The Lightness of Being.

“Cheers mum” and we adult children raise our flutes high and toast our dear mother. After a passionate rendition of singing Happy Birthday, complete with hip-hoorays, her casket is wheeled to the waiting hearse; we watch as mum is taken for private cremation.

She wanted to make 93 and so she did, in her own way. After a horrific fall that saw her hospitalised since January - the third fall in as many years - we gave her a very pretty, symbolic, old ladies funeral: can’t ask for better. In fact, it was perfect.

Crystal bowls of her favourite chocolates for everyone to share, stunning posies of native flowers, old friends, familiar faces, a gentle priest and enough great-grandchildren to almost fill the small wooden church. Genuine tears to be sad at our loss, plenty more laughter to remind us that life does indeed go on, at a cracking pace too. Even champagne!

So how are we all coping?  Somehow I have changed. There is lightness now in my life. For the first time I have had to rely on myself.

Although dad has been gone for 9 years, I still miss his booming hello at the end of the phone line; and now there is no smiling mum asking me what my latest project involved. It’s just me now and I like it.  

I now sleep at night, not worrying about her latest injury. What did the doctor say?  Does she need to be moved to a Nursing Home? When was the last time her back was rubbed?   What needs to be done?  Her needs.   Gently caring for our elderly mother has been a loving blessing which was in danger of becoming a chore. And yet it never did. But still, now I can relax, and enjoy my life a little more. I was a good daughter; in fact we were all dutiful, obedient, caring children to our parents, returning the unconditional love shown to us. We not only did our best, but far and beyond that. And we happily exhausted ourselves.

Now, newly orphaned, there isn’t the distress I thought I would feel, only a calmness.

A lightness of being in my own skin, for the first time.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong, have unravelled; as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life. Three old girls dead in four weeks.  I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this Living, without their voices on the end of the phone. Without loving arms surrounding me with joy. Without approval or judgement.

It has to be enough.

Now I am making my own decisions. Missing their opinions and helpful advice, yes, but gladly standing on my own two feet and looking forward to my own life, with confidence.

They say funerals are for the living, and it’s true. We created a memorable Service, which incorporated everything she wanted: The Lord’s Prayer. Traditional of course. Forever and ever, Amen.

The Magnificat. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.

We gave mum what she wanted, and more. Now it’s our turn to live our lives with the same grace and integrity shown to us.

Living with such lightness, demands my feet be grounded. If I am ever in danger of floating away, my memories will form a rock steady base, and with both feet planted safely, my eyes look to my own horizon.

Mum's Passing - Thoughts.

March 19 2013
Thanks everyone else who has taken the time and care to comment, it's beautiful to be cared for by my Facebook family, hugely appreciated. Home now for a glass of red, my sister is showering, then back to hosptial, but not for me. I don't want to do it, I photograph too many dead people to want to see my mum like this. Over it. It was enough to hold dad in my arms as he went, I don't want to do that with mum.
I've said my goodbyes to her, and I am at peace with that. Candles are lit. x

At noon today we thought she would be gone by 1pm. Instead, her breathing regulated, her hands warmed up (!!) and here we are all those hours later. Death is a meanie, taking it's time, teasing and haunting us, every, single, fecking, day. We could still be having this conversation tomorrow! *faints.

Mum says in her halting, stuttering, breathy voice:"I must firmly tell my daughters; Family first". The irony made me weep. *sighs

Only 8 weeks ago today, my *almost 93yo mother, had sparking blue eyes, full of cheek and wit, rasing her wine glass and hugging her many grandchildren. Tonight, we keep virgil over her bed, as she sleeps peacefully snoring. Yoh Wah (*goodbye) Bunty, thanks for everything. I will miss you every day, and will never look at a telephone again without wanting to ring you at 5pm.

Worth sharing: "Go to sleep and rest your eyes. A clear conscience and no regret is what helps you sleep the sleep of babes. You have done what can be done. Believe me do not be afraid of death or the things left unsaid. Instead be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for."

