Lest We Forget

Lest we forget today is Remembrance Day here in Canada and, full confession, I’d forgotten whether the following took place in 2022 or 2023.  I had to consult my phone to confirm it was the latter.

Francine, my 101-year-old mother, rang me at 7:00am, exactly a year ago. Early morning phone calls, once welcome, were now  concerning. She tended to reach out only at night of late. I took a deep breath, just managing to choke back an imperious, “What’s wrong?”

“Are you coming to the service today, Kel?”

Oh dear. She’d forgotten we’d spoken at length the night before.

“I am, Mom, yes.”

“No need to rush. I’ll save you a seat. Come when you can and drive carefully.”

Seriously? I popped over to see her so often, my car could navigate there on automatic pilot. And, honestly Mom, when was my last fender bender? Probably 1996!

Lest We Forget

After exchanging quick smiles with the friendly woman at the front desk, I headed for Francine’s room. Her door was closed which probably meant the nurse was changing Francine’s knee bandage. But no, it was locked. I pivoted to the Willow Lounge, home to all things entertainment. There was no sign of an impending ceremony. Two-thirds of the gang were snoozing in their wheelchairs oblivious to Rick Steve’s travel video unfolding on the large screen.

Okay, this is most odd

Francine wasn’t in any of the usual spots: the activities room, the cafeteria, the foyer or even the women’s public washroom. She’d simply vanished. I  suddenly remembered the panicky feeling I’d experienced when I lost her in Safeway. My throat tightened, the floor shifted and the walls closed in on me as I realized there were only random strangers in the food aisle. My mother had simply vanished.

I was 6.

Get a grip, Kelly.  Francine had to be somewhere.  The good woman didn’t wander. We had one other option. The other side of the residence. The one where the “able-minded/able-bodied” folk lived. I glanced at my phone. It only 10:15. Surely she wouldn’t head over there a good half hour early.

But yes.

Hunched down in her walker with the back of her silver hair puffed up like a spent dandelion, my dear mother was parked smack in the middle of a sea of empty chairs.

“You made it, Kel! How lovely. I’ve saved you a seat.”

She patted the chair, her pair of antique jade bracelets jangling loudly.

As usual, Francine had claimed the perfect spot. An upright piano, two chairs and a podium were squeezed together on a small raised platform not three feet from us.

I smiled as an aide wheeled in one of my favorite fellow bingo players. Hilda. We’d bonded over our mutual inability to win.

More folks were wheeled in, and the those who could walk eased themselves into the chairs. By 10:45, it was standing room only. I began to feel somewhat guilty. Should I even be here? One of the very few nonresidents, I was the youngest by at least a decade.

Lest We Forget

The significance of the day finally hit as we honored the two minutes of silence. My thoughts turned to my paternal grandfather and grandmother. Grandad was seriously injured during the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917. He was admitted to the Severe Head Trauma ward of the London Hospital where he and his nurse, Charlotte Graham, eventually fell in love. They married in 1918 and moved to British Columbia, Canada, to raise their my dad and uncle.

As the widow of a former resident and veteran stepped forward to place her wreath, I reached out and gently clasped Francine’s hand. I was indeed blessed to be here.

November 11, 2023 holds another special significance for me. It was the last time I saw Hilda. She passed away in her sleep a week later.

It was also Francine’s final Remembrance Day.

On this November 11, we once again honor those who gave their lives to serve our country. May we never forget.