jmgoyder

wings and things

My mother is a poem

My mother, Meg, is 82 and the age itself conjures images of white hair, stooped posture, decrepitude, and yet she defies all of this with her beautiful, generous presence in so many of our lives. She battles deafness, combats macular degeneration of the eyes, and has overcome breast cancer, multiple broken bones, grief and trauma, with the most incredible resilience I have ever seen in another human being.

Not only that, Meg is always willing to listen – even to criticism. She does listening better than anyone I know and her support of her three children, eleven grandchildren, and the so-far four great-grandchildren, is solid and unwavering.

Sometimes she and I get a bit impatient with each other because, even though we are so mutually attuned, we are very different. Meg is impetuous, fast and good at multi-tasking whereas I am cautious, ponderous and sometimes timid. Nevertheless, we share the same heart; we miss the same person (my dad who died so young); and we want the very best for the whole ever-extending family.

Below is my mother’s poem about death:

MARY

Her hand,

a strong but ageing hand,

slipped momentarily through

a curtain made of gossamer,

took hold

of both of mine,

and pulled me through.

Her smile a twinkle

and her voice like

ripples in a stream.

“Come, meet my son.

He’s waiting over there.”

And, arm in arm,

we moved

to His embrace.

My mother, Meg, is 82 and the age itself can often lead to intermittent thoughts and wonderings about death. This poem dispels the fear of death and, for me, breaks through the discomfort of talking about death.

My mother is a poem. We all are.

 

 

 

 

 

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Dementia dialogues 9/10

Me: How come there’s water all over the floor? Did you tip your drink out again?

Anthony: Yes, because everybody is dead.

Me: What?

Anthony: This is a funeral home.

Me: No way! This is a nursing home – remember?

Anthony: All of the kids ….

Me: Are they still bothering you?

Anthony: I had to fight one last night.

Me: Did you win?

Anthony: Half and a quarter….

Me: Good on you, Ants! They won’t be bothering you again, I’m sure.

…………..

Anthony: Well come on, Jules – let’s go.

Me: Where?

Anthony: Around the block.

Me: Which block? The farm or the nursing home?

Anthony: The rose garden.

Me: What rose garden?

Anthony: Along the driveway!

Me: It’s too rainy and cold, Ants – sorry. Maybe tomorrow?

……………

The last several weeks have been a bit of a challenge for me because my anxious/depressive tendencies roared into my brain – WHAMMO! – when I mistakenly thought Ants was on the brink of death. I don’t want the knife edge of that grief again and am hoping that I am now better prepared.

Me: I saw an advertisement on TV the other day about cremation versus burial. What do you reckon? You know what I mean? For both of us of course.

Anthony: It’s far too early to think about that.

Me: Okay, Ants.

Anthony: There’s something ….

Me: Is it to do with my exquisite face?

Anthony: I wouldn’t go that far.

Me: What?

Anthony: But it’s quite nice, I suppose.

Me: Harrumph!

 

 

 

 

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I miss you

I miss you because you are one of the bloggers I mislaid when I unsubscribed from everybody’s and created a blogroll. I am still relatively new at this blogthing so please remind me if I have unwittingly forgotten you.

I miss you because you are my now impossible-to-care-for Husband.

I miss you because you are my now growing-up Son.

I miss you because you were my father and you died.

I miss you because you were the mother who loved music, and now you can’t hear it.

I miss you because you used to think I was okay until I became so unreliable, unpredictable, unsociable, but I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

I miss all of the visits from friends and family because now home feels quiet and dead without Husband.

I miss myself.

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