For Mum
Originally posted on Blogger 13 August 2012
My Mother is a tough nut. Back in 1976 she was diagnosed with cancer of the parotid gland and while she had quite a battle on her hands, having to be revived a few times, she fought it. Unfortunately the damage from the radiotherapy resulted in a degenerative condition called Bulbar Palsy, which means a very sad decline in quality of life.
Back in 2006 she went in for a total knee replacement and because the doctors didn’t take this condition into consideration she ended up severely ill, where most of the doctors and nursing staff figured she’d be a gonner. My Mum had different ideas.
I received a call from my Dad to update me on her condition one day and he sounded so despondent that I only heard half of what he said because from his tone I thought he was ringing to say she had passed away. I listened to the message a second time and just listened to the words. I then realised that it wasn’t as dire as first thought. I couldn’t contact him so went out to run a couple of errands and called him when I got back home. My brother, on the other hand, received a similar call and freaked out – he didn’t really listen.
As I was running my errands I started to ponder: what if Mum had died… what would I do?
I started to think about the practical things, like organising a funeral etc. Then I wondered could I, and if I could, would I deliver a eulogy? What would I say? At that point I started to cry because I thought about what my Mother meant to me, which wasn’t a good idea as I was driving at the time.
Mum blew raspberries at them all because she fought back and 6 years later is still alive. While she is very frail and continues to decline, she is still, although only just, with us.
I decided to post the following because she is currently in hospital and again the doctors are not very hopeful that she will recover. I don’t know if she will be able to fight this time, but I wanted to share with you what I wrote to her 6 years ago. [Addendum: Mum passed away 23 August 2012]
While pondering what I would write in a eulogy I wondered why we say lovely things about people after they have died then they don’t get to hear it. So I decided to send her my thoughts so she could read and hear them.
By the time I wrote this it was 6 months after the original surgery and it was sent along with her birthday card. I wrote the introduction and then sat and allowed the memories of her come to me. What I have written was pretty much what came without much editing.
Warning: it’s kinda long! Actually it’s very, very long, like over 2000 words long.
Sunday 11 March 2007
Dear Mum,
Last year, for the first time, I was faced with the thought of: would I, and what I would say, at your funeral. I decided that it would be far nicer to say what I felt to you rather than wait until you had died to say it to your family and friends.
[Ruby is my Mother’s Mother and Bobby is her Father]
Ruby was a strong willed woman, no one could get into her way, nor did anyone try. To be able to do what you or Bobby wanted, you both had to find your own way of doing things, such as Pa winning money at the track so he could at least pay for some of your wedding reception. [My parents had to pay for their own wedding, Ruby wouldn’t allow Bobby to pay for anything. So he won money at the races to pay for the drinks and didn’t tell her about it.]
Your recent illness has shown you to be equally strong willed. In the past I would have pointed to when you haven’t wanted to do something how you would find an excuse to not do it. But with your illness you decided you weren’t going to let a tracheostomy, pneumonia, septicaemia and golden staph get in your way of living.
I am equally strong willed, although I try to stay in my truth and will say no if someone wants me to do something I don’t want to do – no excuses, no explanations. That can be difficult when people want you to justify your decision. I have to be strong willed, no contraception was going to get in the way of my conception and no doctor was going to dictate when I was born, so I popped out before he popped out of the elevator. [Mum was on the pill when I was conceived – it didn’t work! And the doctor didn’t make it into the maternity ward before I was born.]
The following memories came to me in the following order, although it does not signify that one is any more important than another:
I can picture you in a yellow dress, I think it was a halter neck one that looked so good with your tanned skin. An image comes of the time you walked down the darkened hall in the black floor length cape you made, with your mothers brooch clasped at the throat that caught the light and was the first thing seen emerging from the dark.
Looking back over my notes I realise the first two memories are of clothes which brought to mind when you and Dad had your wardrobe replaced and I was helping you put the clothes into it. I picked up a dress and bought your attention to the price tag still attached. You quickly removed it. You certainly didn’t spend as much money as your mother, but would still buy the occasional outfit. Lay-by was a useful thing. This was when I learned of your trick of buying an outfit, hiding it in your wardrobe for about 6 months, then when finally wearing it, if Dad asked if it was new, you’d reply, “No, I’ve had it for ages.”
My first memory is of sitting in a pusher a few doors up from our place and me looking up at you.
I have lots of memories of you in hospitals.
Me as a teenager – stomping out of the house and you ensuring you get the last word as the front door slammed, calling me a bitch.
I remember you always being proud.
I remember you coming down the hallway to my room behaving strangely, carrying a note from a boy at primary school who had managed to get the courage to come to my home to leave a note. I wonder now what it said? It would be many years later when you would bring up that incident, saying how the little boy and his Chinese friend had come to the door when I realised you had misunderstood what had happened. The one who wanted to be my boyfriend as the little Cambodian boy by the name of Richard. And for the record, we were extremely innocent boy and girlfriend for a short time. I really didn’t know what that meant at that age. Maybe the fact it took so may years to tell you the full story shows how much of my life I keep private and personal, because in our family one persons razzing and ‘gentle fun’ is another’s intense embarrassment and ridicule.
I can be such a brat when I visit, or worse, when you visit me. Because you are a fusser and I am so not. I see it as being oppressive and really don’t see it from your perspective as to what it really is – Love. You are so happy and proud to be able to spend any time in my company – our family doesn’t do compliments too well either.
