The Bloody Doors Off

My mum died a week before I turned 50. I got the call early on October 6, that she’d had a heart attack while at the laundromat. She was sitting in a chair, and just slumped over. I convinced my brother Kevin to pick me up so I could accompany him to the hospital in Aurora.

Which was the right call. Before we’d gotten there, doctors had to restart her heart. Wayne and Donna were on vacation (somewhere south) and I stepped outside to call them. Larry was upset with me. But this was something I needed to do. It wouldn’t have been fair for them to get the news any later than it was.

I got back upstairs and joined them in a separate waiting room. As the on call physician steeled us for the worst, as we prepared to enter her room and make our peace, mum had a second, fatal, heart attack.

We ventured into the hospital room to say goodnight.

Her face was contorted, mum’s mouth open, silently screaming. Her eyes still open.

(Thanks, doc. That hasn’t haunted me for the past seven years.)

Still raw from shock and despair, we drove back to Sutton, and to the lone funeral parlour to begin making preparations.

It hadn’t even been an hour. I dunno, I thought maybe we’d take time to process before making plans. I was numb. She would be cremated, it was decided. The funeral held at this establishment.

And, because fate, or god, or the cosmos had a way of really messing me up, my phone rang. A recruiter had a potential contract with one of the major banks in Toronto (I won’t say which, but one of their downtown branches was known as the ‘Starbucks Bank’ because the coffee roasters had a permanent placement within.)

I dunno. Maybe it was mum, trying to ease the pain. Because I hadn’t been working and needed a decent contract.

(I went in for their testing a day or two later. It was paper-based. You know those ‘spot the 5 differences’ challenge with two near-exact images and you had to circle the missing pieces — or in their case, brand mistakes (which, sidebar, how the fuck would I know what their guidelines were, having never seen a presentation before)? Yeah, well, I fubar’d it but good. End of story. Taah Daaah.)

The decision was made, very grudgingly on my part, to hold the service on October 13th.

When I turned 50.

The surprise party planned was, rightly, cancelled.

Have you ever had someone wish you a happy birthday — and give you a birthday card — while simultaneously offering their condolences?

The room was at capacity. My nephew Jason, who lives in Calgary, facetimed so he could be with us in digital spirit.

I didn’t speak. Cowardice? The writer, with a loss for words when it came to eulogizing the woman who raised him and guided him to adulthood, and stood by his side even when he kept pushing everyone away? (I’ll never get to atone for this sin. And there’s a tiny part of my soul that believes I don’t merit forgiveness, but that’s an issue to unpack with my psychiatrist. Or my next psychiatrist, as I’m literally phoning in my sessions right now. He’s helped me immensely in the past, but it’s probably time to get a fresh perspective.)

I couldn’t even fucking cry. (Wellbutrin takers know this all to well.) I welled up, but tears didn’t fall.

After, tea/coffee and those tiny triangle and rectangular cut egg salad and tuna sandwiches. That my mum served at the ladies’ euchre night when it was her turn to host.

They got me a Blue Jays jersey, something I’d wanted but couldn’t justify the cost for. They added Troy Tulowitzki’s name and number on the back. (He was traded the next year. I’ve worn it once. It’s still in my dresser.

Yeah.

The second funeral? My uncle Bern passed a few years later, also in October. His funeral was held… on my birthday.

I didn’t go. I couldn’t. It was. It was unfair. (Narrator: It wasn’t unfair, the author was selfish. Another sin he carries.)

Not sure why this bubbled up now. I guess pumpkin spice season makes me feel wistful?

Anyway.

No button to tie this blog post into a nice bow.

Just like life.

You don’t always get the ending you want.