A dilemma that many must have shared. Such deaths are often
described as “a blessing” and even I – a detester of clichés – surely approved of the fact that she was no longer suffering the torments of
dementia; a death something Veronica had desperately sought before coherent speech was denied her.
Well-meaning people had told me that the suffering person
whose hand I held was no longer the woman I had married. I found this hard
to take. Physically, at least, she was that woman. Stripped of the abilities of
speech, creative thought, and the essence of motherhood she nevertheless
radiated memories of a life we had shared. For the first time I recognised that
the phrase “my life” was imprecise, that “our life” was the greater truth. For
66 years we had lived in combination, created a family and done the things that
families do. Perversely I tell myself “our life” still endures. For a
little while
So, here’s one of those shared memories. A salutary occasion
if you like.
We were poverty-stricken when we married. A honeymoon is
hardly the right word. I borrowed my mother’s Lambretta scooter and on a chilly
early-October morning we left London aiming for the mountains of North Wales. Veronica
riding pillion. It didn’t get any warmer.
Mid-afternoon we stopped for fuel at a primitive filling
station. An elderly Welsh woman emerged and silently did the necessary. This
was long before the credit card era and I dug out a pound note. The woman took
the note, pointed to the adjacent house, and said sternly, “Now take your wife
in there for a cup of tea before she dies of cold.”
We laughed about this over the tea and scones but only now
have I become aware of the greater significance of that event. In marriage one
becomes two, a mutual two. And I hadn’t yet recognised my responsibilities. I
hope to hell I learned quickly.
My deepest sympathies to you all. I will always remember her as a wonderful, spirited lady who I looked up to and admired immensely. Carolyn x
ReplyDeleteCarolyn: I particularly liked "spirited". Thanks for that
DeleteI hope you will find some solace in the fact that I looked up “pillion” before proceeding with the story. You are sturdy to endure such a call - at such an hour.
ReplyDeleteMikeM: Death was expected although the carers - obviously - couldn't be precise: "Could be hours or days." Yet when it arrived it generated a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts. I fear sturdiness wasn't something I was able to call up. Solace, of a sort, arrived later when Occasional Speeder and I were asked if we wished to see Veronica. Both of us said no then both of us changed our minds. OS pointed out there wouldn't be a second chance. Still in the bedroom I'd last seen Veronica, the day before, I averred that the experience was "eerie". Later I was able to be more precise in that there was a trace of expression on her face. The faintest touch of wittiness. And things became more comforting. The woman in charge of the nursing home, whom I'd spoken to and quickly got to like, said simple things yet a million miles from banality. Hugged both of us, in my case with what can only be described as uninhiibited muscularity. And, I suppose , death became more normal and we were rather closer to peace.
DeleteHuge loss! I am glad you and OS changed your minds and saw her one last time. I'm not sure why, but I think that helps accept the reality of such a momentarily surreal experience. and P.S. your last sentence is so good.
ReplyDeleteColette: My posts have dwindled since other matters have intervened, Those that still respond could be described as a coterie (Reach for the French dicker) capable of handling both the language stuff and the emotions. As you do here. Even when we've disagreed your heart has been in the right place. There's a link provided by the alligators.
DeleteI've been out of the loop for a couple of months now...oddly enough, grieving has been the cause. My heart aches for the empty holes you have to somehow fill with nearly forgotten memories. There are no words for when a half of one is gone. I'm blessed to have my husband, but my dearest friend has left a huge hole, I hope yours grows smaller or is filled with the happy times. Sandi
ReplyDeleteSandi: I share your grief but for what seems like an odd reason. I am ninety, shortly ninety-one. Yes, people are living longer these days but even so this is an unexpected age. And there is an unexpected corollary; so many of my similarly born friends, relatives and neighbours have died along the way. I'm a survivor but with this comes loneliness. I am lucky in one sense; my main obsession is writing and to some extent writing depends on loneliness.
ReplyDelete