Must come to an end. End of life is not predictable. It’s messy. And sad. And heart wrenching. And …. You could literally go on to infinity. The end.

It’s taken me some time to gather my thoughts and ponder the end of life since my mom died on May 22 2025. Her father’s birthday. I want to share my version of her story. It’s heroic and beautiful. Just like her.

Brigitte Margarete Meroth was born in Weil Am Rhein on December 20 1936 to Margarete and Anton Meroth. She was the second of four children and the only girl. Times were tough in those days, in the small town of Oberkochen in southern Germany (Bavaria). And war broke out when my mom was a small girl. At her deathbed, her only surviving brother Peter, recalled a time when my mom and her eldest brother were sent to a farm some miles away to fetch milk, but en route they stopped to make snow angels and worried their parents sick when they didn’t return home at the normal time. The war was hard on German civilians and my mom often said that had it not been for the American aid packages of good and Hershey’s chocolates that it would have been so much worse.

After the war things started to return slowly to normal. And in 1951 my grandmother gave birth to Peter, an inquisitive youngster who my mom was charged with caring for as my grandmother owned and operated a small business selling food. So at 16 years of age my mom was actually a mom.

It was during this time that mom started lessons at a dancing school. Her partner, Reinhard Hahn, escorted her to and from the lessons with the blessing of her parents and they gave him the house key to see her home safely. On the last day of lessons around Christmas time, all of the girls brought a cake to enjoy at the after party where all of the dancers could mingle. My mom made a Baumkuchen for the event. I’m not sure how many dancers there were, but only two were important. That’s the night my mom met my dad.

After the party my dad approached my mom’s partner and asked for her key. He refused to hand it over. My dad requested again (a thinly veiled threat we are told) and Reinhard threw the key into a snow bank. My dad fished it out and proceeded to take mom home. Was it the cake? Her dance moves? A secret glance? We aren’t sure. But it was love.

From there they dated and enjoyed each others company. My mom was 16 and my dad 20. He was already working and riding a motorcycle. So they had much “spaß” (German for fun) cruising around the mountainous countryside. They were also in charge of small brother Peter and were often taken as his parents when they pushed him through town in the buggy.

My mom also took on an apprenticeship as a bookkeeper after highschool. She was assigned to the payroll department which in those days was manual. However, somehow she managed to arrange cash envelopes for 10,000 employees each week and balance to the “pfennig” (German for penny). Her job was very gratifying but she had an itch for adventure.

One day she returned home with immigration papers. All of the countries were looking for skilled labourers. She showed my dad. Australia, USA, Canada … all recruiting workers abroad. Just think, she thought, we can learn a new language and have a grand adventure. My dad took the papers and filled them in. A few weeks later, Canada called. If he could pass a physical and prove his merits as a millwright, his passage was clear. He told my mom he was coming to Canada. That was 1957.

My mom wrote to my dad regularly and sent packages to remind him of home. And every week on her way to or from piano lessons, she stopped in to check in on his parents and they traded news about dad. (Side note: my parents were fastidious about keeping things but no letters are among treasures).

It’s now 1958. My dad has been gone for almost 2 years. My mom is a lovely young professional lady of 23 years of age. She’s popular and outgoing. And she catches the eye of Rasmus Jantzen, a young student on internship as a professional accountant. (I should add here that girls in those days didn’t go to post secondary education although I know my mom wanted to; all of her brothers did and had exemplary positions). Young Rasmus was smitten by mom and he wanted to date her. They went out in groups a few times. In late November/December of 1958 my mom’s latest letter to my dad had gone without reply. She was in a quandary. Hold out for her soul mate which was now a question mark or dive in with the professional accountant (who was now also very friendly with her younger brother Claus. What to do?

Close to Christmas, my mom was on her weekly trek up the hill to my dad’s parents to say hello. When she knocked, my dad answered the door! He hadn’t responded to her letter as he was in transit on a ship heading home. Good bye Rasmus. (Just to say, Rasmus returned to university and when his internship resumed he inquired about my mom and was told she’d gotten married … he was quite crushed).

