Colleen Patricia Sommerfield (nee Cram)
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| On my inside, left, forearm, where her disease started |
Colleen Patricia Sommerfield (nee Cram) was my mother. The anniversary of her death was eight years ago as of June 18, 2012. She passed away from a disease called Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), sometimes better known as Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a rapid and progressive, neuromuscular disease which leads to paralysis of the voluntary muscles. Essentially you end up unable to talk, walk, eat, scratch, poop, write, sit, or even move but your mind stays the completely the same. My mother once described it to me as being trapped within your own body like a prison. She left this world a week before my high school graduation and three weeks before my eighteenth birthday, yet we were suppose to lose her five years prior, however we underestimated her determination....
When I was in grade six my mother first developed symptoms of the disease in her left wrist which doctors thought was carpal tunnel. She struggled for weeks to get the key into our house lock or sign her name on a cheque. My mother was left-handed thus, simple, daily, tasks soon became a frustrating struggle. After weeks of tests, failed treatments, and misdiagnoses, doctors finally diagnosed her with ALS with a six month prognosis. Once the initial shock had hit the Sommerfield and Cram families, my parents pulled me out of school and we went travelling together. We went on a cruise, lived in Florida for awhile and simply spent time together processing the future challenge ahead of us. I distinctively remember that on one of our family trips my mother said to me, "I will be at your high school graduation". My response was "No Mom, that's not possible. That is six years away and the doctors gave you six months.". Little did I know but my mother was one of the most determined people I have/will ever meet. Although it would have been physically impossible for her to attend my grad she made it close enough to see my dress and accept that her daughter had reached one of life's many mile stones.
It was my mothers wish to die at home and my father and I, with the help of many others (family, friends, social workers, home-care helpers, hospice workers, nurses, and doctors) made that possible. For six years we took care of her every need and attempted to make her as comfortable as possible. We figured out schedules for visitors, rotations for aid workers, modified our home, developed methods of communication and adjusted our personal lives. That all sounds so simple in writing but in reality it was so much more difficult. As we approached the last few weeks of her life, my father and I ensured that one of us was always around. Although my mother had clearly stated she did not, by any means, want my father or I around when she took her last breath, we were determined for her not to be alone.
One day my high school called me stating that I had to bring in a baby picture for my graduation table. They had been waiting weeks for it (as I had stopped going to school) and could not wait any longer. My father was out biking (aka de-stressing) so I kissed my mother, told her I loved her, would be back in five minutes, and informed the nurse. I drove as fast as possible to the school, ran inside, dropped off the picture and raced home. Upon returning home, my father was in the door way, still in his bike gear, with a crying nurse by his side. The expression on his face was one of death. An expression that only those who have lost someone close to them truly understand. The grief is so deep it sucks the light from your eyes and pulls your heart into the pit of your stomach. I knew immediately what had happened. During those five minutes, that I left her alone, she slipped into another world, one in which we could not follow, no matter how desperately I wanted to. I was immediately filled with an overwhelming amount of grief, pain and regret. It was my shift and I had left her alone. It took me years to forgive myself and accept that she had waited for those five minutes so our last memory wouldn't be her last breath. My mother hadn't been without either my father or I, for weeks, months, maybe even a year, she had patiently waited until she was alone and felt it was safe to finally let go.
I would pay, give or do anything to see my mother one more time. To ask her if she is proud of me and to tell her that I love her but I would not change the life experience that came with losing her. That experience transformed me into the person who I am today. I understand things, and see life in a way, that unfortunately most never do. Even during death she taught me the most important of life's lessons. She showed me first hand true love, dedication, determination, faith, patience, inner strength, and the power of ones' mind. The gift of life is so delicate and precious that we must never take it for granted and health is often something we only appreciate in its absence. After eight years of going through the stages of grief, over, and over, and over again, I am finally able to tell this story. My heart is finally able to communicate the loss, and the gifts, that came with losing my mother. In many ways, I radiate out everything that she was and live my life in harmony with the many strengths and vast wisdom she gave me. In the end, I got my mothers named tattooed on my skin because it represents so much more than just a name. It is a reminder of everything written above and after eight years I am now able to bear on my skin what so strongly resides within my heart.
