Together again
A momentary memoir
Craig Brown
Taita
April 10, 2004 is a beautiful day. There is a faint breeze that billows my hair and for a moment it feels thick, lustrous, flowing, not its thin, progressive gray. The sun warms my face, drying the tears on my cheeks, making them happy tears. They were wept in sadness, but that has evaporated with the sun and I am left feeling warm from the knowledge that I am loved.
I am standing in the Taita Lawn Cemetery and I have said another goodbye. My father has lain there for nearly twenty-one years. I try to visit him on each trip to New Zealand and today, my final day in the country, I have made it. Usually, I am empty handed, bringing only my love. Today though, I carry more than my own, I carry my family's. I also carry a drawing and a paper flower glued with the love a grandson feels for a dear man that he will never meet.
The flower is not for Grandad Jim though, the drawing is his. The flower is Nana's. In the days to come she and Grandad Jim will once more lie together.
February 29, 2004
Before we leave, there is time for a walk, so we pull on Jamie's white sneakers. They're just a shade too small but the velcro straps still hold and it means his new ones won't dirty in the damp earth caused by the last of the winter's snow.
The Feeneys come too, baby Michael in his pram, Cassie on her bike. Jamie now wants to ride not walk. His little legs, once too weak to make the top of the drive, whirr as he races ahead. A thin film of moisture coats my back as I try to keep up and I begin to plan a shower on return.
We pause at the waterfall, my hand inches from his collar as he busies himself seeking twigs for boats to sail over the fall. The journey of each vessel is greeted as enthusiastically as the last. He quivers, backs of his hands against his face, as they cascade into the foam below.
Brown time has kicked in, a glance at my watch is meaningless, always enough time for another boat. Alex knows me better, sees the glance, then asks the time. It is time to go - quickly.
The Noodles arrive at the house as we do, it is good to see them, a chance to say cheerio, but we're still not loaded. Zachary's inside, shoes off, looking for a tank engine named Thomas, ready to play - there's no time, no time. Mike arrives as I fail in my negotiations with Zachy. There'll be no shower, just an uncomfortable feeling for the next 28 hours.
Outside we chat, trying to keep the children to the driveway, un-muddied. Bags, coats, suitcases, children; all get bundled in. Hugs, kisses, quick goodbyes; we're off on the road to JFK, Jamie's too small sneakers still on his feet.
Elsewhere, a brave woman is dying.
Christmas 2003
Tests. Too many to mention with no frame of reference, no context, save for one difference, this time she's telling me before the event. That is bad. Very, very bad.
After, when we'd said our final goodbyes, someone said they knew something was wrong. "She didn't make her own Christmas cards this year, they came from a shop. That just wasn't Josie."
Christmas 2004
We had a plan.
Our little Pippa's growing at a rate of knots but Nana's never seen her. The smiles, the giggles, the first tentative steps, all captured on celluloid in a format that can't be shared.
"We must go." "Next Christmas, or maybe just after when the fares fall." "Yes, we must go."
That was the plan.
February 2004
In the month before, during a conversation with my sister, there was a pause when I outlined our plans for a return. I knew why there was pause, but I put it down to exaggeration - she does that a little.
The test results came back and my mother phoned. She tried to sound jolly, always jolly, always seeing the bright side. "The cancer's back. It's in the base of my spine, there are nodes on the spine too, but I've had six extra years."
Later, there were tumors in her head. She was telling me she was dying the same way she'd tell me she'd been out for dinner.
"We'll book flights today." This time there was no resistance, no suggestion that it wouldn't be necessary. Normal protestations about not "going to any trouble" weren't raised. "That'll be nice," she said.
That is bad. Very, very bad.
March 2, 2004
We lost two days; one to traveling, the other to Pippa. Five hours and 3,000 miles of vomiting at 30,000 feet and we were too frightened to keep going. The captain called for doctors on the plane. Four came forward, posturing ensued and the most arrogant won. His beside manner belied the arrogance and we were reassured. Despite that, Qantas wasn't and paramedics met us in LA. They did a reasonable job of hiding their belief that we were overreacting to Pippa's illness. Qantas further showed their credentials as a quality airline and made our overnight stay comfortable and our onward journey easy.
Mum made the news of our delay easy to break. "You must look after Pippa. See you soon," the disappointment of one less day together entirely hidden.
Aotearoa lived up to its name; Ruapehu soared above the blanket of cumulus. Home.
No more deception
We'd agreed she'd tell the truth. Before, news was kept until the last, basic in its outline, details glossed over. Feelings of well-being were the only ones felt, shielding us from the worst. Mum in one breath saying everything's fine, sister suggesting otherwise, reality sitting somewhere between the two extremes.
