I measure my life by milestones. Birthdays and anniversaries are important to me and I make no excuses for it. I lived, for a time, with someone who didn’t always remember her sons’ birthdays and elected for a ‘Birth Week’ option. Not my preference, but whatever blows your hair back.
Five years ago May 7th my Mom succumbed to ovarian cancer after a 2 1/2 month hospital stay. Those who know me understand how close I was, and still am, to my Mom. Bar none, I am a ‘Mama’s boy’. It was 4 days before Mother’s Day, 22 days before her 66th birthday… Shall I go on, or has the point been made?
Five years.
Four and three quarter years ago I was in a relationship, was six years sober, living in a beautiful home, driving the ’74 Chev, had a great job, had the condo I bought for my Mom and had a living Mother. A very ill, but living Mother.
During the 2 1/2 months Mom was in hospital I missed only one visit, we were called out of town to a funeral. I recall vividly most of the events of those months. I remember being told after Mom’s first 24 hours in hospital that she would not be coming home. Ever. I remember being asked to sign a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order knowing full well it was against my Mom’s wishes. I remember Mom telling me to sell the condo.
I remember telling Mom I would never sell her home.
I remember spending nights in the Palliative Care unit at Parkwood Hospital. I remember a coma. I remember feeding tubes being removed. I remember signing more forms.
I remember a telephone call to my work. I remember an extremely fast drive up Adelaide St. I remember pushing the buttons on Mom’s ‘Morphine Machine’.
I remember 6:51 pm, Wednesday May 7th, 2008 watching my Mother die.
Five years.
Not long after, my life began to fall to bits.
By October of 2010 I had destroyed my relationship. I had found drink again and realized I was still quite accomplished at it.
By January 2011 I had lost my great job and was well on the way to losing the apartment I was living in.
By June of 2012 I had earned myself a stay at the St. Thomas and the London Psychiatric facilities.
By November of 2012 I was well and truly homeless. Destitute by all definitions. I was sleeping outdoors, at the Men’s Mission or the Salvation Army. I ate every 3 days. I weighed 165 lbs at the most. I was killing myself without having the nerve to test fly off a building.
Five years.
As of May 7 2013, I am in a relationship with a woman I do not deserve. I live in a fine home with her and her kids, whom I adore. I have probably the best job I ever have had. I’m well over 210 lbs.
And I think I am happy.
I’m not sure I know what ‘happy’ is. I am certain I know full well what ‘unhappy’ is, and this ain’t it. I wake up each morning and read an affirmation. I no longer have that constant hungover feeling. I wake up clear of thought. And I miss my Mom.
Five years.
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. It’ll be my 5th without my Mother. But I know she is still with me. In every warm thought that comes to mind, in every ‘Don’t be daft’ I hear in private and in every cursed episode of Coronation Street I watch. I know my Mom will be near me.
As I look over the past five years, I’m certain she was never far from me. A kind of Guardian Angel whispering to God ‘Don’t worry, he’ll come back’. I am grateful for the time I had with my Mom. I miss her every day, but know I am richer for being her son.
Happy Mother’s Day to all.