We all experience pivotal moments in our lives. Moments we cross the threshold of believing a certain way, and suddenly an event occurs in our lives and we are inexplicably changed forever. One such event occurred in my life, four years ago today, on February 28, 2012.
I was at my son Harrison’s grade 7 basketball game, cheering loudly, when my cell phone rang. My 16 year old son, Mitchell said, “Mom, I’m so sorry, but Auntie J just called to say, Umma has passed away.” This was the moment I had dreaded my whole life, ever since my Dad had been killed when I was 5 years old, I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop; losing my mom. My heart was hurtled through the abyss of no return and yet, like any preordained destiny, I continued through that black hole towards inevitable pain.
On the drive to my mother’s new care home, where she had been moved only 4 days prior, after being in the hospital for 2 weeks due to a fall, memories of her, like the vintage 8 mm family movies my Dad would play on his clicking Kodak projector, ran through my mind.
On the screen, Mom was the star, moving faster than real life time. The scenes flashed, showing a beautiful woman with a slim body and long legs dancing and laughing, then another, was of her, surrounded by children, smiling proudly, like a mother hen all puffed up over how smart her baby chicks were at finding juicy worms. In all the pictures she moved gracefully, even when she was peeling potatoes. She was stunning, with soft, wavy brown hair circling her head, her eyes were hypnotic green cat’s eyes and her face had hints of Slavic ancestry, from the invading Mongols centuries before. Her smile was gentle and kind but often sad, as she moved on a trajectory of grief, loss and struggle.
My mother was raised, smothered in fear by her parents,, who had lost two babies before she was born. They hovered over their princess, Ethel May, and panicked each time she uttered a cough or had a fever. As a result, she came to view herself as delicate, perhaps she was, I’ll never truly know, but that shadowed her whole life and mine too. She was encouraged to play quietly, developing a rich, creative dream life, cutting out whole families from the Sears Roebuck catalogue and spending hours reading books. She loved animals and told stories of her pet bunnies disappearing, coincidentally around the same time the family had enjoyed a Sunday night Chicken dinner. Sadly, her childhood was layered with scarcity during the Great Depression and as a young woman, she perfected the art of worry and anxiety, while living through the Second World War.
Her face remained unlined for years, despite becoming a widow with four daughters at age 39 and then again at age 59. Even though hardship and depression had been her companions in life, she strove to be happy and looked for opportunities to help others with a kind word, or encouraging smile. She was generous and loving to all who knew her, and you never left her house empty handed.
Finally arriving at the Care home, I drew closer to the looming precipice of my existence, tightly wrapped in that of my mother’s, and consciously noticed my senses were heightened, as the automatic doors to the Creekside Extended Care Home whooshed open and I entered a building, quiet as cotton batting in the ears and smelling of stale air.
When I walked into mom’s room, she was lying peacefully in her bed, her arms crossed over her stomach, her eyes were closed and her face was relaxed. She appeared to be lost in a deep sleep, however, I knew my Mothership was empty. The vessel I had arrived on earth in, was broken and I would have to find a new way to return home.
My sisters were standing, like protective sentinels next to her bed. They turned to greet me with sad smiles, and I joined them, standing next to my mother’s left shoulder. As my sister J, who had been with mom when she had taken her last breath, started quietly sharing mom’s final afternoon, I began stroking the hair off mom’s forehead.
J told how mom had been on her way to thank someone for a kindness, so like her, when she had suffered a massive stroke in the hallway and died suddenly.
As I had been listening to this story, my senses were acute, every fibre of my being alert, as I knew I was experiencing something that would alter me forever. J finished the story of mom’s exit scene but I said, “She is still with us. Come and feel her head.” Light, tingling waves of energy emanated, haloing her head and I was in awe, swept up in the current of her ultimate vibrating message, “I am still here and I love you.” She had waited to say goodbye.
Instead of falling off the cliff that day, my mom birthed a new belief in me. I woke and started to really live for the first time in my life being freed by so many fears and earthly concerns. Feeling her energy in that moment gave me the realization that death is not the end, it is simply the casting off of a beloved overcoat that has served its purpose, allowing us to move onto the next stage of existence. I had dreaded this moment my whole life and although yes, I was sad to know I would never hear her gentle voice again, I was also buoyant with joy and gratitude. I was so proud over how regally, like a queen, she had traveled the last bit of her life on earth, giving us time to settle into the idea that the end may be near, and also the easy and graceful way she left.
If there ever was a life lesson she taught, and she taught me many through the years, about over coming difficulties with dignity and integrity, this had to be the most illuminating lesson. She had released me from an old way of being, of thinking about life and dying and who we truly are.
That was a turning point for me in so many ways, with regards to my spirituality and my life goals. It really was the moment when I knew I had to start writing too; something I had put off, thinking I was too busy raising our family. This blog is just one way that I’m living my new life.
But back to the story and my last memory of mom.
Since I knew mom was still very much with us, she gave me one final gift and that was the chance to whisper, “goodbye and, I love you too.”
Join me in hearing the song “Smile” by Nat King Cole.…my mom loved music, she loved to dance but most of all she loved to smile and make people feel happy.
And before I leave you, hopefully uplifted because you know, there is no such thing as dying…which seems to be everyone’s worst fear…so funny really….what we should be most fearful about, is not really…. living. Being creative beings full of love in this lifetime.
Part of living is eating, and boy my mom loved anything lemon, so today, in honour her I thought I would make my lemon pound cake that she enjoyed when she came to visit. It’s easy…which she would appreciate, never wanting to make work for anyone.
And so delicious.
It’s perfect to take to any event, or when you have loved ones coming for tea. So without further ado….here is my Lemon Pound Cake recipe, dedicated to my mom, Ethel May Herrling, Clark, Finch. A wonderful mom, a beautiful person, and a delightful spirit.
Ingredients
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cup orange juice
3/4 cup oil
2 tsp lemon extract, or concentrated lemon juice and grate some lemon zest
4 eggs
Glaze 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1/2 cup lemon juice
Directions
Heat oven to 325 degrees F. Generously grease and flour a 12 cup Bundt pan. In a large bowl, combine all cake ingredients. Bend at low speed until moistened; beat 3 minutes at medium speed. Pour batter into greased and floured pan.
Bake at 325 F. for 40 to 50 minutes or until the toothpick inserted near the centre comes out clean. Remove cake from oven. With a long tined fork, poke deep holes every inch. In a small bowl, blend glaze ingredients until smooth. Spoon half of the glaze over the hot cake in the pan. Let stand upright in pan for 10 minutes; invert onto serving plate. Spoon remaining glaze over the cake. Cool completely, and serve.
And enjoy!
I’m so happy you came to visit today….life is so good and I’m thankful I have been able to record some of my life stories on this blog and also share some of our family’s recipes with you.
Until we meet again, may you be well, happy and peaceful.
Blessings from Hope
