Fortitude
- Erin Elliott Bryan
- Aug 15, 2019
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 16, 2019
n: strength of mind that enables a person to bear pain or adversity with courage
My mom was—and always will be—the strongest woman I know. Though she did her best to shield me from her struggles, I knew she was unable to live a day free from pain. But she powered through, she pushed on—and she set an incredible example for me, both as a woman and as a mother.
My beautiful mother Bonnie grew up as an only child and came from a long line of strong women on both sides of her family. Her maternal grandparents were immigrants from Sweden; her grandfather had made his way to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to work in the iron ore mines. He and his wife Edla had eight children who survived into adulthood: two sons and six daughters, including my grandmother Edna.
On her paternal side, my mother’s grandmother Margaret was an immigrant from the Isle of Man, described by Google as a “self-governing British Crown dependency in the Irish Sea between England and Ireland.” She married my great-grandfather Joseph, whose French-Canadian family, also iron ore miners, had been in the U.P. for generations. I’ve been told he was a difficult man. He actually died from a heart attack when he was just 50 years old, leaving Margaret with two grown children, my grandfather Hank and my great-aunt Margaret, and a young teenage daughter, my great-aunt Hazel.
Because of my great-grandfather’s death, my grandparents, Hank and Edna, didn’t marry for many years. My grandmother was also six years older than my grandfather, so she was 36 years old by the time my mom was born in 1946. It’s the reason my mom was an only child.
From all accounts, my mom had a wonderful childhood. She was surrounded by friends and cousins from both sides, and was adored by both of my grandparents. My grandfather Hank was a larger-than-life man (his nickname was “Moose”) and he loved to brag about my mom. He even put a letter sticker in each of their garage door’s six small windows to spell B-O-N-N-I-E. It was there until the house was sold in the late 1990s.
My grandfather tended to have very strong opinions, and he had made it clear that he wasn’t a fan of my mom’s boyfriend, who eventually became her first husband. Though I didn’t find out about that marriage until I was a teenager, my mom reluctantly showed me her wedding album.
“Why does grandpa look so mad?” I remember asking her.
“Because he was mad,” she said.
Though my mom hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time, my grandfather’s instincts were right about the guy. From the little bit of information my mom shared, as well as bits I’ve learned over the years, it was a short-lived marriage that ended in an ugly way. My mom felt betrayed and unsure of herself. And it was about that time that she began to develop some significant health problems.
She did what she could to bounce back. Her ex-husband moved out and her childhood friend (and distant cousin) Suzanne moved in. Those two had a great few years as single gals; they even did some traveling, including twice to Hawaii, her favorite place.
But then, in a bar, she met my dad Harry and they got married after a short engagement. My dad had also been divorced and he had an 11-year-old daughter, my sister Kerry.
My basic understanding is that the first years of their marriage were tough. Both of my parents had strong personalities and quick tempers. My dad liked to drink and my mom could be extremely sensitive. When I was born a little more than a year after their wedding, my mom stopped working and money was tight. My dad was a truck driver for construction companies and was often laid off during the winter. My grandparents helped with a few things, but those were probably pretty lean years.
And my mom’s health problems continued. She was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and ulcerative colitis, both conditions that caused significant physical pain and real disruption to a normal daily routine. Her doctors struggled to find adequate treatments.
Then, when I was four years old, I was diagnosed with asthma. At the time, in the early 1980s, it was a rare disease and mine happened to be triggered by infections such as the common cold. My pediatrician also struggled to find a treatment, and I remember taking long car rides with my mom and grandparents to Marshfield, Wisc., and the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., for help from the specialists.
My doctors were convinced that I would outgrow the asthma, but between the ages of four and 12, I was hospitalized more than 20 times. Once an asthma attack would hit, I would often get pneumonia, bronchitis or both; I once had a collapsed lung.
And in those days, hospitals were not equipped for family members to comfortably stay overnight. I think my mom stayed a few times, most likely sitting up all night in a hard chair. Eventually, she would leave me after I had fallen asleep.
Now, as a mother of a five- and two-year-old, I simply cannot imagine what that must have felt like for her. Perhaps her own health problems made it impossible to stay, and she told me once that she used to cry the entire drive back home.
Thankfully, I did outgrow the asthma with no lasting implications. During those years, my parents had often been living separate lives. My dad worked as hard as he could, including long hours in the summer, and my mom and I spent a lot of time with grandparents. My grandmother had a stroke when I was 11, but she spent a month in intensive rehab and was able to return home with only minor limitations.
By then, my dad had a more stable job and my mom had began to work for the school district. Her arthritis and colitis seem to be controlled and manageable, and we did fun things together.
When I was 13, however, my grandmother had another stroke and this time she wasn’t able to recover. After a lot of discussion and soul searching, my mom and grandfather made the difficult decision to place her into a nursing home.
That was a dark time for my mom. She loved my grandmother so much and felt an incredible amount of guilt over that decision. Apparently, my grandmother had once asked my mom to promise that they would never send her to a nursing home. My mom couldn’t shake the feeling that she had broken such an important promise.
I, too, adored my grandmother and it was painful to see her in such a condition. But I was also being realistic; it was clear that we couldn’t care for her at home.
For three years, my grandfather, and my mom and I visited her every day. With each passing month, we noticed some decline and we all prepared ourselves to say goodbye to her. But in June of 1996, when I was 16, it was my grandfather who died suddenly. He had had some fainting spells in the weeks prior, but the doctors couldn’t identify the issue. On that day, he was talking on the phone to his nephew and passed out, and they were not able to bring him back.
Telling my grandmother was the worst. Thankfully, my great-aunt Hazel stepped in to help my mom share the heartbreaking news, but they weren’t sure my grandmother understood what they were saying. But I know she understood because when my grandfather was no longer coming each day, she simply gave up. She eventually passed away just three months later.
After that, my mom really struggled, and I’m not sure she ever got over those losses. She and my grandfather had always been close and had really become a team when it came to making decisions about my grandmother’s care. She wasn’t prepared to lose her father and her support system. And when my grandmother died, she had to come to terms with the pain of being alone.
During the next few years, her own health continued to decline, and now her physical pain was compounded by her emotional pain. She did what she could, but I knew that a piece of her had gone with her parents.
Despite that, she continued to be a strong supporter of me as I graduated from high school and college. By then, she had been hospitalized for a multitude of infections and even a blood clot in her lung that caused permanent damage. She lost a lot of weight and her body was starting to shut down.
In November 2003, when my mom was just 57 years old, we said our last “I love yous.” It was the worst day of my life, though some very small part of me felt a sense of relief. She had endured so much and I just wanted her to feel some peace.
Unfortunately, my dad, who had loved and cared for my mom until the very end, faced his own health challenges. Like my mom, I was forced to make the difficult decision to place him into a care facility and watch him decline with each passing month. On New Year’s Day 2015, I lost him, too, and I felt alone. Like my mom, I also feel like a piece of me went with my parents.
But unlike my mom, I am a relatively healthy person. I have not had to deal with chronic illnesses and pain, and I am able to live each day without taking medication or scheduling doctor visits. Instead, I am able to play on the floor with my kids and chase them around at playgrounds, something my mom was never able to do no matter how much she wanted it.
I am just incapable of understanding what her life was like, as she pushed through the pain to make my life the best it could be. Because my life with her certainly was the very best it could be and I hope she knows that. She is loved and missed every day.
This is a beautiful tribute to your mom, with whom I worked and respected, and to your closest relatives. You were a special student, Erin, and you are a special woman.