Better Late ...
It would have been easy for her to fall yet again into the family story, widely and often repeated, in which my cousin Sue should have been her daughter and I Aunty Franki’s. Mum and Sue were polite, pretty, sweet; Franki and I were seen as intellectual, improper, eccentric.
Even Aunty Franki herself used to say it. I was secretly thankful I wasn’t born to her, with her screaming, volatile marriage to Uncle Bill, her wildly erratic care of her children. No wonder Sue loved visiting us. No wonder our lifelong rivalry for Mum’s attention. (Only 18 months apart, we were the eldest of our generation.)
It must have been that last time I stayed with her (living, by then, far distant) before she broke her hip and went to hospital, then nursing home.
It was Sue, living so much nearer, who arranged all that, visited, took her on family outings … who phoned me and said, ‘Come now!’; who was already holding her hand, sitting up close, when I arrived. Who half-stood, then sat back down, deciding not to cede first place.
We’d fought so often to be first with her! I wasn’t going to make a scene at her deathbed. I took the other chair, held her other hand, spoke to her of all the love people were sending.
‘No!’ said Sue. ‘Far too late for that; she can’t hear you.’ I believed otherwise, but again subsided rather than argue.
After the funeral, a cousin’s new wife, oblivious of my identity, publicly expressed condolences to Sue.
‘You were effectively her daughter, weren’t you?’ she said. (Aunty Franki was long dead.) Sue smiled and agreed.
Another cousin caught my eye, concerned. I gave a tiny shrug.
After all, Sue was indeed the daughter to her, in her final years, that I was too far away to be.
And I had that memory!
That last time I stayed with her, I’d repeated the opinion that Sue might have been a better daughter for her.
How easy for her to have agreed unthinkingly as usual. Seeming about to, she suddenly looked hard at me, straightened, and said deliberately:
‘I’m very fond of Sue. But you’re my Daughter, and I love you.’
Written in response to Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #75: Between What Is Right and What Seems Easy.
That memory is both armor and treasure to take with you for everything that came after. This is such a beautiful story.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Rommy; 'both armour and treasure' is exactly right.
DeleteThanks for sharing this memory with us
ReplyDeleteHappy Wednesday
Much💛love
Thanks to you for saying so.
DeleteBeautiful told and shown, Rosemary. I felt so many emotions: irritation and resignation, understanding and peace. And the ending was perfect.
ReplyDeleteAll those emotions were certainly there! I'm glad to know I succeeded in conveying them.
DeleteIt is a heartbreaking story, Rosemary, but I feel you made the wise, hard decision. Keeping peace, holding your tongue, is not the easy way at all but nearly always right. I am so glad you have that wonderful memory to hold on to.
ReplyDeleteDon't we all have just too much unnecessary baggage? I'm left thinking you are a most compassionate woman.
That's kind of you to say so, and think so, Debi. I guess if we live long enough we get time to sort through the baggage. Yes, there are various decisions in this piece. I appreciate what you say about me holding my tongue; thank you. However I was mainly thinking of my Mum finally realising what I needed to hear, and deciding to say it and make sure I got it.
DeleteA very common situation, Rosemary, you handled it very well. My Dad fell and broke his hip, as they couldn't give him a hip transplant or get it to set and heal, he remained at the nursing home in either a wheel chair or in his bed. The last few years he lost a lot of memory, I was so elated one day at a visit that he called me "Jim". Always it was a family name but never before "Jim".
ReplyDeleteDad lived to be 97.
Mrs. Jim also fell and broke her hip, she had a 'partial hip transplant' and has done fairly well since.
..
Those primal relationships are so important! I'm glad you had that moment of elation. And also that Mrs. Jim is doing well enough.
DeleteYou handled the situation with dignity...shame about the insecure insensitive cousin...I know of two similar situations ,both at funerals.
ReplyDeleteThey can certainly bring out some - er - interesting reactions in people!
DeleteYes, whatever is there, mom is mom, who cannot leave her children without affection. Touching. Nice story.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
Delete