In loving memory of my Mumsie, Judith Lynne, June 23rd, 1943 – November 2nd, 2002.

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Mem’ries of Mumsie
I was sitting down here today, to write you a poem. The poem would not come. This is what came instead.
Mem’ries,
Light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were
Scattered pictures,
Of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were . . .
by Alan and Marilyn Bergman
sung by: Barbara Streisand
I remember it well.
Picture It . . . Amherst, NS, September 23rd, 2002 . . .
I remember the last time we touched, smiled with each other, laughed together, sparkled together. I remember the last stroke on your soft cheek. I can see the twinkle in your hazel eyes as we shared a moment. I remember the last very long and very loud raspberry kiss I gave you on your soft cheek. You giggled and jokingly rolled your eyes, and said, “Get going you!”, just like you always did, at my long smooshie loud raspberry kisses. Yet, you still proffered your cheek to receive my goofy kisses every single time. We had been doing this silly little ritual, at all our good-byes, for as long back as I can remember. I don’t even know when, or how they started – they just did. It is one of those happy little family moments which you can’t explain, but you don’t really need or want to anyway. It’s what makes it all so special.
I remember the last time I called you Mumsie, in the lovely, silly way I had for years and years. I can still feel your shoulders as I pressed you to me in our very last hug. I remember gently brushing your tangled hair, making order of it again. The long hours in bed everyday stole all the health and beauty from your hair, but not from you. I remember tweaking your nose and telling you, again, “Hey Mum, your nose is cold!” It was always cold, even in the heat of the summer. You use to say it was because it was such a long nose, like a ski slope! You were very proud of that nose, it was your father’s nose. I would often joke and say, “So when are you going to give it back, Mum?” You’d roll your eyes, grin like a Cheshire cat, eyes sparkling with mirth, and tell me how weird you’d look with a different nose. Then you’d tell me I was jealous, and off we go on another round of hilarity and comedy. The Judy and Lisa comedy hour. We’d have my children rolling with laughter and gasping for air. Ah, mem’ries.
I remember joking with you about everything, anything and nothing. Boy did we use to laugh a lot together. We had very similar funny bones, you and I. We spent a lot of time laughing together, often over the most banal of things. Other folks would often just shake their heads and roll their eyes at us. We didn’t care though, did we?
I remember gathering my children together to give “Nannie one last hug before we leave”. I remember Keara climbing up on your bed and squeezing her tiny self in tight for a snuggle with Nannie. I remembered how you told me “I wish I could really hug her back.” Your arms had long since let you down, betrayed you, in the name of Multiple Sclerosis. She would lay close to you, even when she was a brand new babe, and just look deep into your eyes. As she got older she’d stroke your cheeks, giggle and wiggle and give your nose kisses.
I remember Corbin lifting Keigan Michael’s small 4 year old body up so he could kiss Nannie’s cheek too. He always kissed a whole bunch of times. He can never, even now, give just one hug to anyone and scoot. He needs to keep coming back for “just one more” hug before he leaves, goes to bed, whatever. It’s always, “Just one more”.
I remember Izaac’s fast hug and then beating a path for the back door. Izaac has never been a big hugger for anyone outside of his Mum and Dad. Yet, he would hug you, and then run! I remember Corbin and Denver both lingering, a bit, over their goodbyes, then laughing and running out to the van. It didn’t strike me as odd, until years afterward, how long they both lingered that day. Corbin kept telling you he loved you. Denver kept asking questions and leaned in close to say he loved you too – more than once. Sometimes I wonder if somehow, without really knowing, they really knew what was going to take place.
I remember my very last kiss on your forehead. I didn’t linger. After joking around with you, and doing all my long smooshie raspberry kisses, I got busy being a Mum. After I had organised the troops, I just had time for one hurriedly bestowed kiss on your forehead. Then I walked out the door, tossing back a “I’ll see you next summer, Mumsie. Take care, and I love you.”
What I did not realise, at the time, was that all these things really were the ‘lasts’ I’d have with you, this side of Heaven. I truly did believe it was just ‘until next year’. Of course, I would see you again next summer. You were always there, day in, day out. Year in, year out, you were simply always there. I really believed in some way you were invincible and you’d just continue to always be there. I think most children believe – hope – that about their parents.
Superman and Wonder Woman are invincible . . . immortal even. They have their weaknesses, but they always seem to keep on thriving. Mums and Dads, not so much. We always seem to think of them as Superman and Wonder Woman, just the same. However, unlike cartoon superheroes, they are victims of their humanness and their frailties. Diseases prey on some of them, accidents and old age are awaiting the remainder. No matter how you slice it, parents just aren’t the immortal heroes we all wish they were. Disease was conquering my Mum. Well, it was conquering her body, her soul and spirit belonged to Jesus, and that can’t be extinguished. Jesus is a wonderful hope for us children.
