Norma Billard (picture curtesy of Norma’s daughter, Molly MacMillan White)
This may not be quite as light and positive as I had hoped to keep my blog posts, but it is something I’ve been pondering for the past months. This is not based on anything I’ve read or anything I’ve heard from anyone through conversation. This is strictly my observations and personal feelings. However, I do feel that many other people in similar circumstances may feel the same way.
Covid-19 has definitely thrown a wrench into so many plans, in so many ways, none more so than when a family member is terminally ill and subsequently passes away. My experience was with my first cousin, Norma. The only two people in my life, longer than Norma, are my brother and my mother. I likely met her when I was only 3-4 days old, but I don’t recall our first meeting. Through the years, Norma lived in Massachusetts, Illinois and Maine, and always summered in Dundee at her parents summer place, which became her beautiful summer home after their passing.
Norma battled illness the past few years, and although treatment curtailed the illness, the side affects were difficult, leaving her with a compromised lung condition. It had become increasingly worse in her last few months. In early March, she called and asked if I would come visit her. At that time she was in a long term care facility in Boston. I debated for a couple of days, but given the time of year, with unpredictable weather, and the fact Covid appeared to be moving in on us, I didn’t think it was a great idea to be travelling. Travel would also be complicated, with trying to cross over an international border, as it was speculated the border would be closing. And we all know that happened, and continues to remain closed, as I write this.
Norma called me daily, sometimes as many as three or four times a day. I loved being home, so I could talk to her whenever she would call. Sometimes it was a very brief conversation, depending on her breathing, and sometimes it was longer. Often times she called when she got up in the morning, to let me know she was up and on the go and doing okay. She often called just to say goodnight. We ended every conversation by saying ‘I love you’ to one another. One evening, immediately after hanging up with her, the phone rang. It was Norma calling back. I picked up and said ‘hello’. And she said ‘but I love you more’ and she promptly hung up. I love that memory.
Norma’s phone calls became less and less. She would call just once or twice a day, then once every couple of days, until it was just twice the last week before she went into hospice care. I missed her calling so often. The fewer calls now tell me she was losing her battle, but at the time I suppose I was in denial.
Norma passed away a week after entering hospice care. That was hard. We were in shutdown with Covid at that time. There was no way to cross the border to be with her husband, son and daughter. There was no way to be with family and friends here in Cape Breton, to support one another. Support was confined to phone calls and emails. It was just not the same as giving and receiving a hug, or just being in the presence of others to share stories, to laugh at memories, or to cry on one another’s shoulders.
Her presence is all around, yet she is not present. I visited her summer home for the first time, a few weeks ago. She was everywhere, but nowhere. Everything was her. The large dining room table, that she loved to have surrounded by friends and family, serving them luscious food, especially at Thanksgiving, was her. The decor was all her. The upholstery, chosen for the couches and chairs, had her name all over them. Then, I saw a Volvo drive by the other day. It was the same soft brown colour she owned at one time, and I instantly thought ‘oh there’s Norma’. At a restaurant in Halifax last week, I noticed a picture of a fox hunt hanging on the wall. Again, I found myself being reminded of her.
My mind wonders if there had been a service, would I respond and feel differently? Maybe. Maybe not. These feelings would still occur, I expect. In some ways they make me happy and I feel she just hasn’t arrived to her summer home yet. Perhaps I should embrace these occurrences, but at times they catch me off guard and leave me feeling sad.
Covid does not allow for a service of remembrance, or celebration of life, to be held either here, or in the US. I feel like the grieving process is on hold ,or suspended, until restrictions are lifted enough to have a ceremony. Although some families have chosen to have small family only funerals, online ceremonies, or just graveside services, which may work for them, it really isn’t an option for Norma’s family. She had so many friends and family, in both the US and Canada, and until the border opens, and gatherings can be held in Maine and Cape Breton to give her a proper send off, the grieving will continue or perhaps will continue to be on hold. But believe me, when there can be a celebration, it is going to be that much more meaningful, because of the delay.
Yes, Covid has caused so many issues. Family and friends have been unable to be with loved ones during their most vulnerable times. We have been unable to provide support with our presence, but support only from afar. And we have unable to attend a proper ceremony, to bid adieu to our kin. It truly is a strange world we live in today.
Also, by no means am I’m implying a service needs to be held, just to be held to find closure. I truly feel a service should be held only when the pandemic will make it safe for all to attend, either in the US, in Canada, or both. And the service will be what the family wants to have, to celebrate and honour Norma’s life.
I know you and Norma were very close. She would not have wanted family and friends to risk health even if borders were open. I also don’t think she would want people to continue to grieve. I feel she’d want them to do what you are doing, honoring her by remembering and sharing stories, with hopes of sharing these in person later with family. I’m so glad you had her in your life.
Dear Hughena,
Once again you have touched my heart and my soul. I can relate to your words in so many ways. I miss Norma’s phone calls , so much it hurts and I don’t think that ache will ever diminish. In the early days of her illness, she was like her old self but as time passed I finally realized/accepted ? that things would not get better. It was not until 2 weeks before her passing that I accepted the fact I was loosing her. About six months before her passing, I knew I had so much I wanted her to know and I sent her an email for which I am so happy. I have rambled on long enough. We too, ended our conversations with “ I love you “ no matter how many times we had talked that day.