Mom’s Last Day

The big finale no one was looking forward to.

I’ve been trying to write the story about my mom for a long time. I was waiting for the big speech she gave me to pop back into my head. The one where you learn everything is going to be okay, and all the lessons are instantly clear.

But that’s what happens in movies. And life's not really like a movie. When people die there's rarely big monologues of closure. But life is like stories. Closure does come eventually, when you live for a bit and then can finally write it down beginning, middle and end.

The story about my mom's last few days just came into my head just now. Well most of it. I always knew the end. Or at least I thought I did.

I got the call from my dad on the last day of my PR internship with The Toronto Jazz Festival. I was dreading the call for months. The call is death's telemarketing department. It picks it's moments carefully.

My mom was at late stages of brain cancer. Half a year earlier... one of the last times I remember speaking to her she made it very clear that I shouldn't drop out of my program on her account. And I was on my last day of my internship. And after today it was program complete.

It was at the tail end of a dinner the festival was paying for. Which was nice for me considering I didn't have a job anymore. It was the last day of the festival which was one of the most equally exciting and exhausting run of 10 days in my life.

When the call came. My dad made it as easy as possible.

My dad is very direct in delivering bad news and very indirect in talking about most other things.

He'd gotten good at delivering bad news. In the past 2 years both his parents had died, his wife got brain cancer, she was already dying, but now she was passing too.

The call was short he just said, "the doctor says your mother is on her last few days here, are you coming home?"

 And for some fucking reason I said, "yes of course... I'll leave...after the show."

I remember thinking, mom said she didn't want me to not finish my program on her account. So she waited until I was pretty much done.

And something told me I had to be all the way done. Like how she used to call me the last day before fall exams and make sure I was on the next bus home.

My dad said, "call me when it's done."

In hindsight another thing telling me to be all the way done was knowing the closer I got to home the more real it would become. Once the show was done. So was my mom.

Some people might call this shock. And if shock is an extreme feeling of dissonance between your current realities and imagined future ones colliding in real time. Then yes. I was probably in shock.

And right now there were lights and stages and music. Theater. And it captured my attention.

But here's the thing. The show that night was by far the one I was least interested in. Jamie Cullum. Nothing against him, but after 10 days of non stop jazz shows I could probably afford to sit it out.

As the PR intern Over the festival I got to hang out with one of my favourite bands, Snarky Puppy, rode in a cab with Nat King Coles brother, i saw George Clinton, smooth jazz vocalist sensation Kurt Elling seemed annoyed I was pulling him out of soundcheck to take him to a radio interview.

I didn't want or need to go to Jamie Cullum. I'd got my real life experience the program promised. And if ever there's an out for an important engagement to take you out of the "last day of class"... this is it.

Anytime I wanted to quit something early my mom would say "you've made a commitment" so I think that's why I stayed.

It's the reason I became the lowest scoring player on a youth basketball team when I was twelve. It's also the reason I stuck with guitar, and played in my high-school jazz band, and eventually ended up where I was right then.

So I trusted the wisdom in that moment.

But like Christmas... i recognized she probably needs me to leave as soon as possible after my commitments are done.

So I decided to bring on Jazz’s little pop superstar Jamie.

I went back to the table and my boss asked, "is everything okay?" She knew about my mom and was a thoughtful person. So was delivering the perfect out on a silver platter.

And I said... "yupp. All good."

After all we had to meet Jamie Cullum backstage soon... who is perhaps the definition of overt erneststness in the pop jazz scene.

I remember meeting him backstage a few minutes later, and he was incredibly kind and energetic and happy to be there. Made eye contact with everyone. Introduced himself to me as "hello, I'm Jamie."

And I thought "yes I know Jamie. I've been tweeting out pictures of your face for the last 3 days."

But I said, "nice to meet you Jamie. I'm Braeden."

I wonder if he remembers me as the guy who stood of looking into the distance like his mom just died or something. But probably not. He seemed really happy to be there. And with all the hands he was shaking that night, the weight in mine probably seemed negligible.

He was so very very happy to be doing a very big show in Toronto to top off the festival. There we were backstage at Roy Thompson Hall, one of the fanciest and finest music venues in all the city.

My boss told me Jamie cried joyfully on the same stage just a few years earlier. The Toronto Jazz Festival meant a lot to Jamie and I could see it.

The executive director hated that Jamie stood on top of a piano as part of the act. Something about respect. Or lack of it. But there's no way you could deny Jamie enjoyed every tip tapping second of it.

