Love Story

Love Story, two words written in firm, bold, creative handwriting in black pen, across the center of the page of a Cash Receipt Book, caught my eye. I recognized my mother’s handwriting and was delighted to see it again, a new, fresh message this night, the second anniversary of her passing.

  

It was a simple phrase but contained multiverses. The feelings, as I looked at it, carried no memories of the difficult times. Instead, I could feel the tender love and peace I had shared with my mother during the last week of her life as everything around her softened, like the glow of the sliver halo of her hair spread out on her pillow. I had spent the last week with her in her hospital room, day and night beside her, when so much was shared and forgiven. So much of our interweaving lives was reframed and expressed, mostly wordlessly but intuitively, on different levels of appreciation and understanding, of the love between us.  

Perhaps Love Story was a message to me of gratitude and thanks for the support and assistance I had given my mother in the last week of her life; the receipt, a recognition of the love exchanged and its value between us then, and during the sixty-two years of our shared lives. I had travelled from Australia to New Zealand to be with my mother, feeling that the heart infarction she had suffered was a sign of permanent failing. My mother was very anxious, and the nursing staff were very relieved that I offered to sleep with her, calming her, attending to her and listening to her.  

A key moment was when my mother woke me around 5am, two days before she finally left her body, suddenly calling out, “I can’t, I can’t!” I immediately got out of my bed and came to sit by her side. I knew what she was panicking about; about how to actually die and leave her body, as she was conscious enough to know what was happening. Rather than tell her the obvious, that her body would know what to do, I simply sang back to her, “Yes you can, yes you can!” in a gentle Kodaly style song.  

I had been a musician all my life and had recently trained in both a Master of Counselling, and Shamanic Journeying overseas. As well as being used to receiving messages from the dying throughout my life, I combined my gifts to reassure my mother, and in a simple call and response manner, sang with her for several hours, changing my words to, “Yes I can, Yes I can,” so she would take them into her own body and mind. The nurses came in and out quietly, respecting our two souls’ gentle embrace and acknowledging the shift in acceptance as my mother gradually settled peacefully back into her bed, surrendering to forces and processes only she was intimately aware of, as she stared up at the ceiling and far off into other realms, energized and her burden released. 

 My mother was a woman of keen intelligence and remarkable artistic talents and professional independence. Coming from a long line of resilient, university educated and independent women, mother and grandmother, she countered any visitors who offered platitudes, or their own religious beliefs as to where she may be going next, professing, “It’s a Mystery,” not to be defined by anyone. Bonhoeffer’s biography had been her latest reading, and my mother took his mystical experiences to heart. 

My mother had read curiously my recent university religion essays, including on Jung and his dreams and spirituality. She confessed she had stopped dreaming in her late teens and was surprised to hear how vital dreams were throughout my life, and recently guiding me to healing from serious illness and permanent disability to new careers and travels. However, my mother did share with me a vivid dream experience she had soon after her husband, my father’s death, six years previously. She had phoned me, still in awe at being woken in the middle of the night by my father appearing to her in her bedroom and telling me he had been so real she needed to turn on the light to check, and to bring her back to “reality.”  

This experience was Sacred in opening my mother up to communication from the departed to those we love, and a vital link in the chain of connection my mother and I developed during her transition and afterwards. I am now starting to share such messages and possibilities of Love and connection with my own family and friends, and around the world through workshops and presentations. 

The last night of my mother’s life, I said my final goodbye to her in the evening as I had to sleep near the airport to catch a 5am flight back to Australia for an important hospital appointment of my own. I had seen my mother leave her body finally, earlier that morning when she was being transported from her hospital room back to her Rest Home Hospice for the final stage of her life. I had travelled with her and watched as her body lay almost motionless in the bed, apart from the small rise and fall of her chest. She was grey all over now, from hair to skin, and lifeless, despite the soft pale pink and lilac sprigs of flowers on her pajama top.  

I kissed her on the forehead and said, “I love you, and thank you,” one last time, as I left to go to my friend’s home for the night. Finally, I was relieved to sink into the silence of my own bed and drift off to sleep, at peace knowing I had comforted and supported my mother all I could. The rest was now up to her, and I knew was very close to completion. Suddenly, I was aroused from my sleep seeing my mother walking down the corridor of her Rest Home towards the exit doors, walking stick in one hand, cardigan flapping, her head shaking from side to side and her tongue clicking in her unique manner as she concentrated deeply. Then I heard her speak clearly to me, “Where do I go?” How do I get out of here?” 

