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Journey’s End

November 30, 2023November 30, 2023By

Dearest Readers,

This is Vivian’s daughter Erica at the keyboard. As most of you will be aware by now, my wonderful mother passed away on 30th September in the wee hours of the morning. After many painful days and months, she was finally peaceful when she went, her devoted husband at her side, as always. 

It’s been an incredibly difficult time for our family, which is why the details of her journey, so thoughtfully and bravely laid out here while she had the strength, haven’t been shared. It isn’t the duty of a family to share such painful and intimate details of their loved one’s passing – no matter how much time has elapsed – but I’m following my mother’s example, and so will share some of those details here. 

As always, please take care, dear reader, of your own mental and emotional wellbeing, and read this with caution, as it involves details of cancer, chronic pain, hospitalisation and death.

In my mother’s last post, she talked about the struggle to find the right pain medication for her condition. The following weekend was a difficult one, as we tried to time her doses right so she wouldn’t be left with a painful gap in her daily schedule. This proved impossible for us to do at home. After several painful hours that Sunday, I spoke to the on-call palliative care doctor at the MUHC, where she’d been getting treatment. They suggested bringing her to palliative care so that they could sort out the pain medication there; it’s much easier for them to do because the meds can be administered by injection, and thus, work faster. However, we were also told that while the goal was to figure out the best pain regimen and send her home, sometimes when people are admitted to palliative care, they don’t return home. It’s the nature of the place, I suppose, and so they need to warn everyone of that.

Mom didn’t love the idea of spending her last weeks, or however long, in hospital, but reducing the pain was her primary concern. And so we packed an overnight bag and set off for the hospital. 

Besides the recent increase in her pain, there was another worrying issue, which was that she was having a hard time maintaining her balance when she was on her feet. When she walked, she needed support, and was in danger of falling down without it. We assumed this was due to the natural bodily weakness which must come towards the end of one’s terminal cancer journey, but when we told the doctor about it, they immediately ordered an MRI and CT scan to find out what else might be causing it.

A few days later, we received the results of the scan, which were shocking to say the least. Since her previous scan a month prior, the cancer had spread more thoroughly into her bones, and – most surprisingly – into her brain. In short, it was everywhere. Even her nurse practitioner, who had taken such great care of my mom’s case, was shocked by this revelation, since only less than 1% of pancreatic cancer patients develop metastasis in the brain. 

This was upsetting news for my mom to receive, after being told a few weeks prior that she may have several months left. But hers was an invasive, ruthless cancer, and so we faced the difficult reality of her spending the remainder of her life in hospital. When asked if she would be alright staying in the palliative care wing, mom said to the doctor “Hmm… well, is this place any good?” which made us all laugh. But she was alright with the idea in the end, trusting the doctors and nurses who’d looked after her so well since her diagnosis to see her through to the end.

And they really did. I cannot stress enough how wonderful the care was that she received at MUHC. Every single person we met at palliative care was understanding, thoughtful, and always had time for all of us. Even on her most difficult nights, they were patient and kind and did everything they could to make her comfortable, all while supporting her family.

As her pain became more and more acute, the nurses administered more and more opioids for pain, and sedatives to help calm her. Even at her foggiest, she still recognised us and was comforted by our presence. Dad, Travis and I took turns staying overnight at the hospital with her, until it became clear she would only last a few more days at most, at which time Dad took over the nights permanently. Those were very, very tough days, but you know our family; we still managed to joke and laugh, read books and sing songs during that time. The three of us sang camp songs to her, with harmonies of course, knowing that her hearing would be with her until the end. We brought the guitar in and I spent my last night with her singing Joni Mitchell, Carpenters, and some of my stuff, which she loved so well. 

My mother’s favourite quote was “Beauty will save the world” from Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot. She searched for beauty in everything, I think; from decorating her house with unique artwork or furniture, to growing and maintaining her garden, to her love of music, to her colourful and elaborate knitting projects. She sought to beautify the world around her too, by buying second-hand furniture, original artwork, and buying wool from independent shops. She also sought beauty in people. 

True to form, my mother was kind and lovely to everyone at the hospital, even determined to remember all their names. I had several people on the team tell me that they were honoured to have known her. 

I think we all feel that way.

I want to echo my mom’s final sentiments in her last post, and thank everyone who brought us food, came over to clean, got groceries, and sent us all messages during my mom’s illness. I can’t tell you how important it was on the hardest days not to have to think about making dinner, or how comforting it was to see her face light up at people’s letters and well wishes. Your kindness and generosity brought me to tears on many occasions, and still do now when I think of it. I will never forget it.

I feel immeasurably sorry for not only myself, my family and her closest friends, but to everyone who knew her. I hate that this happened to her. But I feel privileged to have had her as a mother, and to have been there to help her through the most difficult time of her life. 

We will keep her blog up indefinitely, as well as her social media platforms, so that her friends can be reminded of her. 

As for her memorial service, it will be held at the Unitarian Church of Montreal, on 28th December from 15:00 to 17:00, and will be live streamed for those who can’t make it in person. In lieu of flowers (although she loved them!), please consider donating to the causes below, which my mother consistently supported right up until her death.

It wouldn’t be a Tranquil Garden post if I didn’t include some music. One of the songs my mom requested a lot towards the end was “Rainy Days and Mondays” by the Carpenters. Another one was “Yesterday Once More“, which always helped perk us up when we were feeling especially down. May it do the same for you.

I love to hear from you!

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