The Final Gift From My Mother

by Craig Colby

On December 11, 2024, just after lunch time, I received a Facetime call from my older brother Jim. My younger brother, Scott hopped on the call as well. Jim was with my mother, Dorothy, in her long-term care home in Thunder Bay. This was the call we had been dreading. Mom was dying. Jim put the phone up to my mother’s face so we could talk to her. Scott and I told Mom that we loved her and that we were on our way.  She couldn’t reply. It was clear Mom didn’t have long. While we were waiting for our flight out of Toronto that night, we got another call from Jim. Mom had just passed away, two weeks before Christmas.  In doing so, our mother was about to give her family one final gift.

Scott and I landed around 10:30 p.m., picked up a rental car, and met Jim, his fiancée Joanne, and my father, Peter, at Roseview Lodge. Dad was shaken. We went in to see what was left of our mother. Her body was in the bed, but her soul was gone.  We kissed Mom’s cold forehead, Dad saying the final farewell. Mom loved her family, and she loved Christmas. We left her room, ready to prepare for her funeral and the holiday season.

Mom had lived 91 years. She was about 6 months younger than Dad. On December 27th, they would have celebrated their 67th anniversary. My brothers and I were old now too. Jim was 64, I was 61, and Scott was 59. We were fortunate to still have our parents so late in life. Still, my mother’s decline had been painful to watch.

Since her diagnosis, almost three years earlier, Mom had gone from lively and conversational, to near speechless. In between were bouts of memory loss. One night she asked me if she could see her mother, Cora. I told her Cora had been dead for 30 years. Mom’s sadness at hearing the news broke my heart. Mom’s physical losses were just as extreme. She was confined to a wheelchair and her right arm barely moved.

While watching our mother fade was difficult, watching our father’s devotion to her was inspiring. Mom would occasionally explode in rage, often at Dad for some perceived slight. Fights were not rare during their six decades of marriage. Mom could be fiery. This was different, however. Mom’s words had to hurt. Still, Dad visited her almost every night, taking a break when he was exhausted or sick. They would watch TV, then he’d get the staff to prepare her for bed. When Mom was ready, Dad would put on soft music, hold her hand or stroke her hair, and wait until she had drifted off to sleep. Then he’d take a taxi back to his retirement residence, pour himself a scotch, and watch the news alone. After Mom was gone, Dad said two things frequently. “I’m devastated” and “I wish I could have done more.”

Scott and I each picked a room at our childhood home on Hinton Avenue. The next day, we all went to the funeral home, made some decisions, and made our to-do list. The funeral would be on December 23rd. My family had already booked tickets home from December 21-28, and Jim’s daughter, Danielle, 33, was arriving on December 21st as well.  The funeral seemed a long way off, but the date worked for the family. It also was a convenient time for Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church, Mom’s spiritual home for decades. In her last day, she had asked for Pastor Matthew, who had arrived to comfort her.

Jim, Scott, and I were all in a good position to work on the funeral. Jim had retired to Thunder Bay from his job as Vice President and Treasurer at Honeywell in North Carolina. Scott, an opinions page editor for the Toronto Star, could take bereavement leave and also work remotely. My work as an independent television producer and consultant was mostly wrapped for the year. We were also well equipped for the biggest challenge, writing about Mom. She had authored a bi-weekly column, Musings, for the Chronicle Journal, the local newspaper, for 26 years, until dementia had forced her to stop in 2022. She also taught writing, co-founded a writer’s festival, and had been given the Kouhi Award for her outstanding contributions to writing in Northwestern Ontario. Expectations for her tributes would be high, both because of her pedigree and because Scott and I wrote professionally.

Scott suggested that we drop into the newspaper and speak with her editor, Greg Giddens. When Scott, Joanne, and I introduced ourselves at reception, there was a look of recognition. Scott had worked there at the start of his career, and Mom had written about the family frequently. Dad was known as You Know Who, or Y-K-W, to beat the word count, and Jim, Scott, and I were identified by birth order as No. 1, 2, and 3 sons.

Greg was respectful when we told him of Mom’s passing. After getting a word count and a deadline for the obituary, Scott suggested that the paper write its own piece on Mom since she was so well known to the readership. Greg paused for a moment. It seemed to me that he liked the idea, but it would add to the workload right before Christmas. He suggested that we write it. I liked this idea better anyway. It would give us a chance to say goodbye to Mom’s followers. We had our assignments. The obituary was due on Friday and would appear in Saturday’s paper. Musings was due next week and would appear in the following Saturday’s paper, two days before the funeral.

