A Conversation With My Mother
A difficult exchange and one we’ve had many times before and will, no doubt, have again
“Katherine!”
My heart sank…uncontrollably sank. Though I did try, vainly as it turned out, not to let my mother feel the emotion that flooded through me on hearing that one word shrieked, not spoken, but shrieked.
My name.
“KATHERINE!”
Piercing now. She was almost in my head.
Sigh-groan. My head sinking, my eyes closing.
“Yes, Mother”.
“Yes, MOTHER? Where’s the ‘mum’ gone from your head?”
“Why Katherine, not Kath or even Kathy? You used to call me Kathy” and you didn’t bloody shriek it — that was added in my head.
There was no need for either of us to answer the other’s question. We knew why, but neither of us wanted to go there. The inevitable argument would remain untested, it would lie, festering in our moodiness.
“It’s nice to see you again, and so soon again…Mother!”
“Sarcasm. Pathetic sarcasm! Can’t you EVER think of a more appropriate welcome?”
Oh, could I!
Another sigh, with a better disguise this time.
“Sorry, Mum. I’ve had a hard day and I’m tired”
“You’re tired! I’ve been trying to get down here for hours. You think you’ve been working hard!”
I backed down — again — as I usually did, but there was little point in escalating the tension. I’d always be outmanoeuvred.
“There’s something I need you to do for me. Something I can’t do anymore. Not surprising at 94, is it!?”
I managed to suppress yet another sigh-groan. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.
“Can I finish my tea first, Mum?”
I’d not long sat down at the table and wasn’t even halfway through my meal. It was taking longer than normal thanks to my newly acquired throat infection — an incidental symptom of the cold I’d picked up from my head of department at work.
Another mouthful of fish painfully forced down and I winced.
“Will you stop eating like that!”
“Like what?” I managed, more than just a little surprise in my voice and looking up at her as she exaggerated my expression of pain and simulated strained swallowing.
“It looks utterly disgusting! Don’t do it!”
I stopped. My hands, with knife and fork frozen between my plate and my half-open mouth. Resist — don’t say it!
Here was the woman — telling me not to look disgusting as I tried to eat my meal whilst suffering with a sore throat — who had the habit of inspecting the contents of her handkerchief after she’d noisily blown her nose into it!
Me, disgusting!?
This was an almost signature act of unpleasantness I, and both of my sibling brothers had identified as being uniquely our mother’s. Heaven only knew why she needed to see whatever she did see in her handkerchief.
Don’t remind her — DON’T!
“I’m sorry, Mum, but I have a very sore throat to go with the cold I caught at work”
“Well, just don’t pull faces like that when you’re swallowing. It makes you look like a gimp”.
I smiled, inwardly, I hoped. She had no idea what ‘gimp’ meant. To her, it was just a mild insult, a put-down. I didn’t challenge it.
“What is it you need me to do, Mum?” Though I had more than a good idea of what she was going to ask me to do.
“I’m trying to get in touch with your father and he’s still not answering. Can you help me with this blessed phone? If not, do you think Paul or Michael might be able to sort it out?”
She’d had the old Nokia for so long that I couldn’t remember if it was even able to connect with modern telecom systems or not.
“Why don’t you get a new phone, Mum? You don’t need an all-bells-and-whistles one, but all phones nowadays are so-called ‘smartphones’. It’ll be a lot easier when you’ve got used to it. I can help you get it going if you find it difficult”
“But I like this one!”
An exchange we’d had many times before and one I wasn’t going to win. The old Nokia had been Mum’s for as long as I could remember. She more than liked it, it had become a trusted servant, a friend, almost.
Another suppressed sigh followed by an assurance that I would try and do something with the museum exhibit.
There was no point, of course, she wasn’t going to be able to use it to talk with Dad. She wouldn’t be able to do that even with the very latest smartphone. He’d died some seventeen years ago. It had hit her hard, losing the love of her life.
Slowly, over the intervening years, she could only remember him as he was in life and eventually that became her reality. Though it pained her not to be able to talk with him and she focussed her irritation on the old Nokia.
At 94 there was little point in pursuing the issue, better to go along with it, assure her that one of us would do our best to get things sorted and that she would be able to talk with Dad again soon. Besides, the next time she appeared for a chat, she’d have forgotten this one.
Time to change the subject.
“What did the doctor say?”
