Where I’ve been … since many of you have been there

I have been out of the loop for a couple of weeks, and many of you have noticed.

And since we are now friends, I’d like to tell you why.

I said goodbye to my mom last Thursday.

Many of you understood as soon as you read that sentence what my last couple of weeks have been like. You have already been where I am now.

I thank you in advance for the words of comfort I know you would like to offer — and the reassurance that the pain will go away and be replaced by lots of memories.

I know that, too. It is just hard to see that right now.

My mom was 91. She has had some health problems for a number of years, but this latest decline was swift and brutal.

We had to make some decisions no family should have to make, and it was hard, very hard.

Adding to the sadness was that my father, also in his 90s, was dealing with the impending loss of his wife of nearly 50 years. My brother and I worried about him, too.

After weeks in the hospital, Mom went to hospice, where she died two days later.

In every family, there is a strong one — the person who has to steel him or herself to hear the doctors’ predictions, the realities of the illness a loved one is facing and to advise the rest of the family on what the next step should be.

I am that person. I was that person for my dad and my brother.

I took the calls and signed the papers. I had to temper the highs of good news with the crushing sadness that came along with the bad.

I had to fight when there was a call to fight, and to console when the decision became obvious.

I had to call my dad and tell him his soulmate, the love of his life, was gone.

I handled the funeral, the burial, the rest of the necessities that go along with a goodbye — all while choking down my own sense of loss and grief.

I did what I had to, what so many of you have had to do, too.

It is a blessing to be able to be there for those you love during the hard times. I am just glad I could be there for my brother and my dad. Having them there with me helped me get through.

And now, after all of the services are over and we are headed to a new world without Mom in it, my brother and I have had to be there for my dad as he navigates this new normal.

It is our privilege and honor to be able to do that.

I knew you would understand why that had to be my priority for the last few weeks.

But even as I tell you about my sad news, I want to share a little bit with you about my mom.

You would have liked her.

Jane Harriett Smith Lavoie was not my birth mother.

My mother died when I was 5 years old, succumbing to cancer at the age of 35.

Margaret Wasiloff Lavoie left behind a little girl and a 2-year-old boy, my brother, Brian.

We did not know her. She was sick for many months at a time when breast cancer was tantamount to a death sentence, before we had the treatments and the victories we have today.

I tell people that she was a pioneer. The ordeal she went through likely set the stage for the developments we have today.

She would be proud of all you survivors out there.

My dad had to struggle with the horrible battle my mother had to wage against a formidable foe, and to accept and to report defeat after defeat, all the while taking care of two very little children, both of whom had no idea what was happening.

About a year after my mother died, my stepmother, and I use that term for clarity only, and my father, Francis Lavoie, who had been friends for years, married.

She was my mom almost instantly. I called her Mommy because she was — in every sense of the word.

I can’t imagine how scared and unsure she must have been.

It is not an easy task raising children, let alone two who have just suffered such a tremendous loss.

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Jane Lavoie had a huge heart.

It opened to welcome not just her new stepchildren, but also anything or anyone who needed her.

She had a knack for making people feel special, necessary and important. She supported organizations and efforts that worked to that end.

And she did not just care for humans.

My mom loved animals.

Her heart was with animal rescue, especially dogs and other companion animals. In fact, the loves of her life were her rescue dogs, Beauregard and Joey, and more recently, her granddogs, Rush and Beau.

We did not mind sharing her with them.

But if you asked Mom what her favorite animal was, she would have answered without hesitation — elephants.

I know why.

She used to tell me that elephants were compassionate, family-oriented and fiercely protective of their herd. She pointed out how they loved, how they cared for each other and how they never forgot one of their own who was sick or lost.

I think I see why Mom loved them so much. She was just like them — just ask anyone who has ever met her.

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My life with my mom was not always easy.

There were times when she doubted that I had accepted her as my mother, and there were days when I thought she would have rather had another daughter.

Some of you will understand that, too.

But as the years passed, I think she got it, and I did, too.

We were mother and daughter, forever and always.

After my mom died last week, I was looking for a piece of jewelry for her to wear at the funeral service.

I had been particularly sad that day, wondering if she really knew how much she meant to me, if I had been the daughter she wanted me to be.

Before I tell you what happened, I have to say that I am a person who believes that those who have passed are always with us, guiding us, comforting us, showing us that while they might be gone, they will always be just a word or a prayer away.

(If you see me out and about, ask me about my penny story. If you are a person of faith in any way, it will make you smile.)

As I was looking for my mom’s special bracelet, I came across a folded piece of paper with a child’s drawing of what I think was meant to be a dog.

“Happy Mothers Day” was emblazoned on the front in bright crayon.

Inside, was an invitation to “te” (also known as tea) to celebrate Mothers Day.

It was addressed to a “perfect momy,” with a little arrow adding in the extra “m” that should have been there.

At the bottom were the words, “Love, Renee.”

There is no reason that the card should have been in that drawer, or that I should have looked there at that moment on that day.

I like to think my mom guided me there.

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at that card, which must have been created soon after she first became my mom.

It was the first time I had allowed my grief to take hold, to stop being the strong one for everyone else.

I paused for a moment before continuing my search to look skyward.

“I love you, too, Mom,” I said.