March 20 2013
The wind howls around the house, and cries through the trees: Where is our mother? Where is our mother?

RIP Pearl Warby, our Mother of 3 girls and 3 boys. Reader, gardener, opera lover, wife of a soldier, daughter, sister and mother to us all. Bless you and keep you in His loving arms. Toujours gai - and always a Lady. Yow Wah *goodbye

My 2 sisters are back home, red eyed, happy with grief. Phone calls are made...softly...gently.. We fresh ophans sit and raise our glasses of champagne, toasting our mum.

Playing The Lark Ascending for mum. (*And the lark just rises, going up, and up, and finally, it's out of sight) Having a quiet weep. She always wanted this for her funeral. Today we carefully ironed her beautiful purple blouse we all love, bought fresh white pretty knickers for her, and took her clothes to the funeral arranger. This afternoon we met with the always amazing Fr Cameron and planned her Service. Have to say, it’s going to be beautiful.

Flowers have started to arrive. Thank you to everyone for your kind thoughtfulness, with your loving Facebook posts, your beautiful Twitter messages of support, your phone calls, Sms’s and so on. Please know they are all read, noted, and enjoyed. Bless. X

Mum and I loved Archy and Mehitabel: we would often quote bits to each other. Please enjoy. http://donmarquis.com/archy-and-mehitabel

Happy Birthday Eve my darling mum, tomorrow we send you off with Grace and dignity, style and love. If you could see the waxing moon over Mt Archer, if you could feel the gentle night wind on your cheek once more, and know that your life was charmed, difficult, original and amazing. If you could only know, once more, the feel of my arms around you. I wish! Sleep now my darling girl, sleep now, brave girl. I love you. X

Please bear with me if I indulge in a little 1am quiet sob for my mum, whom I will never know. A private, reserved woman. The stranger in our midst. Yah wah mum. *goodbye

***

My aunty has my mother’s ears, and her own, twisted, paralyzed hands. She moans softly, Mum, mum. I am here.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong; have unravelled, as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life.

I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this living, without her voice on the end of the phone.

Without aunty laughs and arms surrounding me with joy. Without female approval or judgement.

It has be enough.

Twitter:

She actually said: i love you, i love you, the naughty one. Sigh. X

Glad i am here, although i DID say no more death bed scenes. Still, who are we to write the script?

All a part of life & living, this dying business. Sitting cross legged in hall with a cuppa trying 2 get internet

Chatting to nurse Wendy. 'What was your husband like?' to mum. He was a beautiful man, she says. I cried, hearing that.

Mum glances to her right. 'Who's that?' she asks, nodding to the corner of the room. I nudge Carolyn. 'Is it a man or a woman mum?' I ask

She can't tell me. She looks around her room. 'There's 1,2,3 of them' she says. I stare and smile at nothing but curtains and the sink.

Carolyn suggests it might be mums angels, but mum isn't convinced. Yet she still counts them loud. One. Two. Three.

Mum is snoring. So sweet x

Sitting in the hallway playing solitaire, missing my pillow. Glad i am here though. Might make a nest in mums big chair. Goodnight x

Gawd i am freezing! Thin white hospital blanket, brrr. Mum still snoring.

Good morning Groovers. Sis and i at hospital with mum, starving for Maccas breakfast, lol. Long night. Long day ahead. the morphine is making her confused.

Think she "saw" 3 people in the room last night. Kept asking the time since 4am, witching hr

We will go soon, once witching hour has passed, come back later and do it all again.

Sending warm thoughts to you today..."thanks, i will wrap them around my shoulders like an old friend x

"I'm just a patient, who doesn't know: what's it all about?" says mum.

Remember family, says mum, then drifts off with a smile on her face. I wonder what that memory was?

It’s a restless wind in Rocky tonight, yachts jerk, trembling on their anchors, trees shake their manes with impatience, doors rattle.

