Losing your mother is anxiety-provoking

One of the tragedies that all immigrants fear is that of being told over the phone that a close relative has died without having had time to greet their departure. As parents get older and start to be frail, every call from the country becomes anxious.

Over the past few years, my wife has witnessed my many panic attacks caused by a phone call from a family member who ignored jet lag. Each time, I woke up from my sleep dreading the worst, before going back to bed, glad to find that it was a false alarm. Sadly, the dreaded phone call fell this week. My mother, this sad-eyed orphan from birth who spent her life trying to save all vulnerable children, has passed away. It is a passage that I dreaded particularly, because it was at the center of our big family, the magnet on which came to stick the vulnerable small pieces of metal which needed anchoring.

I am sure that all those who read this text have in mind the image of a magnet, or of a “magnet”, whose departure left a great void in their family. When such a person disappears, it is as if pulling on a single thread completely undoes, one stitch at a time, that good old knit so comfortable that kept us warm and that we believed to be eternal.

In every family, there are matriarchs without whom nothing will be the same. This central pillar are those whose heart warms much more than the fire in the fireplace. Those who shine like the star at the head of our genealogical trees and without whom the party, despite all its candles, its garlands, its colored bulbs and its boustifaille, would most certainly lose its light.

My mother, who was one of these central people, often told this little story on the subject: “Once upon a time there was a young man who was preparing to go on a trip. Before leaving, his grandmother handed him a small stick and ordered him to break the piece of wood. What the grandson manages to do without great achievement. Grandma then asks her how many members there are in the family. The youngster replied that there were nine brothers and sisters. The grandmother took out nine pieces of sticks identical to the first, tied them together with a thread and asked the young man to break the bundle. When she realized that despite all the strength deployed, the strong one could not break the small package, she said to him: “Wherever you are my grandson, you must always remember that it is also that, a family. ! ” ”

Today, I realize more than ever that my mother represented this thread that securely ties the little sticks to keep them together. It will be necessary, after his departure, to work very hard to prevent this dispersion of the pieces of wood which would make them more vulnerable.

I have often discussed this subject with friends who have told me how the loss of their mother had caused immeasurable upheavals in their lives. This is what is happening to me now, because the mere prospect of sleeping in our family home without Mum’s presence freezes my heart.

Ever since the news broke, I have felt pages from my childhood come back to me in the dark nights of my hometown, when just hearing Mum’s voice eased my anxiety. Anyone who has experienced this painful passage knows how unsettling it is for a human being.

“I’m finally going to be a little too late, Mom. I had bought my ticket, but knowing that you were very ill, I knew that this time, the Nescafe of Canada that you loved so much could not make you smile. I have told a few times in these pages, but also in a book, how you were one of the most generous and sensitive people to the human tragedies on Earth. On behalf of all the vulnerable to whom you have devoted your time, money and support, thank you! Thank you for teaching me that happiness comes into a person equal to the openness he creates in his heart for others. Thank you for making me understand that it is better to help discreetly in the dark to preserve the dignity of the recipient! Since your departure, when anguish invades my heart, I have listened to the words of the poet and singer N’diaga M’baye on life, death and the importance of remaining humble in our brief passage on this Earth. Long after his death, the words of this great poet still heal my being in its deepest part. If it is true, as the ancients said that a human is not truly dead until the living have forgotten him, you will remain in hearts and in books for just as long. Rest in peace, my dear mother! ”

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