Chapter 25
by Tara Gervais
What does one say about one’s mother? Beyond the realm of anger and resentment, the what ifs and I should haves, when one’s relationship to one’s parent is fruitful, loving, and openly honest, all that a child could hope for is really and truly only love, admiration, and a friendship that stands head and shoulders above all others. Of course, there is hardship along the way: arguments that became shouting matches of dueling wills, misunderstandings that seemed unbridgeable, and the crushing tension of unbridled youth butting up against weathered experience. But sometimes the good outweighs the bad, and you forget about the tough times. That is, until the really tough times come beating down your door and hold a knife to the throat of your entire life.
Like too many others, cancer affected my family in the most grievous of ways: it took my mother away from us and tore a hole in my universe. She was the most important person in my life, and not a day goes by that I don’t mourn her loss, even while I try to cope and live by her light. Some feelings you never “get over.” You just learn to live with them. I know a lot of people out there know exactly how I feel.
For eighteen years, my darling Debra, mom to me and my brother, valiant defender of us both, suffered from the scourge of breast cancer. Radiation, chemotherapy, experimental drugs, reconstructive surgery—you name it, we tried it. There were successes and failures along the way, and for several years, through strife and pain and, above all, hope, we held on to her. She stayed strong enough to live and thrive, and yet we knew we were dodging bullets. She was forever weakened, and we knew anytime there could come a day where the scans came back positive or there was another lump, and our time together could suddenly become unavoidably limited. Then six years ago, she was diagnosed as terminal, with five years to live. And exactly five years and two months later, on January 7, 2017, we said our final goodbyes. She’d put herself through so much for the love of her family; she wouldn’t give up, she’d said, because she had so much to live for. But enough was enough, and we couldn’t watch her fading away and falling apart. Once we gave her our blessing, it wasn’t long after that she left this world, bound for a place without pain and fear, and went all the way up to heaven.
My mom was a very bright woman. She was full of smiles and laughter and rarely met anyone who didn’t immediately adore her. During her sixty-one years on this earth, and especially in the wake of her passing, so many people would go on and on about how much of a mother figure she had been in their lives. Coworkers, friends, extended family, and even my own friends were very vocal about their love for her, her generous spirit, the kindness of her face, and her limitless counsel when something needed to be figured out. So many of their anecdotes were so poignant, and my brother and I were moved and smiled at the thought of so many people seeing in her exactly what we’d always known was her essence: a beautiful soul and an understanding heart. She was cremated as she had requested, and her memorial service was filled with stories about her, both funny and sad, while we played her favorite music on the speakers. No pipe organ or silence for our Deb, just Fleetwood Mac and Led Zeppelin, as she no doubt would have preferred.
The “firsts” after a loved one’s passing are always the hardest. The holidays would be doubly hard for us as her swift decline in health began on Thanksgiving night around the dessert table, when she lost her words and became shaky and disoriented, because the dozens of tiny tumors in her brain had finally gotten a foothold, unbeknownst to anyone. My birthday is the beginning of summer, and I dreaded it without her. Mom had a tradition of calling people on their birthday, and, whether you picked up or she got your machine, she sang “Happy Birthday” off key and adorably. She had become known for it among her close friends and family. The thought of never again getting that phone call filled me with sorrow and bore a hole into my gut. Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all.
On the very day of my birthday, my cousin Lisa was watching one of Roland’s live feeds on Facebook. He was reading many of his Purple Papers aloud and showed them to his viewers. The very first one was from a woman named Debbie: “Debbie says that the 5 weeks before she passed were really hard. But before that, I wasn’t too bad. The ‘drugs’ weren’t doing the job. My body was resistant to many things. I [am] happy to say my pain is really gone.” She wanted her loved ones to know she was finally out of pain.
Lisa sent me the link and when I saw it for myself, I wept openly, stirred to my bones at the accuracy of it all. Her last five weeks were filled with radiation and pills that never seemed to work, and the situation became what we had most feared but knew would one day happen. Further along in the video, Roland, while communing with the spirits, stopped talking at one point and called out my mother’s name, and then Lisa’s. “Lisa, your cousin Debbie wants you to know she’s OK. You guys used to be so close and she’s sorry you fell out of touch. ‘I love you, Lisa,’ she’s saying. But this message isn’t for you; it’s for her daughter on her birthday. ‘Happy birthday, my girl.’ ”
Every time I think of that video my skin goes to goosebumps and my eyes brim with tears. I needed her so much every day since her passing, but especially on that day. And there she was, pushing through the static and the space between worlds to let me know that she was still there with me, watching over with concern and love, no doubt hoping my brother and I could find the strength to soldier on without her. I had felt so lost without that song on my telephone, and when Roland spoke, I could hear her voice again. The comfort it gave me I cannot measure in any real way other than by how much it soothed my heart. Before my mom’s passing, I had been skeptical of the afterlife, always a realist who needed proof of everything. She, however, had always been very spiritual, and never wavered from her belief that death was not the end and that love could transcend all boundaries. This was all the proof anyone could need, and I again felt her presence wash over me as she wished me a happy birthday.
About six months later, we went to see Roland in person in his hometown of Woonsocket, Rhode Island, where we had all been born and lived so much of our lives, my mother especially. That was the night my brother received his message. Roland approached him at our table, leaned into his face, and said, “I am so proud of you. The man you’ve become is more than I ever could have hoped. You never disappointed me or disturbed me. I know we didn’t have enough time together, but what we had was so great. I’m always here.” Roland put his hand on my brother’s shoulder and said, “There is always love around you.” My brother cried and cried, feeling what I had felt: her presence, her love once again, that wave of relief and bittersweet feeling that I had felt on my birthday. My brother at that point in time was having a hard time coping with the coming holidays and the void she had left behind that would never be filled. She reached out to me when I needed her most, and she did the same for him. We approached Roland that evening with our story, and here we are, forever grateful for our messages, healing slowly but surely, and remembering her strength in life so that we might find a bit of our own to live on.
I just wish there was a way to reply, to tell her thank you, for being an incredible mother, for loving us unconditionally, for never letting us feel like we were anything less than treasures to her, for putting herself through hell to stay with us for so many years. Our whole family was around her that snowy day in January when she took her last breaths and became our angel. We were lucky enough to have had time with her before the end, and my brother and I were in fact able to say all those things. But we can’t help but wish for one more conversation, one more joke, one more hug, and to be able to express our gratitude just one more time. But then I remember that she’s always with me, so I say it all out loud, and I know, wherever she is, finally free of pain and watching us live by her light, she hears me.