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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
My son John was 44 years old when I said goodbye to him. It was early in the morning. His breaths were slow and steady; not laboured at all. He hadn’t moved all night. There was just stillness all around us. The nurses came in often and checked on him and then quietly left the room. My daughter slept in the next bed through the night but I just couldn’t lie down.
I stood by the window and stared into the darkness then I would look back at him. Sometimes I slipped out of the room and walked up and down the halls and then back to his side once again knowing at any moment he could take his last breath. Then and only then I told myself he would be free of pain and suffering after 22 years of battling cancer.
How could a mother wish for the end to come? But if you truly love them you can’t be selfish; you have to let them go, not that you have a choice.
The choice I had to make was how I would handle my son’s death. Do I die too? This would be a crossroad: pick up the pieces and go on or curl up in a corner and wait for my life to end.
I thought back to the many hours we spent together. You think as a mother you will be able to teach your child so much but at the end, I realized he had probably taught me far more than I ever taught him.
The hardest lesson of all was when he sat down with me and said, “Mom, you are not going to like this but you have to realize that I am the one living with cancer, not you. You have to let me do it my way.”
As a mother I wanted to protect him and make it better but that was not an option. I had to learn I could walk by his side but I couldn’t walk in his shoes. This lesson was the most important.
I learned about compassion as I watched him over the years. He listened intently to people, as if what they were saying was the most important thing he had ever heard.
I watched him fold origami cranes and give them out to patients having chemo treatments. He taught me it is the little things that really get you through the hardest times.
John taught me the value of humour. I remember the day his shoulder length red curls had to be shaved off. I couldn’t bear to watch and left the salon. When I came back my son stood with a bald head and a smile on his face sucking on a lollipop. “Hey, look Mom,” he said, ”I’m a Kojak look alike!”
Often in the darkest hours when he would be so low and so discouraged he would say or do something totally off the wall and in that moment it was like the little light at the end of the tunnel. I would grab on to it and hold it for dear life.
He taught me strength. I watched him call each of his two children, then aged 16 and 11, into his room and explain that daddy wouldn’t be coming home. He apologized for having to leave them. He made sure they both knew how much he loved them. I don’t believe I will ever have his strength but I hope if I ever need it, I can try to follow his lead.
I watched my son as the doctor told him he had only weeks to live. John had to be frightened but it never showed. There were no tears. He said a simple thank you to the doctor as if he had been given a gift rather than a death sentence. He was putting his children before himself and in that moment he taught me that fear is a selfish thing. Thanks to my son I am trying to teach myself that fear is a four letter word that we could nicely do without.
If I live to be 100 I will never forget John’s last moment. My daughter woke up and came to my side. John’s breath was endless as he slipped away. There was a silence in that room beyond anything I could even begin to explain but I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt I felt him leave. I knew he was no longer there. All that remained was a shell and locked inside it was his pain and suffering. He would never hurt again and I could not cry.
He was free at last and I will miss him forever but I will always be grateful for the wonderful memories he left me with and for the many lessons. It’s been 10 years now. It was a painful journey but also one filled with love beyond compare.
Gretchen Huntley lives in Gananoque, Ont.