In addition to the obituary and columns, Jim, Scott, and I wanted to deliver individual eulogies. I had already thumb-typed a Facebook post about Mom into the notes section of my iPhone on the flight home and published it before I went to bed the night before. Scott and Jim posted their thoughts in the morning. Each was accompanied by a picture of Mom in her youth, showing her beauty and spirit. The news of Mom’s passing was out, and support was flooding in through comments, texts, and phone calls. Each one brought tears to my eyes. I felt like I was crying myself to dehydration.

The evening after Mom passed, on December 12, Dad, Jim, Scott, Joanne and I had dinner at Jim’s condo, located in our old high school, Hillcrest. We talked about Mom, and worked on her obituary, Scott and I trading off at the keyboard, and Dad, Jim, and Joanne, providing feedback. The first draft had the essentials, family remaining and predeceased, a timeline of her life, but it was missing her essence. We kept adding elements of her personality, trying to stay within the word count. Scott received a text from a high school friend recounting how welcome everyone felt at our house. That was the missing piece.

We wrote, “Whoever walked through the door at Hinton Avenue was consumed in conversation. Dorothy took an immediate and avid interest in visitors’ lives. There is a long list of fourth sons and honorary Colbys. She loved people and wasn’t afraid to show it. They loved her back.”

It felt good to talk about Mom, to discuss what made her remarkable.  We were all happy with the obituary. It went online through the funeral home website the next day, including a picture of Mom in her late 30s, smiling at a party, and one from her mid-80s, with a big smile and twinkling eyes.

To prepare for the eulogies and the final column of Musings, Jim, Scott, and I looked through her book, “Failing Housework 101”, a collection of columns she had published in 2005, along with old emails and Facebook posts.

Mom hadn’t talked on the phone in years. Jim would Facetime with us on visits, but Mom didn’t respond much. When I’d visit Thunder Bay, I’d come to Roseview a couple of times each day, to sit with her, see the smile on her face and glimmer in her eyes, and to talk to her, as much as she was able. I did my best to care for her.

Mom’s writing brought back the woman who had cared for me, sharp with observation, reflection and wit.  I could hear her voice in my head. I had been grieving for a long time, steeling myself for her death. Now that she was gone, I wasn’t prepared for her to be so present. I pulled quotes to add to a video montage of pictures.

“I was born blonde. Mother saved a soft blonde lock from my first haircut, so I know it’s true. That means, in my next life I will be an angel. Look for me. I’ll be easy to find because I’ll be the one with attitude.”

“I even resent Mary Poppins, although she would be fun to hang out with. She says, “In every job that must be done there is an element of fun.” I say, “Shut up, Mary. No one likes a do-gooder.”

“There are so many questions that will never be answered. I wish I had realized the time to ask questions is not endless.”

I welcomed the comfort her words provided. This Christmas would require comfort in abundance.

In May, my wife Nancy lost her sister, Mary Ellen, 58, to cancer. In July, she lost her aunt, Anne Leschuk, 83, to cancer as well. Nancy’s father had died when she was 21, leaving just Nancy and her mother. While we were at home, we also learned that Joanne’s father died. She got the call while we were all watching Monday night football. Like Mom, Joanne’s father had been sick for years.  Death was going to be part of this Christmas. I hadn’t been looking forward to it.

Still, Christmas didn’t care how I felt. It was coming anyway, and we had to get ready for it. Scott’s family had planned to be in Toronto for the holiday, but their plans had changed. Now they would be coming to Thunder Bay. Jim’s son, Mitch, 31, had also changed his holiday plans to be with us.  All of Mom’s children and grandchildren would be at the funeral and for at least part of the Christmas season.

Since the family was coming, we would also need a Christmas tree. Terry Ferguson, a friend who had looked in on my parents while we lived out of town, was selling Christmas trees. We called and asked if he had any left. “Lots,” he said. We asked for a five-foot tree. He dropped one off that night and refused payment. Christmas cheer had arrived.

On Saturday, Mom’s obituary was published in the newspaper. In Thunder Bay, the Saturday paper goes quickly, so I went to the local grocery store, where Scott and I had both worked during high school, before 8:00 a.m. I picked up 6 copies of the Chronicle-Journal, and a big package of toilet paper, since we were almost out.

The woman at checkout looked at my purchase and asked, “Did you mean to get this many?”

I told her, “I plan to do a lot of reading.”

She didn’t laugh. Mom would have laughed.

Family members sent in emails and quotes from Mom to help us prepare for the funeral. Danielle sent us a fan letter Mom had received a decade earlier. A woman named Cheryl Shwetz told Mom, “Every week, I call my mom after your article appears to see if she has read it yet.  Then we laugh and discuss your article and reminisce about the similarities of our family or about your topic of the week.”