All our interactions and beliefs and how others interact with us are a product of our own imagination – what I see as fussing, you see as joy and love. If you can understand where I am coming from with my reactions and take them into consideration, but in no way change what is your natural feelings then I will learn to recognise and understand the love and warmth for what it is.
I remember you singing around the house, but that stopped after the surgery for the parotid gland.
I remember sitting at the dining table with you and you drawing an animated water drip. I have no memory what it was for. It was probably the first and last time I saw you draw, which is a shame because you are good at it.
Summers at Balnarring – you brown as a berry sitting on the rug or beach towel on the beach. You and Dad playing canasta in the old ‘circus’ tent. Dad stacking the deck while you went to the toilet block and you not taking long to work it out, throwing the cards back at him, calling him names I don’t exactly recall.
I remember your pain when told your father had passed away. I remember you on the evening of Mothers Day breaking down after the phone call when told Faye Brindley had died.
I remember one day getting something from the pantry while wearing headphones. Warren was annoying me so I told him, louder than I thought, to piss off. He looked to you to tell me off. I’m not sure which he was most surprised of: me swearing in front of you or your laughter. [Warren is my brother, and it would seem I’m the only one who got away with swearing in front of Mum]
Then there was the evening when the Flaro’s, Spiers and Kinders were due to visit. You, Dad and I were talking in the lounge. The conversation got around to something about St Kilda [football team]. For some reason I suggested we put a sign on the front lawn saying “To all St Kilda supporters …” in my mind I meant to say bugger off, but it came out as ‘fuck off.’ Both you and Dad started laughing, Dad had a bit of a look about him, then as an afterthought you asked me to repeat what I said. I tried for the edited version but you weren’t fooled. Dad said words to the effect ‘nice try!’
Although it is a word you haven’t really embraced as part of your language, I have never felt in trouble if one has slipped out of my mouth.
I remember you laughing the time, I think it was the same night as the above story, when you and Dad told me how Alan Flaherty hates Autumn leaves. When they arrived, the cheeky imp in me went outside to scoop up an armful of Liquid Amber leaves and deposited them at his feet. He was not amused. [Bless her, she laughed hard]
I laugh recalling the time Colin Spiers was passing and decided to drop in. He had knocked at the door; I went to answer. He had taken a step or two away from the door and upon hearing it open turned around, saw me and started with “Top of the morning to ya.” Again the cheeky imp came out to play and I closed the door with a tad more force than intended to effect a slam. I couldn’t just stop there, particularly after slamming the door, so I turned on my heel and took myself off to my room. You, realising I wasn’t about to open the door again, hurried to welcome the poor Colin in with considerably more civility than I had displayed. I seem to recall his words to you were “I think she loves me!”
Since moving to Adelaide I have been, at first slowly and then with increasing speed, working on my Spiritual path. During a lot of that time I have looked at my relationships – the most important and influential is the primary one with our parents and siblings. I have had to look mainly where things have gone wrong or awry to be able to see or explain what patterns I have in my life. But through it all I have not blamed you or Dad for who and what I am. You both did the best you could with what you knew based on the successes and failures of your own lives and those of your parents. I learnt at around the age of 10-12 years old that I am the only one responsible for my actions. If one of the faulty patterns/beliefs/behaviours is something I’ve learnt from watching you, then I thank you, God and my guides for bringing it to my attention so I can decide how I’d like to do it differently and put the good behaviour into action – sounds easier than it is to do.
You have always loved us kids unconditionally and equally. At times one or all of us have behaved like egocentric ungrateful brats and although you would have gladly seen us run over by a truck, you have always loved us and forgave us our sins. Sometimes it takes something bad to happen – like your recent illness – for us to see how much we love and would miss you. It brings into sharp focus for me that time is precious – lets not waste it. For you that means I am less likely to do small talk and instead talk about the things that matter to me.
We recently talked about how in our family it can be difficult to say I love you or accept compliments. I love you Mum – even when you have given me the shits, but as I said before, I’m not a fusser. I love you, I’m glad you’re my Mum and although it hasn’t been a perfect run – no person has one – life has ups and downs and you have done the best job as a mother as you knew how.
One of the problems of looking at our past, is we too often see our failures and flaws as our enduring legacy. We forget it should only be used as the way to learn to make changes in our future. Often we need to take the time to look at our successes and strengths and let them shine. That is our light that attracts people to us. When you left rehab you had most, if not all, of the staff come to say goodbye. That is the beauty of who you and Dad are. It’s not because you didn’t make a fuss, it’s because of who you are. I became aware of this at the last visit, how much Dad loves you and no job is a chore for him. His care and concern for you is so touching to watch.
You are blessed to have a loving, caring husband; 4 loving but not so present children; and 8 miraculous grandchildren who all love you, just sometimes don’t know how to show it, or be consistent in their affection. I know some of these relationships have caused you pain on and off in the past and probably will continue to.
If you can hold on to the fact that we love you (I haven’t checked with the others, but I’m confident I’m right – I almost always am!), we have always loved you and always will, then hopefully it will get you through the times when we are acting like ungrateful little shits.
My Mother received this on her birthday. I didn’t get to speak to her until the evening and she thanked me for the letter. She told me she had a few tears reading it. I asked how many times she cried and she said a few times. Then I really felt like a shit: I’d made my Mum cry on her birthday. The only thing that eased this was that it was happy tears.
Interestingly this was written before I discovered and learned Focusing, but I used Focusing like techniques while writing this and dealing with all that came with her illness. I am so blessed to have a lot more training behind me to be able to sit with her current crisis.