It's a restless night tonight, the wind slaps the blinds and spanks unseeing windows.

Be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for.

I am at home, listening to the wind shiver around the house. Sisters at hospital. Tired, bedtime xx

Back to sleep 4 me, mums candle went out, big wind here, think she is gone, dunno

RIP my darling mother with the laughing blue eyes, I shall always be grateful to you.

she was always a lady with a wicked sense of intelligence & humour. At peace now. Bless.

I am an ophan, the person who supported me & believed in me, listened to me, is gone. So non-judgmental & loving...

With life, comes death. My mother is teaching me gently, still.

she was our matriarch, much loved we won the jackpot with our parents. Marvellous lives x

I think what I'll miss most is her unconditional support, always interested in whatever funeral I'd film, supportive x

Mum's funeral notice in paper, looks good.

Magpies & crows having animated conversations #Rocky

Such a perfect circle.

Thanks Twitter buddies, give me strength to read the Eulogy (my part) & send her off with dignity.

We want happy funeral, she had a great life. Warby-time is over. Bless

So it is done. We orphans gave mum a dignified, memorable, creative Service. Yoh Wah mum. *goodbye #funerals

One Parrot, or two?

Once again I am in Rockhampton, the sleepy hot town of my childhood, but not my birth. I am a Saltwater woman; a beach girl, an ocean spirit who lived her teenage years trapped between the inland humidity of Mt Archer’s shadow, and the closed, tired minds of Rockhampton people.

It’s not true to say nothing changes here. It does, but it takes its time. Nothing changes in a hurry.

The Fitzroy River still ambles its sluggish way to the sea. Boats still glide and turn with the incoming tide; their bows facing the current pushing upstream, turning their backs to the bridge. Trains still shuffle along 'the main street of Rocky' – written once by a travelling writer, and often repeated, whether it’s true, or not.

It’s become folklore; people love to tell tales against this city, and sometimes its deserved, often not.

One thing that has changed with my latest visit is only one parrot hanging off the back door. Usually there are two clowns, gaily decked out wearing their feathered outfits, befitting their silly behaviour. Today there is only one, and he shrieks upside down from the red flowering bottlebrush tree in the front garden.

I wonder where his mate is, as they have almost become family pets, greeting my mother and sister each morning with hungry cries for bread and honey. Mum grew native plants for three decades, and flowering trees and shrubs for the birds to feed upon surround the house; so although there are a lot of natural bush foods here for them to eat, they adore their honey, wiping their sticky beaks of the side of flowering pot plants and sneezing with delight!

It’s almost irresistible to not put my hand out to stroke their colourful feathers. Today there is only one parrot. Perhaps tonight his mate will come, stomping his pigeon-toed parrot feet amongst the parsley, chasing the butcherbirds who come to feed on titbits of mince. I’ll watch for him, and rouse on him, scolding him in a motherly way, before placing bread and honey before his feet.

~

In my mother’s arms, lying across the bed, laying across her chest, I feel her arms wrap strongly around me. She holds me tightly. “I love you Mrs Warby,” I say softly.

She speaks with a strong voice, empowered.

“Some people want to live to 100,and receive the letter from the Queen. I am not one of those people. Enough’s enough.”

She repeats this.

Enough’s enough.

“I am simply being maintained, that’s all you can do at my age. It’s not like I can go to a hospital and have an operation and come out skipping. I’m simply being maintained, and enough is enough.”

There’s nothing more to add to that, and we sit in the cool darkness of her blue bedroom, and hold hands. We don’t speak, but we both sob silently with rage against time, and life and death to come.

~

“I don’t water the lawn”, my sister says, as she leaves for work. I know why she doesn’t. It’s all time, and money and effort. She has enough to do, enough to think about, more than enough to occupy her time and goodwill. I water the lawn for her, moving the leaking hose (did I say leaking? It’s a bloody fountain, twice over!) every 20 minutes, giving each patch a good soaking. Yes, it’s time and effort and water bills, but shows a generous spirit, saying to the neighbours: “Look, I care. I share this planet and this town with you, and I care.”