But that's Jamie's thing. He's supposed to be this sort of a pop jazz badboy. But not too bad. He will stand on the piano but he won't light it on fire. He will say a swear. But not in front of kids. Cheeky. Kind of like if Michael Buble and Brendan Urie had a cis British baby boy.

And he's incredibly talented and energetic. Upbeat songs and bright lights and dancers. Just full of life, light and positivity in every possible fucking way.

If there was where an audience member who wouldn't enjoy the show. There’d have to be something seriously wrong with them. And It wasn't the mostly 40 to 50 year old ladies who were singing along who didn't like a second of it. It was me.

After the show, I was talking to my dad about how I'd be getting back to Forest, in front of the queen st. Subway station. Somehow i was mostly alone and felt I'd found a moment of privacy.

Just then Jamie and his band or his posse walked by on the other side of the street.

I waved. I remember waving but maybe I didn't. Either way he didn't notice me. The last time I saw him he seemed to be enjoying the best night of his life. And he was talking pretty excitedly either about what just happened or what was going to happen next.

I could relate.

But he could have been pretending to be excited. He's a top notch performer. And at that time in my life, I didn't want to be a performer anymore. I just wanted to work backstage.

I got off the call with my dad.

With the lights off, stages clear, and thank you gifts given to my boss. I went home on the subway. I packed the clothes I'd be wearing. And the suit I'd be needing. And reality was now packed in a suitcase and heading home with me on the VIA train the next morning.

My dad picked me up in London. I got home the afternoon July 1st. And had one last night with her then. As a family we used to go to the conservation area for the fireworks that day.

But in this house, we could see them from the front yard, so we hadn't been back in almost a decade. And we just listened to them that night. Whether we wanted to or not.

I'm only thinking know how annoying that must've been for my mom, just trying to enjoy one final quiet night with family. And being forced to listen to a huge ruckus called "The Big Finale."

Kind of like putting yourself through a pop jazz spectacle when you're emotionally crushed. But if you didn't have a choice.

Come to think of it, I've never liked fireworks ever since then.

The next day, I don't even remember what I did.

This is why I thought this was a bad story by the way. I don't remember doing anything most of the day my mom died. There was no final meal or final activity. And again, no big speeches of closure.

My best guess is just sitting in the living room with her. Watching TV like we normally do. Or did.

Which makes sense. Over the past year, my mom wanted everything to stay as normal as possible.

That meant me and my brother Korbyn finishing school, my brother Cailen and my dad going to work. It also meant hospital beds in the living rooms, being in a first name basis with a nurse in your house, and watching Storage Wars marathons with him.

But I do remember one thing. Since I got home her eyes were closed. When I first got there - closed. Throughout the fireworks- closed. Watching TV - closed.

She just had energy left for breathing.

Until evening came around that final day and I thought I'd go up to her one more time.

She still hadn't actually seen with her eyes that I'd even made it home alive. Something she was often worried about.

I thought she might like to see me. At the very least I needed to see her.

I slid as carefully as I could... and all I could sit on was the windowsill. We had moved the chairs to make room for her hospital bed. Again just like we normally did.

I grabbed her hand. Her left hand. I remember thinking it'd be silly of me to say anything. She probably wasn't listening or couldn't hear me.

And that's when her eyes opened.

And I said... having over a year to plan final words... I just said "Mom I'm home. And I love you."

My little brother Korbyn was on the other side. Home too. Holding her other hand and said 'we love you very much."

The two youngest boys crying just as deeply as that spring day over a year ago when she picked us up from our final exams and told us she had "a little tumour" inside her brain.

She looked at both of us. Tears barely forming because she hadn't been drinking water. Or maybe she didn't have tears at all. We had enough crying together already and she was probably just happy to see us.

Then her eyes closed one last time.

She didn't die right then. That would've been a little too melodramatic for this story or reality.

It felt a proper sad for that day. It doesn't feel as sad in hindsight. It feels calm. The quiet moment she was waiting for. And she got to enjoy it.

She passed later enough that night... I was sleeping in her old bed because my Granny was in my room.

I did sleep well that night. I was on my moms side of the bed. And I was exhausted from the festival but obviously other things as well.

That’s when my Granny woke me up saying "Braeden. She's dead!" Clearly in shock because she sort of said it like she was calling me for breakfast.

I came back to the living room. And joined my dad - her husband, my brothers - her sons, my aunt - her sister, and my Granny - her mom. Who were all there to see her too.  

I didn't necessarily love what we were gathering for. But I loved that mom made it happen. Like she always did.

It felt normal.