So it was on. My dad proposed. My mom accepted. They would immigrate to Canada. Only one small glitch: religion. My mom’s family was very Catholic and my dad was Protestant. Not an easy thing. At first the priest refused to marry them. So they arranged a civil ceremony which was held on January 7 1959. The church gave in and married them on January 9 1959 on the condition that my dad swore to raise any offspring of the marriage as catholic. I think my dad secretly had his fingers crossed behind his back.

My dad returned to Canada first in January and my mom followed in March. Poor thing. Canada in March is pitiful. Cold. Dreary. Wet. Icy. Gray. It doesn’t get much worse weather wise. She flew in to Toronto and my dad and his brother picked her up in my uncle’s Cadillac. It had hardly any floorboards; my mom’s feet got soaked. And her outfit dirtied. Not the best start to her new adventure. Things didn’t look up when my dad brought her to their flat in Stratford Ontario (my uncle’s porch!) To make matters worse, my uncle’s son was a busy toddler and my mom had flashbacks to the reason she wanted to get away: babysitting kids! According to my dad she cried a lot and at one point he offered to send her back. No way. Mom dug her heels in and stayed.

They both worked at a local factory FAG Bearings (now Scheffler) a German ball bearing factory. My mom started in the factory and was soon promoted to the office where she displayed her bookkeeping and payroll skills.

Soon they were able to save enough to move into a new place of their own. And shortly thereafter they bought a house on McManus Rd. It was a bit out of town (Stratford) but the price was right. It needed work but they were up to the task and made it a home. A home where they could raise a family.

In 1964 I was born followed by my sister Christine in 1966 and brother John in 1968. My mom was a natural as a mom. She quit her job and doted on me. She made special cakes. Sewed clothes. Made everything from scratch (even though Canadian ingredients were strange). Just after her migration to Canada , her father shipped a container of things for her which included dishes and linens and a handmade sewing chest that he’d made and many other things. The German tradition carried on in our house.

My mom had three little kids, no drivers licence or car, very little English skills but somehow she was able to do it all. With love and patience and kindness and gentleness. (I’m crying now …) my dad even held up his bargain and drove us to church every Sunday. Immaculate Conception. My sister and I were both baptized there.

We were all quite happy on the little rural property but when my sister was diagnosed with severe allergies and the doctor advised that it was something in the house they decided to move.

In 1969 they moved to a newer subdivision that my mom had selected. A split level 3 bedroom 2 bath home on a large lot. 318 Britannia Street would be our home for the next several decades.

It was a great neighbourhood with lots of young families with kids. My parents soon became very friendly with the German couple next door. And, since my brother was born, church wasn’t a priority for dad and so mom walked my sister and I to the Lutheran church up the street and we later went to Sunday school alone and she met us after.

In the early years my mom and the neighbour would pack picnics and we went on trips to the beach. Later on the two couples developed a weekly card game night. We got pizza and it was great! My mom loved to dance and they enjoyed dancing dates with other couples. Of course, when we were young, babysitters were out of the question. The one night a year we had a sitter was New Year’s Eve. Otherwise my mom was the quintessential mother hen. She never left her eggs! Ever!

My mom was the best nurse. If we aren’t feeling well she was our caregiver. Her gentle touch as she placed a cold cloth on our heads. Her soft hands gently rubbing our backs while we threw up. Always so loving and caring.

We pissed her off routinely as we got older but her anger was quickly diverted. Her job one in life was being a mom. But when my brother finally reached fulltime school age, she looked for a part time job. One where she could walk or bike (no car and no licence remember?) and also one where she could see us off to school and be there upon our return. It wasn’t long before she started at Beaver Lumber; a local lumberyard that was near our house. Her boss, Mr Wray, was grateful for her precise skills and organizing his books. He knew lumber but not numbers. Mom took great pride in her work and was respected and liked.

