I was surprised when grief also gave me a few gifts

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

My mom was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and given weeks, maybe months to live. She moved into my one-bedroom apartment to spend her final days. Those days turned into eight years.

She passed away a year ago at 102 years old. The journey we shared together opened my eyes and my heart. The journey without her has, too. I learned so much this year.

I learned that when you’re a caregiver to a seriously ill loved one you lose your life. When they die, you lose theirs, too. There’s emptiness where love, devotion and purpose once were housed.

But when I look back, I realize that my life gained greater meaning and my soul greater depth.

I learned that while an expected death is a predictable one, the pain isn’t something you can prepare for. Surprisingly, I also learned that not everyone understands this.

I learned that my mom did more for me than I did for her, but I didn’t realize it. I think she knew. Now I do, too.

I learned that the first six months of this past year were easier than the last six because, in the beginning, the permanence of it all didn’t sink in. I could still smell her soap in the bathroom and feel her presence in the living room.

I learned that, for some people, “She’s still with you,” is a comfort to them, but wasn’t for me. I’d look down the hall of the home we shared and she wasn’t there. There was no “still with me.” Then I found a card from mom that said, “Keep going. I believe in you.” So maybe she’s with me after all, just not all the time.

I live with MS, but don’t tell me that I’m your ‘inspiration’

I’m lucky to have my mom at 102, but not as lucky as you think

I learned that putting someone’s life in plastic bags and giving everything away is a horrible experience. I can’t stress this enough.

But then I also learned that you find things like a letter you wrote to them some 30 years ago; a cute poem she wrote about a mouse; as well a touching poem about my Dad, which she wrote the day after he died. I found a locket with a faded, black and white photo of her dad, too.

In addition, I found a small box that held her war medals. She had been an Air Force officer in the Second World War. I knew some of the stories, but I hadn’t seen the medals before.

Oh, and I found a thank you note written in Russian! It was from a priest to whom she had given her rosary beads. She had visited the Soviet Union as one of 90 social workers invited to learn about their care facilities and institutions. That was in 1976, pre-Perestroika when it was still a surveillance state. Any unguarded trade-in, or even discussion of, religious items hadn’t been possible in years. The exchange would have been surreptitious and against the rules. Still, that was my mom. She was unassuming but bold.

I learned that I had no regrets, but sometimes there were “I wish I had” moments.

On occasion, I wondered if I was too grumpy or too serious with her. But then I’d remember that, at Christmas, I decorated our toilet seat to look like Santa Claus so she’d have to sit on his “lap” in the bathroom. Once, I sent her off to play bridge with “Kiss me I’m Irish” stuck to the back of her coat. She had no idea why everyone kept kissing her all afternoon! I’d put fake spiders by her cereal bowl at Halloween. I sent her a sympathy card when she learned her body could no longer tolerate alcohol.

I also left a birthday card for her on a park bench that she used to like resting on. The bench was dedicated to a man called Bob so I signed the card from him and added, “PS Thank you for sitting here. You have a lovely bum.”

I hid behind a tree and watched her open it. It was pretty funny.

So in those moments when I’d wonder if I was too grumpy or too serious, I’d remember what a good sport she was and how I loved making her laugh. We can’t always be perfect. That too has been an important lesson.

I learned that I miss hearing her name. Margaret.

I also learned that some things in my life were better without her and this realization broke my heart. But then I realized that they weren’t better without her. They were just better because I wasn’t looking after her. That’s a big difference.

I learned that if you ever have the privilege to be with your mom as she’s dying, be sure to say, “You were a good mother,” because she’ll hear it. My mom did and her body relaxed.

I learned that at some point after a person dies, you start to say, “I loved you,” instead of “I love you,” and that’s a significant transition. But then, you also go back to saying, “I love you.”

Grief is so non-linear.

I learned that when a person asks, “How are you?” it’s too easy to reply, “I’m fine.” But when that person presses past your defences and says, “No I mean, how’s your heart?” then it’s harder to deflect. Answering, “It’s broken,” is such a relief.

I’ll remember that for others.

I also learned that love is both amazing to get and an honour to give. I had the privilege of loving – and actively showing love – every single day for eight years. I still can’t get over how lucky I am.

Finally, this past year, I learned that I can’t cry without also feeling grateful, and I’m grateful for that.

Katherine Houston lives in Vancouver.

Sign up for the weekly Parenting & Relationships newsletter for news and advice to help you be a better parent, partner, friend, family member or colleague.