Shelley A Carney (Daughter)
Entered
February 24, 2021
from Pickering
For My Mother
Dear Mumma,
I am the luckiest person in the world. I get to say that my mom is Lois Krolick. I know I have been blessed to have you in my life for 56 years-I also know that most people are not that lucky. You are more than my mother today-you are my confidante; my best friend; my hero. You are the one person I have always bared my soul to; you have always been there for me. I have no regrets of the past 56 years-nothing was left unsaid between us. We shared our likes and dislikes, wishes, hopes, fears and dreams. I confided everything to you, and you confided in me. Our bond is so deep-we share a connection that few people in this world have been lucky enough to have. Yet today I am selfishly grieving, for want of even more time with you. I want to shower you with words of praise, but there are not enough words of praise to bestow upon you. How do I sum up my feelings for you and thank you for everything you have brought to my life in only a few minutes? It’s just not possible.
You left me on Sunday, February 7, 2021, between 7-9 pm. I know you were afraid. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to hold your hand and tell you that it would be ok. Part of me senses that you knew this would happen and that you welcomed the idea to not have to suffer long-you already had suffered so much in the past two years. I’m trying to believe it was God’s plan to take you to heaven this way. If anyone deserves to be in heaven, it’s you, Mom. I’m sure that when God decided it was your time to leave us, the angels parted heaven’s gates to welcome your arrival. Yet, I selfishly want you to still be here. I want to come to you and tell you how I’m feeling right now. But you aren’t there-at least, not in body. It has been that way for most of the past year-with that wretched disease, I couldn’t come into your home-the home that had protected our family for so many years. I was reduced to 10-minute visits at the front door or a telephone visit that was even more of a struggle. I wanted to see you; to hug you. I wanted everything to be as it was before. Now I can’t do that; I didn’t know how precious those brief visits were. Somehow, I have to go on.
Though you aren’t here to hold my hand and to allow me to selfishly blather on about my own fears, I know you are still with me. The love you provided, the inspiration, the hope, the confidence. I promise you that the values you worked to instil in me were understood. Oh my god, Mom. I am who I am, because of you. In recent times, when I tried to help you in your own times of trouble, you talked about wanting me to live my life; to not be a burden to me. I want you to know, it has been my greatest privilege to be there for you. I want to be like you, though I could only ever be a weak impersonation. Look at me, Mom. Look at my home. The way I live, the things I value come from the things you have taught me. The question I have is, how do I go on? What do I do with the lessons you have taught me?
Mom, you never travelled far from your front porch in these past few years. When you weren’t limited by COVID or the ailments that come along with old age, your adventures used to consist of road trips with dad, bicycle rides on your ‘spirits’ after work, reading a good novel, or crafting for the church. You never talked of travelling the world and I foolishly wondered if it was simply because you were afraid to travel; I didn’t understand why. It didn’t match the dreams you had for yourself as a young girl-dreams that you told me about in our get-togethers with shadow coffee. You often confided in me of how you saw yourself in life- a free spirit that couldn’t be contained or told what to do. You dreamt of becoming a professional skater like Sonja Henie, you wanted to be a teacher, you wanted to be a writer. I wondered why you didn’t continue to chase your dreams. Upon reflection, I now feel ashamed of my naivité. I didn’t understand that you did chase your dreams in life-it’s just that your dreams changed with marriage and motherhood. Mom, your life was already full. I know that you spent every waking minute worrying about all of us; you felt excited about our wishes and dreams, you worried when we worried, and you wanted to solve all of life’s hurdles for us. You aggressively pushed me to make my own dreams come true. You didn’t hesitate to help us in times of trouble. All you wanted in return, was our love. And mom, you have my love-whole-hearted, unwavering for all eternity.
I know that you learned many lessons in life from your own mother; she was a fierce matriarch and protector of her family, and I’m grateful that you encouraged me to develop a close relationship with her as a young girl. Later on, you worked hard to fill the void for the family that was left when we lost grandma. My heart tells me that I should do the same for you. In our last conversation you talked about the joy of motherhood and you asked me to take care of Dad and the family. I’m telling you that I will try to follow in your shoes; I will help him grieve and try my best to give him the courage to carry on. I will continue to protect Ian, Elyse, and Jillian and try to inspire them with the words you taught me. I will try to keep Michael, Philip and all of our families connected and inspired by your life. I will try to tell them your stories. Stories of your childhood, of your adventures, misadventures, hopes, dreams, and astounding accomplishments. If they ask me. Perhaps I will even be lucky enough to be a grandmother like you one day, and this beautiful family cycle will continue.
As for me, I will always need to talk to you. I hope that’s ok. I know that one day, I will get to hold your hand again, I will drink shadow coffee with you, we will watch ‘The Story’ together, we will laugh and we will cry. Not yet, though. For now, I will have to content myself with secret conversations during the quietest of moments. I will use those moments to selfishly enjoy your stories and your words of wisdom. I will keep you up to date on our lives - until we meet again.
I love you, Mom. Always.
Your daughter,
Shelley Anne Christina
