I recently attended the Celebration of Life for the mom of one of my best friends. I live in Ottawa but traveled to Toronto to support my old friend and to acknowledge her mom and what she and her family had given me over the years. I have always valued our friendship, but as of late, I have appreciated it more than words can express, the English language being quite inadequate at times like these.

We’ve known each other for a very long time, having gone to kindergarten together. Throughout the years, we continue to be friends. We are each other’s sounding block, listening without judgment. We had a falling out, came back together, have mutual friends, and reconnected through the birth of our own children.

We once had a business together, where my friend’s mother played an important and very supportive role.

Our mothers knew each other too, through our friendship. They were both new moms in the 1950s, at a time when there were no cell phones or the technology we have now – just a landline and the choice to bang on someone’s door to see if they might go for a walk together to the park – which is where they got to know the other moms, many of which became lifelong friends. With their husband’s typically working, they stayed home and raised their kids, ran a household, and participated in the activities that we were a part of. Later in life, when we were older, they both reinvented themselves, and, even though they might not see each other as often, there was always a connection. They would run into one another at the bank or grocery store and catch up on what us kids were both doing. Both our moms took their roles very seriously, figuring stuff out, being resourceful, and wholeheartedly loving their job and their family. A different time to be sure, but how lucky we were as daughters.

Her mom had Alzheimer’s and my friend chose to play a key role in her care and the management of the people supporting her here in the latter part of her life. A role I know very well as I, too, supported my mom through her illness before she passed away. It’s tough to get right in there and really be there for someone you love. Particularly a parent. Doing the day-to-day tasks, spending time with them, taking them to doctor appointments, getting them in and out of the car, going through stuff, organizing the right care on their behalf, and making sure they are comfortable and supported. A huge task that is always underestimated. Let alone doing it while processing the fact that soon they will be leaving. Gone. And a part of you knows it. You are mad, you are tired, and you are grieving. But you keep your own emotions in check and decide to give her back something that they gave to you; unconditional, unwavering love, and quality of life.

The Celebration of Life was to be held at a small community center in Rexdale, a suburb of Toronto, in the neighborhood where we both grew up. My friend’s mom loved her family, her grandchildren, family get-togethers, and what I call “Old-fashioned Church Lady Sandwiches & Sweets”. So, being her mother’s daughter, my friend ordered the usual fare; cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches – her mom’s favorite – egg salad, and banana with peanut butter sandwiches. She made the butter tarts and her sister made shortbreads and those delicious jam cookies. And, of course, there was punch. All of these bits and pieces were things that my friend’s mom shared with her family and friends; familiar suspects that would appear many a time but are now made by the next generation.

In the large space, there were tables and chairs for people to revisit friendships and finally put a face to a name that each of us had heard over the years. To hear stories and experiences from others who had been a part of this woman’s life and whom she had made an impression. Placed on the tables were puzzles, scrabble games, and photo albums. Her wedding dress was on display, as was her Curling equipment. There was even a key chain from that old business venture.

My friend’s dad still lives at the family home. Today, at the Celebration of Life, he made his way to the community center on a kind of trike he had invented for people with mobility issues. At 92, he is fiercely independent and quite a character. I had not seen her father for probably 50 years. He had accompanied us on a Bike-a-thon that was put on to raise money for a local charity. It was a long ride for us, probably 20 miles or so, and in coming up to our final stop, my friend and I declared that we would like to go to the new McDonalds that had opened up in the neighborhood. This was a big deal, a first of its kind in our area, and we were giddy with excitement. Her dad was adamantly against our proposed detour and quite annoyed at our insistence and, further annoyed when we actually followed through on the pronouncement. At least, if I recall, it was our own money we were spending!

He was arriving just as I pulled into the parking lot. I wondered if he would remember me – the kid that challenged him about going to Mcdonald’s so many years ago. Before more guests arrived, I wandered over to introduce myself. “Hello, I don’t know whether you will remember me, I’m your daughter’s childhood friend, Beverly. It’s been a long while.” He paused for a moment and replied, “Oh, you’re that biker girl.”

“Yes, yes I am.”

Slightly taken aback that he led with that, but I guess I had made an impression.

As my friend set up the various photos and writings by her mom, she showed one note in particular. It was a note affirming her love of being a mother. It had affected my friend, and touched me, too. It was reminiscent of the notes I had found amongst my own mom’s belongings at her home after she died. A love for me, her grandchildren, and her family that I knew she had, but the depths of which I only really understood after her passing.

My friend and I both share an immense love for our family, our children, and being a mom. Inspired by the best. Imperfect as we are. We each strive to make time for ourselves, encouraging one another and trying hard to live a balanced life and live authentically by example, without losing ourselves.

We all get lost, forgetting who we fundamentally are, unconsciously giving up on what we want, just like at times our mothers probably did, and although like them, we are different, and it is now a different time. Now that they are in spirit, looking on proudly, it’s time to forge our own path.

So, with a plate full of sweets I raise a rosy glass of punch. A toast from one generation to another. And to my oldest friend, here’s to many more years of conversation and getting on that trip we keep talking about. I believe that our moms would not only approve, but encourage the detour.