a nurse saying they gave her Ativan. I wondered if she was afraid.

As we watched her take her last breaths, the heart monitor beeped, quickly going slower and slower. We each approached her to say our good-byes, and then her heart rate stayed, then beeped slowly down until the next person came, then stayed. I told her to be brave and strong, that I would be brave and strong for her.

Her body was ice-cold to the touch just minutes after she passed. Her skin was rubbery. Her face was grey and shrivelled, deep red blood caked around her open mouth. This was not the mother I knew. She wouldn’t want me staring at her decaying body like this, focusing on her appearance. I remember she said when she was alive that she didn’t want an open casket, that she wanted to be cremated, she didn’t want people staring at her. She would tell me stories of when her mother was in the hospital and didn’t want anyone to see her unwaxed moustache.

I turned away. My sister told me of how she washed Mom’s hair several days before and the look on her face was pure bliss. That I would have liked to see.

Years after this day, the guilt plagued me of not calling her that final Mother’s Day. Guilt for not having flown earlier to see her when she was somewhat lucid, not trusting my instincts. But one day my oldest nephew said to me, “You just weren’t meant to be there at that time.” Maybe it would  have been to difficult for me to see her vacant eyes, although she was seeing, she wasn’t there. It would be have been difficult for me to hear her singing a haunting song, telling me she saw Jesus standing at the end of her bed. It wasn’t meant to be.

Accepting that things aren’t meant to be is a huge part of life, and death. Accepting that we are not in control of our or someone else’s destiny is difficult. We want to be in control, and make decisions every day to maintain that.

I don’t know what my main message is, except that if your mother is alive today, call her, often, even if it is difficult for you. Don’t make it about you, if you can. Make it about her this Mother’s Day. It is her day, not a day to focus on differences and damage.

Regret plays a large role in future decisions. It’s not all bad. Focusing on regret is one thing, but being proactive about it and learning from it can be life-changing. This loss has brought us closer together as a family, made me see the beauty and grace in each of my siblings. There was no fighting, no ownership, no blame, just love for her and ourselves. It brought me closer and to forgiveness with my father. It’s made me a better parent, realizing what my own went through with me and to cherish each and every day spent with my son, to encourage better relationships for him.

This cycle of longing turned to gratitude happens each year. It is an ongoing lesson.