It wasn’t where bad things happened. I kept telling myself this. Colorectal cancer. It’s treatable. Please, be treatable. PEI isn’t where bad things happen.
In 2005, I hadn’t lost anyone in my immediate family. The fact that this was a real possibility made me feel betrayed by fate and the Island, because Mom’s pain was the last memory I had of our vacation.
PEI isn’t where bad, bad things happen. Please don’t take my mother away…
In the following years, Mom went through two surgeries and multiple rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. During the second surgery, doctors noticed that there was a single lymph node that was so badly blocked by scar tissue, it was inoperable.
Inoperable. Inoperable. A single damned lymph node. Again, those iron words slammed against my head like crumpled armour on a battlefield. She could risk surgery, but there was a nigh-certainty that she’d bleed to death. It was a choice between some time and death, and just plain death.
By that time, it was 2008 and we hadn’t been to the Island for three years. The day at Basin Head when Mom felt too tired was long past, but the memory still bubbled to the surface at times. When we learned that the cancer was inoperable, my emotions kicked in and I cried almost every day.
This was happening. Colorectal cancer, inoperable. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. My moods switched between wanting to punch a hole in the wall because life is unfair to curling into a ball in my bed until reality’s sharpness was covered by a blanket of sleep.
May 2010: Simple advice
Mom cried a lot during her final days. I can’t imagine what was going through her mind. One thing she was sad about, though, was that she wouldn’t get to see her children develop into full adults. She wouldn’t be able to see future grandkids.
All of these things that you plan to enjoy, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy. I was angry that she’d be robbed of these opportunities, and I felt anxious because I didn’t have much more time with her. Doctors said she had two weeks to a couple of months.
Yet, her parting advice was that she wanted us to live life to the fullest, and that helped me avoid falling into a trap of eternal sadness and frustration. It’s perhaps the simplest of advice, but it was much more impactful than it would’ve been otherwise, hearing it from someone whose time is short.
[su_pullquote align=”right”]Circumstances change, people and places grow old, but there’s always room in your mind for your inner child … the one who has fun, even if the world around him or her can be scary, sad or violent.[/su_pullquote]
Her advice not only saved my childhood memories of the Island, but it also reminded me that I could take her energy—her spirit—with me anywhere I go. Mom is still with me now. She could be sitting next to me on the sofa as I write this article. Or maybe she’s in one of the stars in the sky. But somehow, I feel her presence and that gives me some strength.
The nostalgia I feel from visiting PEI or seeing childhood landmarks is permanent. My memories, like the wind, flow through every person and object I hold dear to me, from a family member to a monument to an insignificant trinket.
My nostalgia contributes a great deal to my life’s meaning, because it serves as proof that the only thing that can eliminate our childish optimism is our own mindset. Circumstances change, people and places grow old, but there’s always room in your mind for your inner child … the one who has fun, even if the world around him or her can be scary, sad or violent.
Sometimes, when I’m deep in thought, I think back to June 26, 2010, the day Mom died. Although I regret that my brothers and I weren’t there when she passed (Dad wanted us to go home and get sleep), Dad was there, holding her hand the entire time.
In this vision, I don’t imagine Mom dying. I imagine them both with life still glimmering in their eyes, walking each other down the aisle, about to commit to a lifelong partnership. On their wedding day, all that had mattered was the exciting future they’d have together. People came together to celebrate their life, not to mourn Mom’s death.
Their love never changed from that day onwards. Sure, they got old and Mom got sick, but their love for each other remained unchanged. Thirty-four years later, they were still as much the naïve lovebirds that they were before—and that’s the way things should be.
My own circumstances have changed my outlook on life, but I’d like to think that my love for my wife and my happy childish memories of people and places will never change. Through challenges I’ve faced, I’ve improved and gained new perspectives, but I won’t let hardship touch my optimistic outlook. Nothing can take away good times past, and nothing can prove to me that there isn’t inherent good in the world.
This, to me, is the greatest lesson I’ve learned to date. We still must love, live and laugh. There will be hardships: 2017 and 2018 have been my toughest years in my battle with depression and anxiety, but from wherever she is, I know my mother wants me to push through.
There’s nothing anyone can do about change. It’s our memories that ground us to our realities and help us remember our roots—no matter how childish, naïve or sad these memories seem to us now. Memories, both good and bad, help make us who we are, and without them, we risk losing the very source of our optimism, hope and passion.
That little childhood version of you who saw the world without filters, who ate from the wild raspberry bushes, who ran through the mud—is inside of you right now.
All you need to do is listen.
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image 1. Pixabay 2 Basin Head Beach by Stefan Krasowski via Flickr (CC BY 2.0); All other images courtesy of Andrew Hunter