One special memory, from that day in September 2002, which I bring out and roll around, then tuck away again, both saddens me and comforts me too. I remember sharing with joy, that I had finally been able to put the money together to buy Michael a small marble remembrance to mark his resting spot, here on Earth. He was my brother, and we had been very close. Losing him was one of the hardest things I had had to go through, to that point in my life. Knowing that there was nothing to mark his resting spot, really hurt my heart. I remember your tears of joy, when you realised that your baby would finally have his headstone. I had never seen your anguish about this, and you had never seen mine. We both kept up the appearances to keep the other from feeling sad, heartsick … helpless to do anything about it. God had other plans.
I remember after you asked me how much it had cost, and how I had got the money for it, you sent me to fetch the “Vitamin C” jar – your piggy bank. I remember snickering and giggling about it, actually. I mean who keeps their life savings in a large vitamin C jar? However, a few minutes later, I was no longer snickering, or giggling. I was weeping. I vividly recall counting out, in wonder, 100 loonies. A treasure trove. I was so choked up, over flowing with feelings, as you explained you had been putting your spare loonies away, since Michael had passed into Jesus’ arms 6 years before, in 1996. By the world’s standard, you were not a wealthy woman – in dollars and cents, that is. This $100 dollars in loonies, was akin to the widow’s portion spoken of in the Bible. It is all you had. It is all you could scrounge and save over all those years. It was like a $100,000 to a wealthy man. I truly remember the joy and those tears. I remember them as if I was sitting beside your bed, today, witnessing the whole thing, all over again. So vivid are my memories, now, of our last day together.
I laugh as I write this, because I think to myself “I always knew she was a stubborn lady!” You fought your disease, tooth and nail. You fought back after divorce. You fought back after betrayal. You railed against the prison you were in. You smiled through it all. It is rather fitting that this final mark on this earth, for you, is one that the world can look at, and not even know the heart, soul and fight that went into it. You would fight. You would win. You would lose. Then you’d go on to the next battle. This was your last battle though, and then blessed rest was yours.
This had been your dream, for six years, and you scraped and saved, doing everything in your limited power to achieve it. It sustained you. It kept you going. It strengthened you to remain here, in pain, in solitude, in a prison your body had made for you. It encouraged you to pray and ask the Lord to just let you do this one thing before you went home. What I didn’t realise was just how much this dream meant to you. It was what was keeping you here with me. It is part of the legacy you left for me. Your faith, your strength, your tenacity, your will to live and keep going, no matter what life tossed at you. This is what you taught me too.
Sometimes in my weak moments, I wonder if I’d known then, what I know now, would I have still obeyed the Lord’s prompting on my heart, and used our vacation money to buy that headstone? Probably. I knew you were tired. I knew your body was weakening. I just didn’t let myself really grasp how tired, how weak. I didn’t want to know. I kept believing in your strength, in your will to live. My but you were stubborn! You kept your dream alive, and your body alive, one loonie – one dollar – at a time.
At the time, I didn’t know any of this. The Lord has revealed your heart to me, throughout these 6 years, since you have been gone. What a gift this has been for me too. To have this insight into your heart . . . your mother’s heart . . . your mother’s love . . . has brought me such comfort over the years. I know I have survived my own struggles here, due in part to that same strength and tenacity you instilled in me. Jesus’ grace, mercy and strength have fully rounded out the foundation you began in me, Mumsie.
Over six years after he was laid to rest, on October 19th 2002, Michael’s headstone was finally placed on his grave, October 26th you ventured out to see it. Off you went in your electric wheelchair, over the bumpy semi-frozen October ground, to see this long awaited and prayed for marble marker, with your very own eyes. You weren’t taking anyone’s words for it. You had waited, prayed and saved too long to take another’s word for it. In typical tenacious Judith spirit, you needed to lay your own peepers on it! In my mind’s eye, I can see you. You were bundled up warmly, with your beloved cowboy hat shoved down over your forehead, and your hilarious gianormous fuzzy teddy bear head slippers on your feet. You had your make up on, your most Judith-y clothes on, and a smile on your face. I wasn’t there to see the joy, mixed with the sadness, on your face that day – but I can sure imagine it. Who wouldn’t be happy with a memory like that?
November 2nd, 2002, at just after 8:00 in the morning, while the nurses sang Christmas carols to you, you passed away from this earth, into Jesus’ arms. It was a well deserved rest, after a very long and arduous journey. I miss you, Mumsie.
Happy 6th Heaven-versary, Mumsie.
Love you oodles and oodles,
Sarah Jane.