When Scott saw it, he said, “Chery’s email address is here. We should contact her.”

I immediately sent her an email. It bounced, so I looked her up on Canada 411. Her number popped up, so I called her.

“Hello.”

“Hi, can I please speak to Cheryl.”

“I’m Cheryl.”

“Hi, I’m Craig Colby. Dorothy Colby’s son. You wrote her a fan letter 10 years ago. My niece just shared it with us. Mom just passed away so I’m calling to tell you how much your e-mail meant to her. She shared it with all of us.”

There was a long pause.

“I’m sitting on the ground and shaking,” Cheryl replied.

She talked about how much she loved Mom’s writing; how much she loved to hear about You Know Who and the family. I took the phone out to the kitchen where Scott and Dad were sitting. I let Cheryl know that Y-K-W and No. 3 Son were also listening.  Cheryl continued to gush about Mom.

“Other people get excited about Taylor Swift. I get excited about Dorothy Colby.”

We all had tears in our eyes.  Cheryl didn’t have a copy of Mom’s book, so I offered to bring her one the next day.

When Cheryl answered the door, she gave me a big hug, then held my hand so tight, her nails dug into my palm. She talked about how powerful words are and wanted me to know what a big influence Mom had in Thunder Bay. Hearing how well-loved Mom was to her readers was a gift.

On December 19th, Scott’s family arrived. His wife Natasha, and two children Isaac and Savanne, both 12, were a welcome addition to the house. I have never had much time alone with the kids. When our families got together, my son Curtis, 16, took the lead with his cousins, and they disappeared into gaming. My oldest son, Shane, 20, occasionally joined them. With just myself and Scott’s family in the house, I could get some quality time with my niece and nephew. On December 20th, we broke into three teams of two for Scrabble, so that everyone could play. 

The next morning, I went to the grocery store to pick up newspapers with the last column of Musings in them. I opened a copy on the spot, at the end of a checkout counter. Musings was on page 3 of the Weekend section. A full colour picture of the family stood large above the column. We had chosen a picture from a family trip to Ogoki in 2021, a fly-in fishing resort north of Thunder Bay. Mom and Dad sat in chairs on a dock, Jim, Scott, and I stood behind them. The men were unshaven. Mom was smiling. We looked like we were from Northern Ontario. Mom’s column logo was next to the title, Musings.

The byline read MUSINGS (for Dorothy Colby) by Jim, Craig, Scott, and Peter Colby. The article and picture took about a third of the page. The treatment was a loving tribute to Mom. Jim had suggested that we each write a small section, as No. 1, 2, and 3 sons. Y-K-W went last. Dad wrote, “Dorothy was beautiful and effervescent. She was also feisty which, at times, made her a big pain in the ass. We had that in common. Above all, she was a warm and loving mother. Together we raised three wonderful sons. On Dec. 27, we would have been married 67 years. Dorothy has and always will be the love of my life, and I’ll miss her immensely.”

At the end of the column, the editorial staff added, Dorothy Colby was a longtime columnist for The Chronicle-Journal. She is greatly missed by her readers and everyone at the paper. The final Musings was perfect. I bought 8 copies.

Danielle arrived that morning. My family landed in the afternoon. That evening, we gathered at Hinton Avenue to decorate the tree. It was placed in the upstairs living room, in front of the Bay window overlooking the backyard.

We all pulled out the decorations from Jim, Scott, and my childhood. Joanne added fresh, multi-colored lights. The children did the bulk of the work, with Joanne, an artist who has decorated trees professionally, occasionally providing some direction. Mitch’s flight from Colorado would land around 11:00 p.m., so he missed the decorating but there was something on the tree for him.

Scott had a childhood toy called Baby Michael, a rubber toddler, with navy blue shorts and t-shirt. Baby Michael had brown hair, flushed cheeks, and ruby lips. The doll also had a cold, unblinking stare, which Mitch found terrifying as a child. His fear of this doll had become a family joke. Mitch’s cousins put Baby Michael at the top of the tree. Even with this odd addition, this was the most beautiful Christmas tree I had ever been part of decorating.

Decorating the tree as a family was the kind of night Mom would have reveled in. It’s also a night she would have missed if she was still alive. Getting her in the house and up the stairs in her wheelchair would have been difficult. She would have been asleep before we even started. But tonight, Mom was with us in every smile, and every laugh.

I’m not sure when it happened, but at one point Scott told us, “Natasha said, it’s like Dorothy brought everyone together for Christmas.”