The birds chatter with delight; a solo peewee struts within the garden, a picture perfect image of military design in his crisp black and white uniform. A large ant marches backwards and forwards across the top of the stairs, halting and then turning and repeating the action. He’s either keeping the baddies out, or we are all going to be overrun by an army of insects. Whatever, will be.

~

My mother carries within her red walker; a racing guide, the crossword, and the telephone; all packed neatly with the seat up, in sight. Her silver hair has the permanent crease of bed-hair, no matter how much I comb it for her.

Her gait is slower, and more considered. As we speak, her eyes search for the right word. She grasps and stabs the air with her arthritic finger, digging out the right phrase, the correct word, and the ultimate answer.

~

I love to drive northwards - crossing the Fitzroy River over the new bridge - whilst watching the wrought iron train bridge to my left. Its elegance, leaping between black rock and black rock, always gives me hope, that one day – with thoughtful planning and an unbounded leap of energy and good faith, others can also escape the monotony of living in Rockhampton. And in leaving, they also leave their gilded footprint of the city and its people. Just saying.

~

Mum – Part 8

John has arrived from Bowen, at last. A day of ups and downs for mum – to be expected – and her ‘surprise parcel in the post’ arrived sans post stamp and larger than life. John!

Laptops are quickly organised to Skype, a bottle of champagne thrown into the car, and we sit as a family; this stoic mother with her broken hip, and her remaining offspring who adore her.

We sit and we chat and we laugh and we sing old songs that some of us know; and we sing old songs that all of us know. We are so happy – and relieved – to be together.

Later, dinner is a mish-mash if this and that, each choosing a different drink to wash away the day’s efforts.

Red wine.
White wine.
Beer.
Champs.

Much dancing and filming to the Mills Sisters and our adored Seaman Dan.

Tomorrow, when the crows are still silent from sleep; and the sun has forgotten to wake up, my sister June will creep into the darkness and drive 700kms home to her pot plants and awaiting family. God speed. God Bless. Don’t speed. Dit us!

***

To be continued…

Mum – Part 6

It’s Tuesday. I’ve lost a whole day. Yesterday I woke to a black screen on my phone.

Yesterday was spent organising my dead Blackberry to be resuscitated by Telstra. They have actually replaced it *bless, and when we removed the old sim card, it spluttered back to life!

So now I have TWO Blackberries. *sighs. I’ll have to sort that out today.

Yesterday my sisters asked if I could vacuum the floor, so I waved them off to the hospital as only Cinderalla can, and vacuumed mum’s 90th birthday bling from the carpet.

90. Woosh. There goes a purple one. Wosh! There goes a gold one. 90.

Gradually little memories are removed from the floor.

Yesterday I met my sisters - who seem to talk around me, and over me – for morning tea. Agreeing to meet at the ‘Chocolate Shop’ I drive and park, only to read that what I thought was the right café is actually called Sexy Coffee. I hate coffee, but I love chocolate, so then I drive to Carolyn’s work to ask if I can ring her on her mobile.

Long story short, I found the girls, who didn’t miss me at all. *sighs, lol. They sit a cough’s distance away.

***

We wander the house, patting down our pockets. “Have you seen my phone? Are these my glasses? Where did I put my camera?”
We wander like sheep in a paddock, out of routine with life and habits.

***

A sign hangs limply from a building advertising “Opera in the Caves”. It would be beautiful to be there, to hear pure voices sing in God’s Cathedral.

***

A semi laden with cattle turns a hard right for the long drive to the meatworks. A line of manure spills from the truck in a graceful but smelly curve. Even with the windows up I can smell the shit.

Rockhampton is a beef city.

