Inside Mom's boxes of photos, I've found happy memories — and a way through my grief

This First Person article is written by Kevin McGowan, who lives in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

Is that a tiara on her head? Are you kidding?

Such was my reaction upon finding photos from Mom's high school prom, circa 1960. She always kept her hair short, dressed plainly and didn't like a lot of flashy jewelry or anything designer. Yet here she is, sporting a huge smile, a gorgeous white prom dress (with corsage) and a bright tiara on her fresh-from-the-salon hairdo. 

I had never seen this picture, tucked into a box of faded photos, letters and odds-and-ends that my grandmother had kept for decades. My grandmother passed away in 2011 and Mom inherited her semi-organized archives. 

I'm not sure if Mom ever went through the box, to be honest. It's not easy going through your mother's things when she has passed away. 

I should know, as the story is repeating itself and I go through these boxes after my mother's passing in June 2021. 

It's been two years since she left us and I am only now feeling strong enough to dig through these pictures and learn more about who she was. The last four years of her life were incredibly difficult as she grew sicker from an illness that was never fully diagnosed. Sadly, it's that time that comes to mind first when I think of her. 

Only recently have I had the wherewithal to start seeking out happier memories of happier times. 

'You should get here fast'

If you've received the call, you know exactly what I'm talking about. 

My dad: "Mom is in an ambulance, it's looking bad, you should get here fast."

Me, panicking: "She was fine yesterday, we joked about her old blender catching fire."

Dad: "Come quickly." 

For me, the shock was followed by an 800-kilometre highway drive to Sarnia, Ont. By the time I got there, she was recovering, bouncing back from a near-death experience. 

That first call was brutal, scary. But those calls kept coming. For four years, every five or six weeks, another call. "She's in an ambulance again." Another near-death experience, followed by a slightly slower recovery. 

The hospital stays lengthened, from a few days at a time to a few months. Our entire existence as a family was defined by doctor visits, second and third opinions, therapists and nurses, comparing and contrasting medical reports. Her times at home were brief. She would be discharged from the hospital but after a few days would be back in the ambulance. 

COVID-19 added more complications and we couldn't even visit her. Frustrated and angry, she refused phone calls, turning more and more inside herself. 

Eventually, after all the hospitals and confusing twists and turns, her body couldn't take it anymore. She agreed to go into palliative care. Only then were we able to visit with her daily. 

After four days, she was moved into a single room. She was unable to communicate with us anymore. I called her brothers from her bedside so they could say their goodbyes. My father, brother and I sat with her quietly as she passed away. She was 78. 

A family reeling from trauma

I can't begin to describe the levels of trauma a long illness like this has on the whole family. The doctors and hospital staff commented how "they rarely see a family so dedicated" to getting her the right care. We were in it as much as we could be, and that just made the trauma that much deeper. The fight was unwinnable.

Two years on, the trauma is starting to dissipate. 

For months, whenever anyone mentioned her name or shared an anecdote, all I could see in my mind was hospital rooms, ambulances and her tears as she uncharacteristically admitted defeat. I shut my eyes to sleep at night, and saw her face, sour with pain. "Remember the good times," well-meaning people would say, but those platitudes just made the agony worse. 

All those good memories are now past tense. All thoughts of her were traumatizing. I couldn't even look at photos. 

Eventually, I started digging through family archives. I began remembering our good times, but also witnessing memories I had never even heard about. For the first time in ages, thoughts of my mother brought a smile to my face, along with a different kind of tears. 

Inside the boxes and albums — many from my grandparents and great-grandparents, stored away for decades — I discovered more memories.

We found an audio recording of my parents' wedding that even Dad didn't remember having. Boxes of slides featuring holidays and parties. So many events and celebrations and dogs and drives, and, oh so many smiles. I was finally able to start seeing further back in time, before she was sick. 

She can't share the stories with me in the same way as before, but the more I see her memories on paper, I get a deeper sense of who she was before she had kids, before she married, before all that I knew. 

The gift of these pictures and letters allows me to explore the memories she had but didn't think to share, and gives me the opportunity to keep learning more about her, even without her voice telling the tales.

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