On December 22nd, we revealed the tree to Mitch. I don’t know if he loved seeing Baby Michael stare at him from the top of the tree, but he accepted it.

The funeral was at 11:00 a.m. on December 23rd. Beautiful flowers decorated the front of the church. A light blue urn with silver birds held Mom’s ashes. It sat next to a picture Peter’s father, a professional photographer, had taken of Dorothy in the 1970s. The picture was in a gold frame. Mom was in a black dress with spaghetti shoulder straps and silver shoes. She sat on a velvet covered bench, looking to her right, her hair in a blonde bob cut. When Nancy saw this picture, years ago, she said, “Dorothy is a stone-cold fox!” It showed the outer beauty of her youth, which matched the inner beauty she had always possessed.  The family posed for a picture together, with Mom in the middle, where she will always belong.

There were four readings, done by the daughters-in-law and grandchildren. The pastor interpreted them through Mom’s life. He also talked about Dad’s lonely journey ahead.

Jim spoke first, using sections of Mom’s writing. He talked about how much she loved her children and nature. He also recounted a story of Mom buying toys at Christmas for children who had tried to steal his.  I talked about how her love and support had given us an emotional armor to take into the world and how many people she influenced. Scott listed her defining characteristics, that she loved to joke, she would fight fiercely for what’s right, and that a friend called her the universal mother, which she hated. Mom would rather be your friend. The church looked full, probably around 100 people,  and 1,100 people watched online that day.

After the ceremony, we all went to the basement of the church to talk about Mom and eat beef on a bun, a favourite of hers.  

After the reception, we took Mom’s ashes out to the camp at Black Bay, once owned by our parents, now by Jim. Mom will stay there until Dad dies, when their ashes will be mixed and released into the waters of Lake Superior.

That night, we exchanged gifts and watched movies. The Colbys laughed at the new Grinch cartoon and laughed with the old Grinch cartoon. We exchanged some presents and took pictures. We enjoyed being a family. We enjoyed being Dorothy Colby’s family.

Mom would have loved it all. She would have approved of the obituary, which a fellow Chronicle-Journal columnist called “crisply written” and her final Musings, which received a thumbs up in the paper’s weekly “Thumbs Up/Thumbs Down” column, gathered from reader submissions. More than anything, she would have loved a Colby Christmas.

Danielle left the next day, but Christmas continued. We attended the Christmas Eve service at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church. Mom loved the candlelight singing of Silent Night, so she was in our thoughts as we tried to keep melted candle wax off of our hands. Mitch flew out on Christmas morning.

Overflowing stockings, more gifts, and team Scrabble games occupied the next few days. Dad finished one with a word too dirty for his youngest grandchildren. Nancy and I bounced between events with my family and hers. The loss of her sister Mary Ellen was present in our hearts. On December 27th, we were with Dad at Jim and Joanne’s condo on what would have been Mom and Dad’s 67th anniversary.

On December 28th, both Scott’s and my family flew back to Toronto. It had been 17 days since we had arrived in Thunder Bay. It felt like an eternity ago, but not in a bad way.

My time at home had been filled with tears but also with laughter, and gratitude. Especially gratitude. I’m grateful for the time I had with my family. For more than two weeks, I lived under the same roof as Scott. I hadn’t done that since 1987. I spent more continuous time with Natasha, Isaac, and Savanne than I ever had. I can’t remember the last time I saw Mitch. I was able to be there with Jim, and for Dad.

More than anything, I was grateful for my mother. I’m grateful she didn’t live long enough to lose her ability to recognize us. I’m grateful for the life Mom gave us all.  I had long bragged about winning the parent lottery, the best lottery you can win. On this Christmas of loss, I was still cashing that ticket.

We want things to be simple. We try to make people, countries, and the news easy to digest and dismiss so we can move on without thinking too much. But life isn’t simple. There can be joy in sadness, there can be relief in loss, there can be beauty in death. We shouldn’t discard these seeming contradictions. We should reflect on our experiences and share what we learn with others, like my mother did.

It feels odd to write this, but I had a good Christmas. Thinking about Mom, talking about her, reading her writing, brought her close to me. Her body was gone but her spirit was alive. The family was together to celebrate her life, to grieve, and to enjoy each other. There was some magic in having us all together at such an emotional time. With Mom’s passing, she had delivered to the people she loved most a full human experience. This Christmas was her final gift.

Craig Colby is a television executive producer, producer, director, writer and story editor. He runs a video production and consulting company called colbyvision.

Craig is also the author of the multiple award winning ALL CAPS: Stories That Justify an Outrageous Hat Collection. His new book, The Unqualified Hockey Coach and Other Stories, will be released this year.