Large cows (cattle?) bullocks or whatever meet visitors at each end of the town. I like the concept.

Eat more meat ya bastards! crowed the old car stickers. You probably can’t say that now, in this politically correct world we live in. We exist in. This silly world where little girls prance in permanent party dresses of pink and fairy tulle. What on earth do they then wear to actual parties?

***

A group of young aboriginals cross the road in front of my car. They each hold a small plastic coke bottle and inside it the liquid isn’t the colour of Coke. They look at me with dead eyes. I stare back.

***

The Fitzroy - the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees of my old hometown - twinkles in the autumn sunshine.

Clouds hang above like gun fire.

I drive in silence, the car radio has died. It gives me time to think, and I can’t sing anyway with my scratchy voice. Later, I ring Father Cameron, all 6 foot 6 inches of him, to ask if mum can be put on the Prayer List. This morning he responds to my message, and also adds me to the list.

Marvellous! And all you have to do to be on it, is to be sick!

***

My sister asks if we should throw away the chocolate mud cake I bought for us to share on Mother’s Day. It has only one small slice taken from it. It sits pristine. No, I say, it will last for ages. She starts shouting at me, again.

BUT I DON'T EAT MUDCAKE!

I do.
So far she has lectured, roused on, bossed, and now she shouts.

I am her Elephant’s Child. We have forgotten how to speak to each other.

I might go home early. I’m dead weight here.

***

To be continued...

Mum - Part 4

Sitting in the car, chatting to my Youngest, waiting for sisters to arrive for our planned brunch. Uh oh, here comes Carolyn, grim faced and trembling chin. It’s not going to be good news. I scramble out of the car, a gaggle of Mother’s Day wishes hurriedly snatched from my son’s mouth as he utters each word.

Overhead, a loose flock of pigeons wheel and turn like confetti in the blue Rockhampton sky; such a mad mob. A few of them break free, flapping this way and that, no idea where they are going; they must be young.

Learning.

Other pigeons fly in an orderly circle, how hard can it be, but the youngsters fall over the sky in random order, like starving kids in the school Tuckshop line.

***

My two sisters fill me in on what the doctor said, what the nurse said, what mum has told them. Stories are shared, options discussed. It’s grim. We sit there – shocked at the future being pushed towards us – we unwilling participants of this slow motion car crash called life. And death.

***

Driving through the city centre on Sunday afternoon, I see two old cowboys, playing the fiddle. It could be a violin, but come on, they are cowboys, and it’s unlikely to be such an instrument, but you never know. They stand bow legged, white hats and denim jeans, arms bent and I have to imagine the music they are playing. I’ll have to simply imagine, for now.

In the centre of East Street is an old fig tree, it’s massive branches carved off like butter. Upright limbs stretch skywards, as if asking to be saved from man's chainsaws.

Old wounds are painted with grey, and cracks and splits in the bark are bogged with putty. I should get some for mum’s hip! In contrast, to the left stands an elegant Royal Palm, dignified in the classic shape of nobility. It makes the poor old fig tree look like the dog’s breakfast it has become. It’s not a suitable street tree, at all, what were they thinking?

***

Arriving home to phone calls, Skype video calls (‘What time is it? It’s 3am. What on earth are you ringing at this hour for?’ We rouse gently). A bottle of champagne is produced. Girls? Pink champers or normal?

Pink? Normal?

No one cares, just open something, anything, and start to pour. We pause our minds for a minute to stop - STOP - and clink; Happy Mother’s Day, here’s to our children, and our mum. Clink. Sip. Ahhh, bliss. Back to rushing around.

***

To be continued…

Mum - Part 3

It’s morning, at last. Darkness scurries west, hiding from the day.

Such a long night.

Coughing, blowing my nose, tossing in my makeshift bed on the floor of the loungeroom.

Outside it's windy; the parrots are hanging off the screen door, waiting impatiently for their bread and honey. One hangs upside down, what a clown!

