I don’t know what to write here.

Today is the fourth Friday that I should be planning the weekend with my mom. Instead, I’m staring at this blank screen, while impossible things whirl around and around in my head and clever words refuse to come out of it.

I am sad. I am angry. I am in denial. I am numb.

I am filled with love that keeps leaking out of my eyes and doesn’t know where to go.

I don’t even know what to say. Many people didn’t even know my mom was sick. She was a private person, which in hindsight, is kind of amazing to me, because my mom could and willingly would talk to absolutely anyone, absolutely anywhere.

On Monday, April 8th at 12:13 am, my mom lost her courageous battle with cancer. I actually hate to say “battle” because, while my mom was committed to doing whatever it took to buy as much time as she could, she wasn’t angry or resentful, at least not that I saw. I was both of those things, towards the cancer, towards the crumbling institution of healthcare in Canada, but in the face of it all, my mom was grateful, hopeful and — amazingly — cheerful. She was radiant. She was joyful.

You know, as I think on it now, I don’t actually think my mom was fighting cancer. I think she was fighting for her life. And I believe that made all the difference. She wasn’t fighting against something, which was honestly a familiar and well-worn path for her, but instead, she let love crack her heart wide open and she fought with grace FOR love and for life. She was praying for a miracle, but little did she know she’d become the miracle herself: she healed both our hearts, and she left this world behind her filled with love and all of us — herself included — just wishing for more time.

I know she was scared and I know she was in pain (which, let me tell you: it fucking sucks to watch someone you love be afraid and in pain when there is NOTHING you can do to make either of those things go away), but my mom enjoyed the moments she had. She was grateful, which I think is a pretty tall order when you’re dying, even though she desperately wanted more time.

I am grateful to my mom. That falls short, actually, of how I feel. She made me, literally and figuratively, into the person I am. I am embarrassed and ashamed of how it took this earthquake of a loss for me to be painfully (and gratefully) present to the beautiful human being that my mom was (and for me, still is). All her gifts and all her scars. Her whole essence and all of her survival mechanisms.

I have too much to say and right now, can’t find the words. So here is the eulogy I wrote for my mom, instead. I hope you fall in love with her, because the world is big and life is hard, and we can use all the love we can find.

Anne Marie Roy

On Tuesday, February 24th, 1953, a little whirlwind of passion and energy made her grand entrance in this beautiful world. And on Monday, April 8th, after only 71 too-short years, this beautiful world became a little less bright, not only because of a once-in-a-lifetime solar eclipse, but also because that’s the day that Anne Marie Roy went home.

Anyone who knew Anne was unlikely to forget her. Her smile, her sparkling eyes, her easy laugh, her inexhaustible energy and her uncanny ability to strike up a conversation with absolutely anyone, literally anywhere she went, were only a few of the qualities that made her unforgettable. Anne was always up for good trouble or an adventure, and if you were on one with her, it was bound to be good, with a lot more laughter than if you’d gone alone. She loved nature and animals, and had a magical way with both. Mom believed in magic and she created it for the people around her.

Anne loved her people: if you were among those lucky to be counted as friend or family, then you knew what it was to be ferociously loved. Mom didn’t do anything halfway. Her fierce heart was generous, loyal and protective. Mom believed in us. She believed in our dreams and our potential. She saw what could be. If you wanted something, or wanted to do or be something, mom wouldn’t rest until she figured out how to help you get there. When I (briefly) wanted to be an astronaut, mom called NASA to find out if they had summer camps for kids.

Quality time and acts of service were definitely some of Anne’s love languages: she was always ready to help out, no matter the task at hand. Many of the people gathered here today are the beneficiaries of mom’s keen eye for improvement and aesthetic, be it your yard and garden, or rearranging your kitchen cupboards to be more efficient. Whether or not you asked for it, as was sometimes the case, mom’s help was always available and always right on the mark. If mom did a thing, you knew it was done well.

One of the many things that have struck me with awe in the past three weeks since mom passed away is how she always made time to stay connected to so many people. The vast and intricate tapestry of relationships that my mom faithfully nurtured like the gardens and plants she so loved to tend has helped me to remember a truth that my mom knew so deeply; that relationships with people are what matter the most in this one lifetime that will always be too short, no matter how much time we get.

Anne’s life was not always easy. She weathered many very difficult storms and personal tragedies, more than was her fair share, but just like the perennial plants she so adored, my mom rose up, time and time again, like a fresh shoot reaching for the sun after a long, hard winter. She was a model of grit and resilience, of can-do and why-not and yes-let’s, and she taught me the same by example.

Mom was a force of nature. She was a fighter. She beat breast cancer 10 years ago, and she was willing to give this round all she had, and then some. She faced this terrible diagnosis with grace, and unimaginable strength, courage and faith. At a time when fear and pain would have most of us close our hearts to keep them from breaking, mom let this tragedy break hers wide open. I truly believe that the last 6 months, as challenging and painful as they were, were some of the happiest times of her life. She let go of things she’d long held onto, and with those hands now open, was able to freely give and receive the love she’d often struggled to let in. You could see it in the twinkle of her eyes, and the clear radiance of her face, even while she was in pain, even on her last day.

Anne was hope personified. Literally until the very end — her last morning with us — she was on the phone, setting up new treatments to buy her more time. She had hope and faith, even alongside her fear. She was grateful for her medical care, and everyone in her corner. She believed in miracles and she never stopped hoping and praying for one. She wanted to squeeze every drop she could from this life, to spend as many precious moments as she could fit in with her beloved friends and family.

My mom was a gatekeeper of hopes and dreams. She was the living essence of Possibility, Radiance, Love, Joy & Devotion. Mom was a teacher. And now that she’s gone home, our job is to remember the lessons she taught us: the importance of standing for our own dreams and never letting go of them, to tend our gardens and nurture our relationships, and to fight for life to be better and more beautiful.

Our job is to shine brighter because she was here, and will always be here, in our hearts, which is where our light comes from after all.

My mom was grateful for all of this wild and crazy life. She was grateful for all of us. She went home, kneeling before the Lord of song, with nothing on her tongue but hallelujah (and possibly an objection to being taken home too soon).

Let us remember to always be unreasonable in our faith and our hope and our love.

I am so proud of my mom. I am proud to be her daughter. And I am honoured to know she was proud of me, too. She was proud of all of us.

I love you mom. Thank you. It’s not goodbye; it’s only see you soon.

Je t’aime Maman. Merci. Ce n’est pas un ‘au revoir,’ c’est seulement un ‘à bientôt.’

Bonsoir, tète à bonjour, bon dedo, bons rêves.