Thirty-Four Years

My mom was 43 when she had me.

Forty-three.

Today, I am 43.

And somehow, that realization has hit me harder than I expected.

For most of my life, my mom felt like a grown-up.

A parent.

Someone who had life figured out.

But standing here now, at the exact age she was when she brought me into the world, I realize something I never could have understood as a child.

She was just a woman.

A woman trying her best.

A woman who had already raised three children and was beginning a completely unexpected chapter.

My oldest sister, Deanna, was already married and expecting her first baby when my mom was pregnant with me. My niece Sarah and I are only six months apart in age.

My brother Al was 20.

My sister Shelley was 17.

And then there was me.

The surprise.

The unexpected fourth child.

Dad was 48.

Mom was 43.

Most people their age were becoming grandparents.

Mine were starting all over again.

And thank God they did.

Because despite what came later, I wouldn't trade the years I had with my mom for anything.

I grew up on a farm outside Woodstock.

We didn't have much, but we had enough.

Dad worked at the factory.

Mom stayed home.

There were animals everywhere.

Cats.

Dogs.

Horses.

Chickens.

The kind of childhood where your feet were dirty by noon and you only came inside when someone called your name.

I loved being outside.

I loved the freedom.

I loved the simplicity.

And I loved my mom.

Then when I was four or five years old, everything changed.

Cancer.

One word.

One diagnosis.

One thief that slowly began stealing my mother from me.

At first it was appointments.

Hospital visits.

Treatments.

Then eventually we left the farm altogether and moved into town so Mom could receive the care she needed.

The disease kept taking.

And taking.

And taking.

Until there wasn't much left.

The cancer eventually spread to her brain.

Even writing those words makes my chest tighten.

What a cruel way to leave this world.

What a cruel thing for anyone to endure.

And what a cruel thing for a little girl to witness.

June 9, 1992

Thirty-four years ago today.

I left for school like I always did.

Grade 3.

Mr. Tull's class at Springbank Public School.

Just another ordinary day.

Except it wasn't.

Mom was lying in a bed that had been set up in our front living room.

She was barely responsive by then.

The woman who had once cared for everyone now needed everyone to care for her.

Before I left, I kissed her on the head.

I had no idea it would be the last time.

How could I?

Children don't think about last times.

They don't know they're happening.

If we're lucky, neither do adults.

I went to school.

Sat at my desk.

Did whatever Grade 3 kids do on a June morning.

Then sometime later, someone came to the classroom door and spoke quietly to Mr. Tull.

I remember watching his face.

I remember thinking it was strange.

He looked sad.

Really sad.

At the time, I couldn't understand why.

I do now.

He knew.

I didn't.

Not yet.

I remember leaving school early.

I remember walking to the vehicle with my dad.

And I remember him telling me my mom had died.

After that?

Honestly, not much.

People often ask about grief.

What it feels like.

What happens when someone dies.

The truth is, sometimes the pain is so overwhelming your mind simply refuses to hold all of it.

There are entire pieces of that day I cannot access.

It's as if my little brain shut the door to survive.

The Loss That Shaped Everything

I suffered an unimaginable loss that day.

And if I'm being truthful, I don't think I've ever fully allowed myself to feel the depth of it.

How could I?

I was nine years old.

There wasn't time.

There wasn't space.

Life just kept moving.

School.

Friends.

Growing up.

Learning how to survive without a mother.

I often wonder what parts of me were shaped by that loss.

How much of my independence was born from necessity.

How much of my fear of losing people began that day.

How much of my drive to prove myself came from growing up without her cheering me on from the sidelines.

How different my life would have been if she had stayed.

Would I have made different choices?

Taken different paths?

Needed less healing?

Carried less fear?

I'll never know.

And that's another kind of grief.

Not just grieving the person.

Grieving the life you never got to have with them.

I never got to ask her questions about motherhood.

She never got to meet Mike.

She never got to watch me become a police officer.

She never got to see me become a coach.

She never got to know the woman I would become.

And I never got to know the woman she would have become.

The Mother I Became

But there is another truth too.

I am proud of who I became.

Not because losing my mother made me stronger.

I hate when people say things like that.

I would trade every lesson for one more day with her.

But I am proud that I kept going.

Proud that I built a beautiful life.

Proud that despite everything, I learned how to love deeply.

And most of all, proud of the mother I have become.

Today, as I head out to watch my boys compete in track, that feeling sits heavily on my heart.

Not sadness.

Not exactly.

Gratitude.

Because my boys have something I didn't.

They have a mom in the stands.

A mom cheering.

A mom driving them to practices and tournaments and track meets.

A mom who gets to watch.

A mom who gets to stay.

And I don't take a single second of that for granted.

Not one.

Every early morning.

Every late-night drive.

Every game.

Every practice.

Every meet.

Every exhausted moment.

I know what it means.

Because I know what it feels like not to have it.

Love Doesn't Leave

Last night, on the drive home from lacrosse, Jayden said something that made me both smile and be sad at the same time.

He told me he felt like Poppa was with him at hockey last weekend.

One of the last things my dad ever said to him was:

"I'll see you in the NHL."

Those words have stayed with him.

And maybe that's because love doesn't disappear when people do.

Maybe that's what I've been learning all these years.

My mom isn't sitting in the stands today.

She isn't watching her grandsons run.

She isn't here to see the life I've built.

She missed so much.

And yet somehow, I still feel her.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a movie scene kind of way.

Just in the quiet moments.

The moments where I choose kindness.

The moments where I show up for my boys.

The moments where I keep going when life gets hard.

The moments where I love fiercely.

Because maybe that's what parents leave behind.

Not just memories.

Not just photographs.

Not just stories.

Maybe they leave pieces of themselves woven so deeply into us that they continue living through every act of love we offer the world.

Thirty-four years ago today, I lost my mom.

A loss that changed the entire course of my life.

But today, at 43 years old, the same age she was when she had me, I find myself looking at my own boys and realizing something.

My life did not unfold the way either of us would have hoped.

There are countless moments she should have been here for.

Countless memories she should have made.

Countless hugs we never got.

But because of her, I am here.

Because of her, Jayden and Kieran are here.

Because of her, this beautiful, messy, extraordinary life exists.

And while I lost her when I was nine years old, I carry her with me everywhere I go.

Especially today.