 

I could see that the corridor now opened out into the dark and great open expanse of the Universe ahead of her. I knew she was heading in the right direction and would soon be gone. I went back to sleep only to be woken again by my mother appearing to me, this time dressed in her favourite teal dress with her precious matching turquoise necklace, makeup on, looking young and vibrant again, just has she had looked in photos at her solo art exhibition in 1994. It was beautiful to see her smiling so radiantly again. She had made it! Where-ever the Great Mystery had taken her to, she was happy and at peace. My sister later texted me that indeed she had finally stopped breathing in the early hours of the morning. 

Love Story calls to me now, in the present, as a key reminder to live my life forward, not backwards, and embrace love and the opportunities to experience it in everything. I say this because of the unanswered question my mother agonized over, particularly in the closing phase of her life, “I wonder if my mother really loved me?” It was a question none of us three siblings could answer for her. We encouraged her to write about memories of her mother, suggesting that insights would come. But unfortunately, she never managed to put pen to paper. Now, I feel called to offer my perspectives of Love, for the generations of mothers in my family. 

A key message my mother had proclaimed to me in my last week with her was, “It’s most important to be believed.” When my mother uttered this, out of nowhere, I immediately took up the invitation to reflect back to her the many ways she had demonstrated this, during her years of mothering me, and thereby Love.  

My mother had fought for treatment for me when I was ill and hospitalized twice when I was a child, that my pain and illness was believable. This later became fundamental to my believing in myself as I found my own authentic Self through my recent fifteen-year journey through permanent disability, ill-health retirement and healing from a rare primary immune deficiency (CVID). Now I was able to gift back to my mother my new knowledge from my own healing and Master of Counselling, Dreamwork and Shamanic Journeying, in how to see, know and attend to her needs, physical, mental, emotional and Spiritual in this culminating last week of her life.  

My mother had recently opened further in trusting my new knowledge and experience and was proud and inspired by my personal growth and healing. For both my mother and my sons, watching me believe in my authentic Self enough to step away from a long but failing marriage when critically ill, was vital for re-writing old, disempowered beliefs and patterns of patriarchy and marriage to model healthier relationships for present and future generations. In this way, I also was able to support my oldest son’s authentic sexual choices and relationship freedoms, and to heal past family sexual prejudices and hurts. 

My mother had believed in my musical talent and desires, supporting me in finding music teachers and in my auditioning for university in violin performance, when my academic father and some of my music teachers did not think I was capable. As a professional artist, my mother recognized and believed in my passion and talent which finally blossomed into my own professional musical career. I then believed and supported my own sons’ musical and artistic talents and encouraged many of my students into professional careers. My mother’s love of Art and beauty was a rare gift and her pursuit of excellence not only a national treasure, but a treasure to me personally, and to all we both have shared it with. These values continue to ripple out across the world as my sons share their artistic gifts in different countries.  

My mother also believed in friendship; for herself and for me, especially as my father did not approve of such personal needs, including marriage to my husband, which my mother also supported me in. When my mother suddenly called out, “I’ve got a friend!” I was able to reassure her that she had many friends, with my sister coordinating and relaying their messages of love to my mother. This last statement was profound, as it echoed the pain and doubt of love and understanding from her own mother, who had been a very practical woman, caring for her community during the depression and war years when my mother was young. My mother’s education and artistic talents were nurtured by her mother and grandmother, but friendships were considered of secondary importance to education and practicalities of life. It was vital that my mother and I break this generational chain of detached intimacy as I reminded my mother that she had nurtured many friendships with and for others, and for me at critical times in my life. 

My mother’s words, Love Story, speak of the many different ways we love, through generations of mothers; practical love, actioning love, understanding love, and the love that can continue, beyond death through dreams and messages in the present, very much still alive. Most important is my mother’s prompting, to write before I get too old, about our Love Story and how I finally could express love and gratitude to my mother before she passed, knowing how haunted she was in not having been able to share such experiences, conversations and acknowledgement with her mother. Love is healing and vital to our relationships, that we share and find ways to tell our Love Story and pass it on, before it’s too late.