inclusivity, love, mortality

30/08/11: 

Mary died yesterday morning. She was over ninety, but l’m not sure of her exact age. She was the sort of person you felt it would be rude to ask. Mary was an old-fashioned woman, the soul of discretion and integrity. A lady in an almost Jane Austen sense: fair-minded,  quietly spoken, perceptive, and always impeccably groomed. I was surprised when I discovered that beneath the conservative exterior lay not only a sharp mind, but  also some very non-conservative political opinions. 

When I saw her in Melbourne a few weeks ago I knew it would be the last time. She was suddenly a frail, pale old woman in a hospital bed, fading away. Still trying to put everyone at ease. She reminded me of my own mother in her final weeks. 

I sat on the bed and held her hand, a level of intimacy we would never have shared normally. I longed to tell her how much I’ve enjoyed knowing her. To recall the conversation we had a few years back, about how we women need our own solitary activity - Mine, writing, hers painting. She did exquisitely detailed botanical water colours.  

But I didn’t want to embarrass her. And it seemed as if it would be very bad manners for anyone to mention Death, or  even Goodbye. I shed a few tears when I walked out of the hospital room.

As recently as last Christmas Day, Mary and her companion, Dick, my stepfather, were still looking well turned-out. Sipping champagne and wearing Christmas bonbon hats  and joining in the conversation. Dick carved the turkey, although his hands were a little shaky and his son was at his elbow. 

Mary is the third of three much-loved women who Dick has lost. The first was the mother of his children. She  died of some sort of awful arthritis, a few years before he met  his second love, my mother.  

Mum was a decade younger than him, younger than I am now, when they met. She was healthy and bright and still beautiful. No one could ever have imagined she’d be dead ten years later of  breast cancer. 

I think the years with him were the happiest years of my mother’s life, and a sort of healing. She’d had a tough time with my father, then a succession of dodgy blokes. We all rejoiced when Laurel and Dick got together. And wept when she died, nineteen years ago today, strangely enough.  

Dick grieved terribly for my mother. He and I spent a lot of time together that first year or so after she died. We had cared for her together in the final months. He has been a sort of second father to me, a kind and sensible man, so unlike my real Dad, who was cynical and moody and drank too much. 

For about two years Dick’s  sadness lingered. He was never falsely cheerful, nor maudlin, but just accepted his feelings. I think it was his ability to allow the grief to run its course that ultimately freed him to love again.

Mary had known my mother, and also D’s first wife. She was a widow who had brought up her niece and nephew after their mother died. 

I often marvelled at the inclusiveness of this clan that gathered around Dick and his kids. He kept in touch with old friends of my mothers - even some who’d been my long-dead father's  friends or relatives, who he’d met via Mum. The names of my mother, and of his first wife were often 

spoken.

Dick and his family were a blessing bequeathed to me after Mum died. His three kids and their partners all seemed so different from my own experience of family, which had been full of petty feuds and fallings out. 

When I first met them - I was only in my twenties - I thought there was something wrong with them, that they wanted to have Sunday dinners together, to share a few glasses of wine and have rowdy dinner table conversations about books and politics, then go for a walk on the beach together. Like, Get A Life. 

After a while I realised they genuinely enjoyed eachother's company. And I enjoyed theirs. Somehow I  too had become family, or almost family. None of this changed when Dick re-partnered with Mary. They were both in their late seventies by then, but amazingly youthful. They always welcomed me and my little family whenever we were in Melbourne. Never ever forgot F’s birthday, or Christmas. Always had some interesting opinions, or books to recommend.

A few months ago Dick told me  cheerfully ( on the phone - I call him every few weeks) that he didn’t think he’d be here next Christmas, and I said “Don’t you dare die!’ and he joked back   - I could imagine his twinkly eyes  “ Oh alright, just for you I’ll hang around”

He is ninety four now. Everything is suddenly failing - He can barely walk, he is going deaf, and getting a little confused too. He is no longer able to look after himself at home. And now his companion is gone. 

His kids have found him a good place where he is cared for and it’s not too institutional and he can eat dinner in his room. But he knows this will be his last place, the final chapter of a good life. I know I’ll have to let go of him soon.

Human mortality is so sad. Even when people have had long lives. Or so it feels to me today.