Illustration by Juliana Neufeld
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It was 16 days before Christmas and my mother was dying from a brain tumour. Having survived a stroke and two bouts of esophageal cancer, how could it be that an aggressive brain tumour would kill our mother?
She had little time left and kept asking, “Where are all the singing children?” My siblings and I had no idea what she meant.
While growing up, our kitchen table had seen many heated and sometimes livid arguments over politics, religion, sports or who had more roast beef on their plate. My parents would always finish with a cup of tea. Here we were, all these years later, gazing lovingly at a mother who was now very childlike. The tumour had affected the part of the brain that holds memory and imagination. Although she was not in pain, her visions sometimes terrorized and, in some cases, amused her. One afternoon, she turned to me with a smile on her face, and told me she was going to let me in on a secret, that baby Jesus was a girl and not a boy. This, coming from an agnostic mother, made me smile as well. On other days, she was frightened by shadows on the wall.
I felt helpless as I watched her slip further toward death and decided that, somehow, I needed to find those singing children. When we were young, our family always sang carols after dinner on Christmas Day. Could this be the reason she was looking for singing children?
A few days later, I was driving to my mother’s house and suddenly saw my answer. I quickly swerved into the coffee shop parking lot and stopped the car in front of a group of Christmas carollers trying to keep warm. They were dressed in Victorian clothing and had just finished going from store to store in downtown Streetsville, singing Christmas carols as they had done for years.
I approached the group and gave them a rather rambling history of my mum, her close approach to death and most importantly her vision of singing children. I asked them to come back to my mother’s house and sing carols for her. They might not be children, but I knew they would touch a part of her that was longing to hear this music. They politely listened but said they were finished for the day and would happily come the following Saturday. After giving them the address, I silently prayed my mother would last the week and hoped they would be true to their word.
The week had many ups and downs for my mother. Her body was slowly shutting down and food was going right through her. My younger sister and I were on duty that Saturday morning and worked hard at getting her ready for visitors. Shortbread cookies and tea were waiting in the kitchen and a comfortable chair was positioned facing the front door with my mother securely in place.
Just after 10 a.m., singing could be heard in the distance.
I will always cherish the moment I saw my mother’s head lift and the dullness in her eyes disappear. Her lips began moving, and the softest whisper of a song could be heard. My sister and I looked at each other with the realization that Mum was trying to sing Christmas carols.
The inside front door had been left open, as well as the curtains, so she could see the carollers coming up the driveway. There were five of them, and they came through the front door without hesitation and a glorious sound erupted in her small house. It felt like angels had descended just for her. My mum tried singing along with them like she was part of the group. She had a smile and a knowing look on her face, as if to say, “What took you so long?”
My sister and I were so overwhelmed with emotion that we had to move into the kitchen so she wouldn’t see us cry. These were tears of sadness, of joy and, most importantly, tears of love. Composing ourselves, we walked back to enjoy our mother’s happiness. We both agreed that this was one of those shared moments in life that would never be forgotten.
The choir sang four more songs along with Mum, who tapped her foot. I could see she tried hard to remember the words. When the carollers finished, they enjoyed some hot tea and went on their way with our heartfelt thanks. After the joyous sounds had died away, I looked over at my mum. She was still smiling, and my heart was at peace.
My mother made it through that Christmas and enjoyed a wee dram on Scottish Hogmanay, Dec. 31, the biggest night of the year for Scots.
This Christmas, I’ll be looking for my mother’s singing angels, and when I find them, I know they will once again bring peace to my heart.
Valerie McCall lives in Mississauga.