Journeys through grief: Part III

 It's coming up to a year since I travelled to Saskatoon to visit my mom for the last time.

I can't believe it's been a whole year, or maybe, I can't believe that it's only been one year. But today as I write, it's 330 days since the WHO declared a global pandemic, 329 days since Saskatchewan saw its first presumptive case of COVID-19, 323 days since Saskatchewan declared a provincial state of emergency, 345 days since I flew to Saskatoon for a week's visit.  

On the day that I arrived my mom had 97 days left to live.  It would be 151 days before I would leave Saskatoon for BC.

Numbers are specific and definite.  I like numbers. 

I tell everyone that Mom had a stroke the morning after I arrived in Saskatoon.  That's true, but what that really means is that in the end that's what the medical professionals decided had happened.  

The actual sequence of events is that I arrived at Mom's about midnight and went to bed. When I came upstairs the next morning at 8am, Mom was awake and couldn't see out of her right eye.  She didn't know what was going on.  She didn't know what to do.  

We spent the rest of the day in hospitals: first at St. Paul's in Emergency, later at the Ophthalmology clinic at City Hospital. Mom spoke to innumerable nurses, technicians, residents, and doctors.  She answered questions, underwent tests and exams.  By a process of elimination, by the end of the day the conclusion was that she had probably had a stroke affecting her optic nerve, and that while her vision might improve slightly over the next day, any remaining vision loss was irreversible.  Except that she might have giant cell arteritis, one last blood test required, results tomorrow, immediate emergency treatment required in that unlikely case.

That was day one.  

That first day was a day of not knowing what had happened, of not being sure what was going to happen next. It was a day of not knowing what care Mom needed, of not being sure that the professionals understood exactly what Mom had experienced, of not knowing her prognosis. It was exhausting not knowing how or if I should intervene in exams and procedures, or if I should let Mom handle things herself.  I felt so much  uncertainty as I tried to be calm, supportive, and helpful while I was actually panicking.

That was day one, followed by 96 more.

Not every day was as stressful and as uncertain as day one.  Of course it wasn't.  But from day to day Mom's blood pressure fluctuated from too high to too low, when either extreme could lead to another stroke. Every day I had questions. Was Mom a little forgetful?  Did she just make an ordinary mistake playing cards, or was there something going on?  Should I be concerned that she was sleeping so much? Should I try to convince her to see her doctor?  If she needed tests or treatment would they be available or was everything still closed because of COVID? 

I am so glad that I was able to be there for my mother.  I am grateful that I able to stay in Saskatoon to help Mom navigate those locked-down days of the early pandemic, figuring out that it was impossible to get a time slot for grocery delivery, standing in line to get into the grocery store, wiping down the groceries after I got them home, even stocking up on toilet paper without, you know, going crazy about the toilet paper.  Really.

Being Mom's primary caregiver gave me the gift of knowing what was going on, to the extent that it was possible to know what was going on. It gave me the gift of being able to cook and bake treats for her, the gift of being able to find her new TV shows to enjoy, the gift of being whomped at two-handed games of Dimes or SkipBo.  Being in Saskatoon gave me the gift of helping Mom plan and plant one last garden for one last summer.  

The cost was was seeing her fail, step by step, when I only ever wanted her to thrive.  She could walk shorter and shorter distances.  She slept more. She forgot things she'd said just a few sentences earlier. She was afraid to stay alone. My mother was never afraid. 

I miss my Mom. I'm still recovering from that prolonged period of uncertainty, that prolonged period of fearing that I was failing her despite my best efforts.

But I opened one of those boxes of mementoes today, and pulled out a silver tray that my Mom had had since I was a kid.  It will be perfect for organizing spices and accessories on the shelf below our new toaster oven and it will remind me of her every day.  

The sun is shining this morning.  Maybe spring is on its way.