I put it down to the war, too much stiff upper lip and staunch British sensibilities.
She promised not to keep any secrets. In the end, there were none.
March 29, 2004
She'd gone in for respite, whose I couldn't quite decide. A break for my sisters from the caring that was becoming so much harder to give or a break for Mum from the fussing and the frustration that comes from not being able to do the routine. Either way, the respite proved to be more than just an assessment of her condition, it was to make her comfortable on her final journey.
The call came just before the basketball, the New Jersey Nets versus the Boston Celtics. Free tickets and a car park pass to boot; computers shutting down, arms into jacket sleeves, an air of excitement prior to heading for the Meadowlands.
"She's in the final phase." I think that's what she said. I think it was Tracey. I didn't think. I couldn't. I knew what the words meant, but I didn't want them to mean the truth. I think I might have said "Okay," might have said "Thanks for calling," might have asked her to "Tell Mum I love her," might have asked if she wanted anything else with her order. I don't remember.
I called Alex and repeated the words I can't now remember. Alex asked if I wanted to go home and got me to agree to think about it. I sobbed in the office, bawled in fact. A group hug with colleagues that weren't too embarrassed for me, one going through the same anguish with his mother. They wanted me to keep the date at the basketball, to help me keep my mind off things. My seat there would stay cold, by the time I was home, I was ready to leave.
Shades of blue
She'd slipped into a coma and the extremities were going, finger tips and lips changing color, purpling, cooling, her time nearly up.
"Craig's coming home Mum. He'll be on a plane soon."
The pigment changed. In an act I hope of pure love, she willed herself to hang on. The warmth, along with pallid pink, returned to her hands.
What to wear
I packed a suit, but no black. I knew I'd be wearing the suit, but anything black would be too grim. She wouldn't want it, we couldn't be too sad.
She'd had a sad visitor on our last trip who'd just depressed her. "She's a happy soul," she said before the gate had closed behind her. It was hard to know which one was doing the dying. At the time we didn't know she'd be gone inside a month, but she had more to be happy about than the visitor.
Her grandchildren, all five of them together for the first time, were playing in the garden, quietly stripping the trees of their limbs and tearing the flowers from their beds. In an earlier age she might have been troubled by that. This time though, she was delighted that they were there, the delight tempered by the weakness, not strong enough to lift our little Pippa, to hold her in her lap.
The smell of lavender would waft through the doors as the kids ran by it. Jamie would bring his Nana some for a vase. Only garden flowers. The best kind - her funeral directive.
LA calling
My sister couldn't hide the disappointment when I phoned from home to say I was on the next flight out. She'd thought I'd already left, so did Mum. Her fight had to last even longer.
The seriousness finally began to sink in. I would call at every opportunity. The next came in LA, a few hours between flights. For thirty minutes, she emerged from her coma and in that time I called. "I'm on my way Mum, I'll be there soon." A cellphone, an airport, a wasting voice, I couldn't hear her final words to me. My sister came on the line. "She said she'd wait."
Qantas comes through (again)
11.30. That was the scheduled time of my connection, my watch, newly turned to New Zealand time read 5.40. I'd cleared customs and immigration and ignored the option of a twenty minute wait for the bus to the domestic terminal. Suitcase loaded on a trolley, I scurried. Rounding a corner, it rolled, tossing my bags to the ground. "Fuck." The pedestrians I'd just passed, somewhat startled by the outburst, cautiously rounded me as I gathered my belongings. The second time I went past them they wisely ceded the footpath.
I nearly cried when the man at check-in confirmed a flight on the 6.40. "You have no idea how much this means to me." I don't think he ever will.
Traffic jams
I've lived in London and New York for fourteen years. I know traffic. I have lost a lot of my life watching the brake lights of the car in front. But this was the worst jam I had ever been in. This time I couldn't afford to be late. Brown time just wouldn't do.
We come bearing gifts
Pippa didn't vomit everything out across America, the bug remained and we duly shared it, first me, then Jamie, then Alex. Worse was to come, the virus, which did so much to debilitate the healthy, found its way to the last place we wanted it to be - Mum.
The nights already short because of the pain that we were struggling to manage, got worse. The vomiting caused by the virus not only served to weaken, but what relief she was getting from the drugs disappeared down the toilet along with the contents of her stomach. The drugs no longer in her, their effect was lost.
The morning began at 4.30, Alex waking me. Ever independent, Mum wanted Alex to return to her bed, so that she would not have to witness Mum's misery. With Alex, Mum seemed embarrassed at her condition, but not with me. She'd cleared up after me often enough, it was time for my due. Every twenty minutes she filled the potty that had been in the family for over 40 years, until there was nothing left to go.
