The Year I Got a Coffee Maker for Mother's Day

Digital Art Collage by Stella Kalaw

For those of us who have experienced the extraordinary gift of motherhood, do we truly require the Hallmark reminder of the occasion in May known as Mother's Day? Well, perhaps we do.

Maybe all the cards, flowers, and dinners out, woven into our memories genuinely resonate in our hearts. Reflecting on my own journey, there was one particular year that held a bit of extraordinariness for me. Though I'm not one to keep diaries or journals, I stumbled upon something I wrote in 2011 about my Mother’s Day, and I want to share it with you.

There is no word in English, nor in any language, to describe a parent who has lost a child. Perhaps this absence speaks to the unfathomable nature of such a loss—how it defies the natural order and challenges everything we believe should be. And yet, tragically, it happens. It has happened to me twice.

Both our son and our daughter died in their twenties as a result of having Cystic Fibrosis. It is over thirteen years since the tragic death of our son. It will soon be eight years from that heartbreaking day when the wretched disease claimed our daughter.

That, in total, is an agonizingly long time to carry such a profound grief. Yet, we have rebuilt our lives. We have defined a new and altered normal. We carry on. We move forward. We continue to do and to be. We even continue to accomplish. But the grief hasn't left, nor will it.

It does not mean there is no joy, because there is. In many ways, we find happiness, contentment, peace and even humour.

About two weeks ago, I was passing the time on my computer when I came across a Mother's Day promotion.

Yes, Mother's Day is coming. That day is like endless other special days throughout the year that remind me of what was and isn't.

But this promotion for Mother's Day was brilliant. Being fascinated with the tech world, all the elements I saw in this promotion called out to me.

Imagine this: A coffee maker company reaching out to Facebook users, inviting them to participate in a contest. The premise? Share all the wonderful details about your mother for a chance to win a heartwarming video tribute and a brand-new coffee maker. Now, how cool is that? I pictured receiving a personalized video from my children and a sleek state-of-the-art coffee maker.

I'd like that new coffee maker, I thought to myself.

Here I am with no children. I know my son and my daughter would have eagerly shared beautiful thoughts about me. I know they loved me. I know they would have wanted me to win the coffee maker.

The temptation to fill in the entry form was enormous. Put in names and emails, a few thoughts and press send. I wondered if I could figure out an email for them—how about robbie&jane@heaven.com? I couldn't help it, I found myself chuckling at the possibilities.

And then I realized no one would ever understand my entry form. I'd find myself trying to explain that even though I have no children now, the ones I once had would surely have wanted to create the winning video just for me. Picturing it all, I chuckled again.

Then reality kicked in. There would be no video scripted by my two children. There would be no workable email so we could write to each other forever, no new coffee maker.

Darn. And then, the bigger darn—another Mother's Day without them.

Mother's Day will come and go. We will be fine… we will remember what was and what isn't.

My writing stopped here, and I closed my computer.

The following day, I reached out by email to a young man who I happened to know worked for the coffee maker company. I couldn’t resist sharing my thoughts about the contest and promotion—it was too good not to acknowledge. I complimented him on the company’s clever concept. I even shared with him what I would have written.

To my amazement, I opened my email inbox a few days later to find an entire choir singing Happy Mother's Day to me. The wording let me know that they knew how special this day was for me. A day later, they sent along the new coffee machine.

I had it for many years. Every cup of coffee felt a bit like a hug and bouquet of flowers.