The Quality of Light

Exactly one year ago, I was in New Brunswick for a two-week visit with my mother and to help my sister as she recovered from surgery. Little did I know at the time, but it would be my last visit with my mother.

There is something about the quality of the light, in recent days, that takes me back to that visit.

The time I spent with my mother last year quickly took on a unique routine and a timeless quality. I was my mother's primary caregiver for that couple of weeks. I was aware, at the time, that this opportunity to take care of Mom was a special blessing. Banishing all negative thoughts and abhorring any niggling desire for time to myself, I embraced this opportunity. This sojourn had some of the same qualities of the season of tending to one's very young children: I was on almost all the time, including at night, when I needed to keep my ears perked, in case Mom rang her bell.

Speaking of Mom's bell, when I was a child, I was wont to roam the woods and fields beyond our home, but whenever I heard Mom's ringing of the cow bell, it was time to come home. The reach of that bell's ringing was astounding. I could be up the hill beyond the house and on the other side of the woods, and still hear it. Now, with this particular visit, I counted on those keen auditory skills more than ever before.

Each morning I would arise and give myself a few moments to have my own breakfast, and prepare coffee before tending to Mom's needs. Mom was not at all demanding. She was content to lie in bed and read while I gradually woke up over a cup of coffee.

I would then help her out of bed and assist her, as needed, in tending to her bathroom routine, before helping her into her favourite chair by the window, overlooking the majestic Saint John River. The breakfasts she would receive were very meagre. By now, she was having greater difficulty to consume even that minute portion of sustenance, but she made the effort, mainly to reassure the rest of us, I think.

By the time she had finished her breakfast, we would hope that the daily paper had arrived. She did not like to have her routine disrupted. Giving a passing glance to the headlines, she would quickly proceed to "the funnies" (the best part of the paper, after all!), followed by her daily ritual of completing the crossword puzzle. These essentials attended to, she was now at liberty for a game of cribbage with me.

We played as many games of cribbage during this visit as she was able to muster the strength to play. These games were important, we both knew. I never fully appreciated the subtle knitting-together-of-hearts that can take place over a deck of cards until this visit, when each day Mom and I were drawn, irresistibly, to the cribbage board. It did not matter who won. But it mattered a great deal that each of us played the game well, and made the wisest use of the cards we received.

Mom's frequent naps punctuated our days, and I found myself resenting each visitation of fatigue. Deep down inside, I sensed that our time together was drawing to a close, and her need to sleep was robbing both of us. After her morning rest, she would have her small lunch, and then, if she was up to it, the cribbage board would come out again. Mom was particularly fond of the cribbage pegs that her cousin had carved for her. She would often caution me not to lose any, making sure that when the game had ended, I had properly put them away. Now, a year later, the cribbage board and pegs are sitting in a conspicuous spot in our house, reminding me of the importance of playing a game well and of valuing gifts created especially for us.

The afternoons drifted by slowly and serenely, with more naps and occasional games of cribbage, and then the essential afternoon TV programs, especially her soap opera, General Hospital, would hold sway. I am not given to soaps, but I would often watch General Hospital with her, because the camaraderie we would share in poking fun at the antics of its characters was too delicious to pass up. A terrorist plot against the hospital provided dramatic fodder for the duration of my two-week visit. Oh, the melodrama!

Evening caregivers would arrive around 4 p. m. for a few hours, allowing me a brief reprieve to take a walk or visit another family member. One evening, while walking across "the flat" after a visit with my sister-in-law, the night canopy captivated my attention. I had forgotten how star-studded the sky can be in this part of rural New Brunswick, but adding to this starry splendour was the full moon, illluminating the white, snowy world below. There was an eternal quality to this brilliant spectacle, which spoke to me in reassuring tones, as if to say, "All will be well". I needed this reassurance. Mom was losing ground. Each day of my visit, I felt her slip further away. But as the dreaded time was inevitably encroaching, the light seemed to hold all of us in its embrace.

Similarly, although the temperature outside was often bitterly cold, the sun was exquisitely vibrant, as it streamed daily, with predictability, through the front windows of the front room that Mom occupied. It seemed to provide daily spiritual replenishment, for which I was very grateful. I did not want Mom to see a trace of sadness in me. I wanted her to know that she could leave, when the time was right, and that we would rejoice for her. The grief that we would soon bear would be ours, and ours alone.

I said goodbye to Mom on Valentine's Day, and made the long journey back to Brian and the girls. Enroute, I listened to stories about love on CBC. Two weeks later, our family would make that journey again to attend her funeral. Mom had gone into the light, the same light that had comforted and sustained me during that visit, and the same one that assuredly lends an ineffable peace and serenity to these current wintery days.