Once we were all in highschool and beyond (in my case), my mom looked for something full time. It wasn’t long before she landed a job with the provincial government as a bookkeeper at The Ministry of Transportation. It was important to her that her kids were educated. She drilled it into our brains from an early age. And since education isn’t free and they were getting by on one and half incomes, she knew her extra earnings would allow us to attend post secondary. Her life was her kids and she did anything and everything for us. Always.

As we left the nest (me first) she feathered our new mini nests. Making sure we had the comforts of home while we were away. Making food. Finding necessary supplies. You name it. (Still no car or license). Including paying for every single cent. I still don’t know how she managed. My brother and sister were both professional students for many years. Mom never complained. She worked solely to provide for us. We were her life in every way.

Once we were all moved on and settled, mom and dad were on their own. Mom rekindled her hobbies: sewing, knitting, yoga, gardening. She was simple and humble. Never extravagant (unless it was something for the kids) Mom had a handful of friends but preferred to be at home in the kitchen or laundry room. TV wasn’t a big deal except, maybe, for Lawrence Welk. They didn’t travel much because mom often got motion sickness. She was the definitive homebody. And she loved family gatherings. Whoever we brought to the table was welcome and treated like family. Anyone I meet now that knew mom still remarks about her genuine hospitality and generosity. That was our family motto after all: in this house we share.

Mom loved to take us shopping and buy special little things. She loved being in the know on current events and gossip. And she especially enjoyed being “one of the girls”. But she was very proper and sophisticated in that foul language and obscene behaviour (chasing boys for example) was frowned upon. We certainly gave her some challenges.

Much later, at the age of 63, my mom retired after 18 years at the ministry. She worked until she was entitled to a pension and benefits. Again for the family. My dad had already retired and so they were together,alone, once again.

Mom had great plans for her retirement. She wanted to learn to paint. She wanted to volunteer at nursing homes. She was a social butterfly. However, various health set backs made that impossible. So she travelled several times a week to our farm in Campbellville with my dad and helped out while Rudy and I worked. We worked a lot so the help was great. But the benefit was a flexible schedule allowing me to get home early when mom and dad were there. We would play cards and have dinner.

There was lots of activities around our place: 100 acres of bush and trails and trees that my dad revelled in and four cats and three dogs that my mom could feed and pamper (always the nurturer) as well as take care of Rudy’s dress shirts for work (he always told her she was way better than any dry cleaner and she would beam). She fed our animals so well with leftovers from 318 Britannia St that we called their enormous poops 318’s. It’s stuck to this day!

Sadly, mom’s health issues continued to plague her: macular degeneration being the worst; her inability to see clearly was debilitating and impacted her quality of life. All of her favourite things, including reading, were vaporizing. And the downhill slide began. Mom, who never complained, lamented her decline. I never thought I would be like this, she would say. And as hard as we tried to come up with options and suggestions, her stubborn self had decided that it was it was.

After a few falls and minor bone fractures over the last years, it was a fall last summer on July 3 that was the final blow. From there mom’s cognitive decline was extreme and her mobility shattered. She required 24 hour care and supervision which my dad provided with some outside professional help. It was utterly painful to watch such a vibrant superior woman decline. And quickly.

On May 19 with my sister luckily on hand, mom developed a brain bleed that could not be controlled. Her family, including younger brother Peter, her kids and their spouses and her beloved grandson Ben, and of course my dad gathered around her hospital bed until she took her last breath on May 22 at 7:40 am.

She looked so peaceful and serene. No pain or worry in her face. Just calm.

But the thing that sticks out for me during the three days at her side before she died was her hands. I looked at them as I held them in my own and thought: I will never feel her gentle, loving touch again; she will never touch my head and call me “Kind” ( German for child) or stroke my cheek. Her hands will only be in my memory.

I will always remember my mom as the best mom she was. And honour her deep spirituality as I carry on my life until we meet again. Godspeed, Mom; I love you.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.