***

In the distance I can hear my sisters chat quietly, the jug comes to a rolling boil, cups are stirred. I am surrounded by a sea of tissues, and I am full of snot and mucus. How bloody annoying! Deciding not to join my sisters at church, I roll over and close my puffy eyes for more sleep. I haven’t had a bad cold for the past 5 years, and now, today of all days, here I am. Unclean! Unclean! So annoyed at myself.

‘Look behind the potatoes' I croak to Carolyn, and she digs out the large box of dark Lindt chocolates for Mother’s Day. I plan to eat at least 3 of them myself, although I doubt if I could taste them. I’ll just pretend.

Carolyn brings me a hot cup of tea, and waves Panadol at me. Thanks sis.

My voice sounds like a 13 year old. If I wasn’t so sick I’d burst out laughing at myself, how I sound. I honk my nose again.

When the girls leave, when my sisters drive away from this girl’s house, leaving me and my tissue landfill, I make myself another cup of tea.

***

This is such a girl’s house, now. On the walls there are 35 paintings, all original. We are a house of enthusiastic artists and collectors of memories and photographs. Good paintings hang above terrible, but much loved paintings. We look at them both, and appreciate the care and memory.

Some of dad’s paintings hang above the window, scenes of early days at Lockhart River Mission, us naked happy children running with freedom in our salty hair. Above the television stand a group of grandchildren photos, in various stages of smiles, teeth and life.

The frames jostle for prominence.

They are treasured and carefully replaced with each fresh batch of images. This girl’s house is surrounded by security, now. Lights, doors, mesh, screens, it is a bolt house for us women. No men guard us here. It’s a girl’s house with Adorable written in diamonds on the bathroom mirror, false pearls strung like party lights across the toilet window; the seat remains down, always.

Music seeps through, classical music. Always music, and art.

It’s mum’s house, except there is no mum here, now.

I light a candle for her, for Mother’s Day.

Later, in the hot shower, I stand and let the water drown me, spilling over my shoulders, across my back, to the floor. There are 3 soaps, 2 liquid bath lotions, 5 types of shampoo. It’s such a girl’s house, this home.

To be continued…

Mum - Part 2

It is a week since mum’s fall.

One week since Nigella cooked on TV, quietly unaware of the horror unfolding for my sister on the other side of the screen. Seven days of my older sister beating herself up (it happened on her shift) although you couldn’t find a more loving, dedicated caring daughter.

- One 12 second chat: “Mum, stay there and watch Nigella, I’ll just go and heat dinner for us”;
- one two second fall (twisting her body so she didn’t re-break her left wrist *smart!)
- 20 minutes of my sister sobbing and crying and trying to help Mum to her feet, trying to help Mum stand, trying to get Mum off the bloody floor.

Calm down Carolyn, Mum says, in the authoritive voice she learnt in the war, as Signals Officer.

Take your time, it will be ok.

***

In the afternoon we are in Mum’s room of the Rehabilitation Centre. We came laden with blankets (it’s cold) and fresh sleepwear and anticipation. She’s in bed chatting on the phone to brother John. Tomorrow will be Mother’s Day, and he has sent 2 red roses, and a card that reads: To the best Mother in the world, Happy Mother’s Day, I love you, John.

 Nice.

He has done it every year, for decades. He is a man of rountine and order. A school teacher. Driving home, Venus keeps her twinkling eye upon us, as the car turns into our street. We are home, bottles of wine are opened, pizzas are ordered, our growling tummies howl with anticipation of a meal.

***

So tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and the shops are full of mummy things: pyjamas, nighties, dressing gowns and so on. I buy my two sisters a bunch of Woolworths flowers: red roses for June (so they can travel the 700km back to Brisbane in the car) and pink tulips for Carolyn (I love to watch them gently droop as they grow one inch each day, so graceful). I hide a large box of Lindt dark chocolate in the pantry, behind the potatoes. Mum will receive yellow ‘Tulips in a Bucket!’ - like 'Snakes on a Plane!' - only tulips.