I knew that Michael had escorted Mum to the surgery not so long ago and I’d yet to hear the prognosis. Mike had, however, given me a full report of Mum’s behaviour in front of her GP.
* * * * *
“OK, Mike. What happened?”
“She’s so bloody rude!
“Go on” I knew what was coming, but Mike needed the prompt.
“I was mortified. She told the doctor to slow down when talking to her as she said she couldn’t understand his accent! She even held up her hand in his face while he was talking and shouted ‘STOP’! The expression on his face…well…well, I didn’t know where to look!”
It was not an uncommon occurrence. Mum, in her advanced years, seemed to think she had the right to be shown respect without having to show it. Fortunately, Doctor Assad was familiar with Mum and her ‘ways’ and he hadn’t taken exception to the rudeness — it had happened before.
It was the same with the village community, most of whom thought of Mum as a delightful elderly and supportive matriarch, proud of her family and forever singing our praises.
Such a shame she had forgotten we were all now grown adults and had been for several decades. However, we were still her children and she spoke to us just as children and expected us to be happy to be treated as children. We weren’t, of course, but she wasn’t going to change. Better to simply accept it for however long there was left.
There were other examples of Mum’s inability to accept things as they now are.
The village chapel no longer had any need for a pianist or organist. A service she’d been proud to say she could provide. St Matthews had closed to worshippers a long time ago.
There was the time I’d been out to the local pub with friends, celebrating something or other — a birthday, anniversary or some such. We’d had what is known as a ‘lock-in’ — the pub lights switched off, doors locked and the landlord, taking a bit of a risk, claimed we were having an organised private party. A party that ran well after midnight.
I’d arrived home at nearly one o’clock to be greeted by my mother, who had stayed up to welcome me back, to berate me for staying out so late and to lock up before going to bed. She’d forgotten I had a house key and was quite capable of locking up myself.
I wouldn’t have been bothered so much, but for the fact that, at the time, I was 50 and she was 80!
There were other sad reflections on Mum’s inability to live in modern times.
There lived in the village a few couples that she would describe as ‘companions’. There was no room in her mind for same-sex relationships that could be described as anything other than companionship. It was another topic to be left well alone. Should the subject come up in conversation and the words ‘lesbian’, ‘gay’ or ‘homosexual’ be mentioned, we would all back-pedal alarmingly quickly.
* * * * *
“He prescribed me yet more of those awful-tasting yellow pills I had before”
The sudden return to my query about her visit to the doctor took me by surprise. It must have shown on my face, even though eye contact was still missing.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mum. Sorry. You mean the ones that he said would help with…”
“YES, those ones!” She didn’t like to talk about incontinence or that anyone should know about ‘her problem’. Another of the things one didn’t talk about — ever — let alone in polite company and certainly not to one’s offspring. Afterall, we were still only children, and not able to understand such adult problems.
The sighs and groans had stopped. I had them under control. They would become far too antagonistic and serve no purpose. Not even for me.
“But you are feeling better” A statement, rather than a question. “You look a lot better than you did last night”
She liked that. A gentle compliment and it had the desired effect. The expression softened and so did the voice.
“Yes, I do feel much better.” No acknowledgement of or thanks for the compliment. “But I still need to talk with your father.” Insistence again.
“Mum, I’ll try and get through to him. I won’t need your phone, though. I have my own ways of making contact. Do you have any messages for him?”
“I want to know when he’s coming home. He’s been away for so long and he’s not said when he’s coming home!”
“I’ll do my best for you, Mum.” This was getting painfully difficult and emotional. We all missed Dad even after so long and it was hurtful in the extreme to know that Mum had lost all grip on the reality of her loss…our loss.
Even after so many conversations with Mum, all of which had arrived at the same point, I had no resistance as my tears now testified. My sore throat would soon have a lump to add to my distress.
I wasn’t being rude or disrespectful, but I was so tired after my gruelling day at work and I confess I was losing focus, my mind was wandering as Mum kept wittering on about wanting Dad to call her.
It was as if her voice slowly faded, so much so that it was soon difficult to hear what she was saying, even though she was, most definitely, still talking.
I did try to listen, straining to hear her words, but eventually, they became completely inaudible.
I’ll have to wait until she comes down again.
It was late and I’d soon need to wake ready to face another demanding day.
Besides, Mum had died more than two years ago…but she’d be back again tonight.
