Dorothy Owen: October 26, 1920 - April 4 2005

Numb.

When other people died, I never knew what to say and I always thought the words

"my thoughts and prayers are with you" came off so trite. But now, as friends send emails with the same words, I don't find them trite at all. There's really big feelings behind those little words.

This CAN'T be happening to me! When the hospital called - minutes before I was leaving for work - the shaking and fear was palpable - I could taste it. Five minutes later, the chaplain called. She had a weak pulse then, but I thought

"So this is it. This is how they do it."

He has a beautiful voice.

By the time my husband and son came home; I'd gone empty. My son needed us, and I couldn't help thinking how brave he is.

The two hours it took to get there was just blank. I thought if she survived this cardiac arrest, we'd simply be more worried whether or not she survived the operation that she'd been promised for months.

Four SUV's were playing a dangerous game of driving on the 407, and my husband got pissed off - said something about "scaring my wife"

Admitting said she'd been discharged - I said that was rather callous. I knew and didn't know. Then my Dad turned with tears in his eyes, and she was lying there, looking better than she'd had in a long time.

"She didn't make it."

Then blank went to numb. This is it. This is the fear to end all fears. This is my mother. She has no need to be frightened anymore, because she has solved the mystery.

She didn't look as frail. That was hard, watching her get so old, and frail. Last week, I changed her diapers and that hit hard. The circle. Then, as we called the ambulance, all I wanted was for the circle to be a little bigger - to not reach itself yet, not just yet.

A week she was there, a week of fear and terror and an ache where my heart should be of getting better. Not looking so well. A little better today. Maybe somebody will finally do something. A phone call.

In April's 15 centimetres of snow and sluch, we got there Sunday, and she lit up when she saw Jamie, and wagged her finger at him for not keeping on top of his school work. I didn't really know what to say - she kind of noticed that. SHe said she was very frightened. I think I said I was too. Some doctor came for 30 seconds and mentioned an operation tomorrow....so I hopped up and starting hollering after the nurses (and Dad) WHAT OPERATION?

Mom said the doctor was an idiot. She was right.

I said goodbye, backing out of the room, grinning - I think she was too tired - she was drinking apple juice. We told her we loved her, and asked her to try not to worry.

Gave Dad the number of the surgeon.

Yesterday, I talked to Dad and he had the go-ahead on what they'd planned for Mom - an emergency quick-fix.

An hour later, the beautiful voice of the chaplain, and then numbness. And relief, in a way. She looked like she was going to wake up any minute with something clever. So this is what I've been afraid of. Just this. This sense of love and rest and warmth of a live well lived; a life that gave me strength, and humour.

Does God exist? I don't know, but I'd like to believe she's finally met her own Dad, who she ways is the greatest person to walk the face of this earth. I didn't know him, but I had her.

SHouldn't someone call my brother in Italy? Shouldn't I cry? Look! I'm sitting at her feet and laughing.

If there is a God, He gave me strength last week.

My friends and family are giving me strength this week, as I learn to say "was".

My chest hurts.