I walked my Rockhampton inspired 10,000 steps in the North Rockhampton Shopping Centre to buy the flowers. The shopping mecca is full of 14 year old boys preening their hair, carefully sculptured piles of dead protein sure to impress the chicks...middle aged women walk past me with both of their lower legs covered in tattoos. I’m sure you can get pantyhose that look like that?

I’m exhausted, but still appreciate watching dads with sons and young toddlers glean over catalogues to choose the right gift for their mother. It has to be right, they can’t stuff this up, the day is too important to them. They’re young. When they become older, when their body begin to change it’s scent and they feign carelessness as cool, Mother’s Day becomes less important. Never as important as their hair.

It’s proportional.

Later we Skype with brother John. My eldest sister and I clash, again. And again. It’s what we seem to do. We always have. We're both tired.

***

Carolyn, my other sister, is exhausted.

“Goodnight Sis, sleep well,” the old phrase not quite worn out from use. Within a minute my sister is back in the lounge room, crying, sobbing, her body shaking with grief.

“I just miss mum cleaning her teeth, it’s something we have done together, every night. I can’t stand the thought of her up there by herself.”

I hold her, it’s amazing how far my arms can stretch, I feel like Rubber Man. We embrace.

I tell her she is the most loving woman, the most patient, giving woman. It’s all true. It’s not a time to lie or embellish, it’s the simple truth. She really is.

We sob together.

Shhh. Shhh. Mum is in a good place. It’s her journey. We are witness to her life, what a ride!

I stroke her shoulders, and murmur.

‘Dad is with her. Dad is with her’. All will be well.

Tomorrow is morning service at the Cathedral, I haven’t been back for a service since we buried dad, so tomorrow is the day, before we go to see mum, to take our offerings of flowers and bed jackets and our love and concern, our family offerings of a life well lived and respected and appreciated. Tomorrow.

We have tonight to get through first.
Sleep well, God bless.

***
To be continued...

Mum 2010-05-08

We are entering a new era of soft, hushed voices, of lowered eyes that do not dare to connect for fear of letting go.

Tentative footfall.

What will we find today?

Our mother has broken her hip. Fractured bones and torn muscle (it’s her left side) and life as we know it – knew it – looks grim faced, staring back at us with a contemptful sneer.

We five children race down the hospital corridor, wheeling left like a flock of seagulls, a family in full flight, all sisters and nieces and toddlers, turning left, walking briskly along the silent tunnel of green paint, until we reach the end, and begin to slow our pace; finally, slowly, softly tip toeing on shushed feet to peer between the open door. Is she asleep? Her mouth is open. Is that normal? She’ll be thirsty when she wakes. We chat to ourselves and make notes of her needs. Of our needs. We need to be hugged and loved and reassured our mother is ok. Of course she isn’t. She’ll never be ok again.

We are entering an en era where feet tred slowly, time slows, clocks become only relevant when it comes to pain relief and tablets. A time when each painful raised heel and foot attempts to shuffle forward; a time that will witness sadder conversations, flurries of tears and tissues followed by hard nose blowing and “Yes Mum, I’m fine, darling”.

We begin to lie to each other.

To protect.

To try in our own silly human way to slow the inevitable: the death of a parent; our mother, the last woman standing.

Dad’s spirit smiles in the shadows, waiting for her to join him. Not long now Dad, not long now love.

Slabs of daylight shaft the room, fingers of time probing our life, falling at our feet in a pool of sunshine.

Outside a formation of Ibis fly silently overhead. Timid clouds sneak peeks over the shoulders of Mt Archer. We press the buzzer, we squeeze it, we stab it again with our shaking fingers. Quietly a bell rings in the Nurse’s Station, and a wearied figure of efficiency paces down the hallway, to be greeted by our sea of anxious faces.

To be continued...