The Brilliant Life of Madeleine Brazeau
By: Olivia Blackmore
Tags: Love, Grief, Grief And Loss, Camino De Santiago, Mothers

A speech in honour of my beautiful mother, read at her memorial ceremony on December 8, 2019.

My mother and I the day after I graduated from my master’s in May 2019.

I want to thank everyone for being here. Here for me, here for my family and here for my mother, Madeleine.

My mother kept a diary of her most private thoughts, not in a journal, but on loose leaf paper. She wrote about her dreams, feelings and secrets mostly on three-hole punch lined paper, which my aunt later found scattered in her apartment in Prince George, BC. Her elegant handwriting spelled beautiful and painful words. On one page, she said she preferred to write on loose sheets of paper, because writing in a journal was constricting — the words would eventually fill up all the pages and come to an end. I think this might be the best metaphor for my mother’s life: independent, poetic, messy, beautiful and brilliant. She was true to herself. She didn’t like people questioning her choices or trying to tell her how to live her life. She did things her own way. And if you didn’t like it, well — that’s your problem.

She was fiercely stubborn. It was both one of my favourite and least favourite things about her. No one stood a chance against Madeleine. That’s what made her a good advocate. She was my advocate. When I was diagnosed with a rare chronic liver disease, she made sure I had everything I needed to succeed, and made sure I had a normal childhood, which included being at school.

She was incredibly intelligent, my grandparents said she was a genius. When my mom was four-years-old she told my grandmother she wanted to go to school. At the time there was no junior or senior kindergarten, just Grades 1 to 13. My grandmother told my mother if she wanted to go to school she had to go sign herself up. And that’s what she did. She walked right over to the school, not far from her home, and signed herself up for Grade 1, telling the teacher she was six-years-old. For months she attended school and teachers would send home notes asking for her birth certificate to prove her age. My grandmother kept putting it off until it was the end of the year and the school gave up and let her continue her studies, so the story goes. When I first heard this, I thought: there’s no way this can be true. But then I remembered who we were talking about. Perhaps certain details of the story have changed with time, and we will never know. But, to be honest, it sounds exactly like something she would do.

When she turned 60, she decided she wanted to go on a pilgrimage in Spain called the Camino de Santiago. Her doctor warned her about her knee; they would need to replace it before going on the trip. But she got on a plane instead. She travelled alone and it was her first time across the pond. She walked the Camino at her own pace, sometimes taking the bus when it was too difficult. But she made it. She got her Compostela, the name of the certificate pilgrims receive when they’ve walked at least 100 kilometres. She was so proud of herself. I am proud of her. She followed her heart fearlessly. One of my favourite stories of hers from her trip was when she was walking around in a small town in France and turned a corner and bumping into a woman. “Excuse moi!” my mother said. The woman was puzzled by her accent and my mom explained she was French-Canadian. “Votre français est excellent!” the woman replied condescendingly. “Vous aussi!” my mom said. The woman’s jaw dropped. I love how proud she was of our culture.

Le bon Dieu gave her a loud voice, she would always say. And all it took to instill the fear of God into me was for her to say my name, with a French-Canadian intonation: “Olivia Blackmore”.

Her actions were as powerful as her voice. I remember when I was about to move back home after I finished my first year of university, and she asked me if I was OK with her friend sleeping on our couch until they got back on their feet. I was a little uncomfortable. Who was this person? They were a friend she met in the dog park behind our apartment on Wellesley. A gay man, who had fallen on hard times and didn’t have a place to go. She said when our friends need help, we step up for them. It is the right thing to do. We take care of our friends. This lesson stuck with me.

During her final days, she laid in bed at the Prince George Hospice, half her face paralyzed by the stroke she had a few days before. When I first arrived on November 4th, the nurses told me they lowered the dose of her medication so she would be more aware of my presence. When I first entered the room she was asleep. She awoke a few hours later and I spoke to her. “Je t’aime, maman”, I said. And from the left corner of her lips, I saw a bit of a smile. She knew I was there. Nurses told me that her hearing would be the last thing to go. Keeping that in mind, I read to her every night before she passed.

I want to share a passage from the book I read to her the day before she died. It’s written by Richard Wagamese, an Ojibway author, from his book called Embers. This passage is a dialogue between the author and an old woman.

“Sometimes, when things are hardest, it feels like Creator is not listening,” the author says.

“Creator can do whatever Creator chooses. When we are in doubt or confusion or fear, She could send us thunderbolts, or lightning, or a huge pile of unexpected cash. But most of the time, She sends people. People are the miracles that emerge from the ripped and worn pattern of your life and help you stitch it back together. You learn to see the pattern better then,” the old woman replies.

As I look out at all of you here today, I see this passage is true and with your love and friendship, I will stitch my life back together.

One of the hardest parts of losing my mom is using words in the past tense when I speak about her. Has is now had, is is now was, but one word doesn’t feel quite right. Loved. Sure, she loved sewing, she loved knitting, she loved watching CNN. But she continues — very much in present tense — to love me. Because as long as I keep being a good friend, having integrity and loving as hard as I can, she will always be alive. This is how I honour her.

Two years ago she packed up her car and drove to Prince George for a one year teaching contract. She was 65. For those who know my mom, this was no surprise. She was an adventurer. After one year, her contract was renewed and she decided to stay. She fell in love with the mountains. A few months later, I moved to Halifax, and fell in love with the ocean. I believe it was the same love of adventure that brought us to the East and West coasts. Because we both found happiness on opposite sides of the country, our relationship grew stronger. The last year and a half, we had time to reconcile, forgive, love each other and say goodbye — a privilege not many are given.

Just like her life, my mother’s death was complicated. She didn’t want anyone to know she was dying. Especially, me. She knew for months and hid it well. She told me it took her a long time to admit it to herself. But deep down, I always knew she was keeping something from me. She wanted to protect me. And I worried anyway. I worried about her even before she was diagnosed with cancer. I am devastated by her death, but I can’t help but feel some relief. She is no longer suffering. I no longer have to worry. And I can just love her.