As I was going up the stair

As I was walking on the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away!

She’d been to parties, in her youth, her infectious laugh causing heads to turn and smiles to appear involuntarily on people’s lips. Her laughter was the force that overrode her innate propriety and revealed her true spirit. She’d make friends by being appalled at the things that others accepted, by living to extremes, driven frequently to tears before adequate pills existed to manage the demolition derby of emotions that made up life. She’d not hold back her affection, tears of emotion welling up during hugs of hello or support, so strong was her empathy for those around her.

She was an activist, a feminist, a mind engaged in challenging the social mores at a time when those who stood against things or for things were potentially sidelined, and yet she made friends, dozens of them, clutches of hysterically laughing people gathering together to work out some of the absurdity of suburban life over drinks, food and terrible music. They’d dance in the manner of middle-aged people after too much whiskey and wine, too many beers and esoteric liqueurs. Ashtrays would overflow with lipstick twisted butts and saucers full of stale pretzels would mark the cemetery that was a Sunday morning lounge, grim testimony to the lives led at full tilt.

She didn’t just encourage her children; she’d go to the schools and harangue the various principals, insisting that her children be correctly acknowledged in their propensity for academic genius. She herself could recognize such things, her intellect being intimidating, and yet not used for intimidation. She had books of poetry memorized and hundreds of details about the lives of those around her filed away. She wrote letters until it was no longer fashionable to do so, itemizing her moments of pride- not to boast, but to display her affection for her family. She knew languages and music, a renaissance woman.

She loved to dress up, and in her modest way projected class and wealth. She wore Chanel No. 5. That speaks volumes. She liked pure wool and the texture and pattern of good fabrics, rather than the bloated and vacuous puffery of brands.

At 62 she started to act strangely. Her husband continued to drink, only this time without the benefit of spousal reproach. They developed habits to manage the slow inevitable erosion of her personality, when she could no longer do the crosswords in record time, or crochet or cook, they’d spend the afternoon drinking, and then come home and drink, although, she no longer drank much at all. Yet she never wept about her loss- for that ability was one of the first physical and emotional indicators to go. She instead became a childlike embodiment of affection, needing direction and reminding. She’d hug with intensity, forget, and then hug again. She’d kiss people with real affection in church, and smile contentedly, unaware that she was not the person she’d been.

In the house where they lived, the caregiver would go home on weekends, at which point her husband would drink until barely able to walk, his coping skills destroyed by watching the unraveling of his wife. One night, she ran a bath, and climbed in, her husband watching TV in the other room. The water was scolding, and burned her severely on her feet and backside, her vagina. She was rushed to hospital. The doctors puzzled what to do, while her husband went home and drank an entire bottle of whiskey. Perhaps feeling guilty that he’d allow this to happen, maybe compounded guilt on top of the way he’d slept with his wife’s caregiver while his wife slept in the same house...

So the doctors followed his instructions, writing DNR on her chart, and not to try anything invasive, such as surgery to prolong her life. She lay in the bed, unable to move, and although her skin was horribly burned, the doctors claimed that because of her mental condition she could feel no pain. Still, she grimaced, and shook, as if frightened by the abandonment and loneliness, murmuring in repetition the lines of the soap operas and advertisements. This shock for her body was too much, and slowly, over a period of a month, she died, in a hospital bed at home, with the cool Garden Route breeze acting as counterpoint to the late winter sun. Her hair was not the way she would have worn it, and her makeup was abandoned. She died as far removed from that energetic girl with the naughty laugh as she could get, in this bizarre and meaningless circle we call life.

She was my Mum.