

The greatest gift you can give yourself is a life well lived.
The greatest gift you can give your loved ones is a death well planned for.


Originally Published November 9, 2022

It was June 9, 1956, when they said "I do". Deep in the basement hollows of St. Pat's Church at 12th and Main in Vancouver, BC, my mom married my dad, Ernie. 66 years ago. They weren't alone that day, my oldest brother Ernie was with them, tucked inside my mom's womb to arrive 3 months later.
My mom has had Ernie in her life for a lifetime. Ernie is her husband, and also her son. Two Ernies. Her husband Ernie spent 54 years doing life with her. I am sure some of their life was fabulous, and I know some of it was bloody awful, like in 1979 when their son Ernie died.
Over our Timmie's lunch, she began to talk about that time, about the heart pain only a mom can know, the guilt and uncertainty about her mothering - about wishing she had done more, done better. For 41 years she carried this alone, never spoke of it, never shared it. She talked of visits to her son Ernie's graveside, spending time with him there. I never knew. I never knew she went. Ernie was her firstborn. Ernie was the one she carried in her heart and missed every single day.
Her husband Ernie died in 2010. Despite their misunderstandings and the heart pain they both carried, they loved each other. She'd tell stories of their younger days - when they met, the things they'd do, the fun they had. Ernie was her husband of 54 years, and then he died.
Both Ernies were integral parts of my mom's life, so of course she'll always remember them, right?
I sponsored a beehive to honour my dad, and we poured the honey - Ernie's Honey - in late September. It was a magical, emotional, and very special day for me. The first place we stopped on the way home was my mom's. I was so excited to share a jar of honey with her.
I walked into the house, excitedly telling her about the pouring of the honey. As I handed her the jar I said, "Here Mom. Here's a jar of Ernie's Honey". She held the jar, looked up at me, and chuckled a little. I wanted her to feel as excited as I did at this moment, instead, she said "Who is Ernie?"
I felt like I had been slapped. I stood shocked and as my stomach tightened, I could physically feel and see tiny shards of my heart break away. I held my breath, forced back the tears, and busied myself with putting the honey jars on the shelf. Somehow I never expected that she might forget my dad, Ernie. It was a momentary lapse, and as I tried to explain afterward, she slightly nodded her head and said "Okay". Yet, at this moment I know she did not know who Ernie was.
As I reflected later, I realized that I had also fed the confusion. I was too excited, speaking way too fast, and not slowing down enough to help her make the connection between the honey and my dad, Ernie. On this day, I was reminded that every moment and how we approach it does require thought and time. Slow, concise communication. Spontaneity and excitement can feed the confusion in dementia.
Weeks later we're going through her jewelry. She's in search of her wedding rings and needs to have them close to her. We find the rings and she says "I'm taking them with me." I love this, for she remembers her husband Ernie, and today his memory and these rings bring her comfort. Today she knows who her husband Ernie is.
From the same drawer, she reaches in for a small box, linen textured and pale blue. It reminds me of Sears from years gone by. Her arthritic hands shake a little as she feels the linen texture with her fingers, then slowly lifts the lid. This box is very special to her. As the contents become free, she takes a fingertip and feels what is inside. Her eyes mist up. She takes her hand away and I can see a bright red badge that says "I'm the Greatest". She picks up the badge, to reveal the treasures below, a tiny pocket knife with a smooth white albacore finish, and a few other trinkets. I have never seen this box before. As I ask what's all that? she gently closes the lid with great care and love, wraps her hand tight around the box and brings it to her heart. "This is my son. He couldn't stay and had to leave us long ago." Her teary eyes gazed into mine, and we just held each other there for a moment. As my own eyes filled with tears I could feel a few more tiny shards break away from my heart. For her, for me, for all of us.
In this moment, I so wanted her to know that I knew who Ernie was. I said, "Oh those are special things of Ernie's! I know Ernie, Mom, he was my brother." She just looked at me with uncertainty on her face, and simply said, "No, this is my son." I had to turn away as I wondered - does she remember his name, or has she forgotten that I am her daughter and also knew Ernie, her son.
Right now these times are momentary and poignant. My mom does often remember who both Ernie her husband and Ernie her son are. Yet, in the moments when she doesn't, it takes my breath away. In these moments of not remembering, it may not be heartbreaking for her, but it is for me. And I know in times of clarity, it's heartbreaking for her too. Often she will look deep into my eyes and say "I'm losing my mind. I can't remember." She searches for me to offer reassurance, that it isn't so. Previously, I may have joked about it, or agreed with her. I've since learned to simply be present, and always speak and act from this place of love, compassion, respect, and dignity. Now I simply reply, "It's okay Mom, you remember, it just takes time now." And when she talks of not remembering people and names I say, "It's okay Mom, you'll remember them in your heart. That's what matters most."
I hope it's true. I hope she does. Somewhere, even if only deep within her heart. I hope she will always remember. Remember that Ernie was her husband and Ernie was her son, and they loved her.
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Resources Available:
Adult Cognitive Wellness Centre
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About the author:
Karen Hendrickson is an Elevation Coach, focused on helping others to rewrite their life story, befriend their mortality, and find the richness and magic that lives at the intersection of our lives where life and death meet. When we allow our authentic self permission to shine our life becomes full of MAGIC and GREATNESS. Contact karenttjourney@gmail.com and start working with her today!