The mornings before had been lovely, albeit they started early because the drug relief was inadequate, but that was soon remedied, and we had time to chat, filling in the blanks of my years away and the years before my birth. Today though was different, the remaining strength Mum had seemed gone, I thought today would be her last.
At 6.30 she needed rest but didn't want the discomfort of her bed. I wheeled her through to the lounge where she slept, dozing away the morning. For two hours I occupied myself with my own misery, weeping for the woman in the chair, praying that the end would come soon, so that her pain would end.
We were not alone in the house, save for me and the spirits, all were asleep. There is a cabinet in the lounge that houses the trophies my mother won on the water so many years before. Every time it was passed it would rattle. It rattled several times in those early hours of the morning, each time I would leave the kitchen to check on Mum, each time I found her still.
Later in the day with the children being entertained outside, I sat watching her, waiting for my mother to return, fearful that we'd hastened the end.
Mum 'n' Nana
The vibrant woman that we once knew
Lies sleeping in the chair
Life is ebbing and the days seem longer
She more tired
We watch with sorrow as she drifts
To sleep, to dream
The children chatter in the garden
Their hooves thundering
Little lives, so full, so busy
So long to go
Nana in her chair, brakes on, napping
Cashmere socks on swollen feet
She sleeps
A surfeit of visitors
Only one woman came looking morose, she didn't leave that way though. Mum soon cheered her up.
The other visitors knew better, knew Josie. She'd be ready for them "Would you like a cup of tea?" "Do you fancy a wine?" "Have a seat." Everyone welcome.
The rules were laid out early. "Keep the front door open. People don't call if it's closed. They think I'm having a bad day and will just go past." It stayed open every day, until the mosquitoes forced its closure - and people came.
Dozens visited; neighbours, friends, supermarket acquaintances, streams of people, a tidal flow of humanity coming to see the woman they all considered a friend. Flowers filled the lounge, the water in the kettle cooling only once the hour was decent for a glass of wine.
They all said see you soon, tomorrow, next week. They kept coming and coming and Mum's resource, the last of her strength was saved for them.
The pain and discomfort would vanish and she'd let them see her grace. She performed; she demonstrated the art of dying. Dignity, charm, humility. She allowed them all to see that there was nothing to fear, yet admitted her fears. "I'm not afraid of dying, but I'm afraid of the pain."
The pain showed us up, our inadequacies unveiled as we wrestled with a drug regime we didn't understand. Timing the next dose to the second, forgetting the next dose, a mother too proud to admit its need. Reading the labels, re-writing the chart, reading the labels, just to make sure; DHC Continus, Dexamethasone, Losec, Morphine, countless etceteras. Mother's protests that the timing wasn't right, "I only ever have one at night," when three were offered, "shouldn't I be having two now?" the following night when we'd changed it to one. Trying not to get angry with the woman I called my Mum. "Please Mum, I'm just following the labels." "I'm sure that's not right." "We'll change it tomorrow, I'll speak to Tai." We'd change it and it still wouldn't be right. I hated the anger I felt toward her. Hated the useless man I was.
In the end, it all made her sick, everything was useless.
Te Omanga
The long commute ended, through the tunnel and onto the motorway and we were counter traffic. Bored faces, lined the opposite lanes, one of concern headed the other way.
The children only pinched each other a couple of times in the car on the way from the airport, they were mercifully quiet.
Next to the entrance was the Bellevue, scene of many a pint. Te Omanga too tranquil to be next to my rowdy bar. Next door but a million miles away, an oasis of peace, of calm, of dying.
She lay on the bed, mouth agape, eyes closed, sleeping. Sleep too deep from which to wake. I kissed my sisters and Jean hello, too anxious to be with my Mum, every minute now precious.
Beer tabs and sweet, sweet wine
Her taste went. The medium wine that had been a feature of her evenings was replaced by something a little more dry - too sweet. From Chardonnay to Sauvignon Blanc - too sweet. "I'll be Okay as long as I can have a drink and a cigarette." But we couldn't find a drink. Lime juice - too sweet. Vinegar maybe?
We sat and chugged beers, tearing off the tabs for a charity, our mother's vice lost to her. Me, conscious of her envy, quaffing nonetheless. Quaffing Old Darks 'til bedtime, mother complaining at the smell when I kissed her goodnight. Every night - "I love you, but not your breath."
One vigil over
Jean left after an hour. She'd been there forever before I arrived, providing the levity in the gloomy situation. There for her friend, her darling Josie. There for my sisters, a pillar stronger than any an architect could design.
I felt I was cheating her, that my arrival signified the end of her time with Mum. Ever gracious, she went home for her Tony, never once suggesting a stay to encroach on my time, "You have some time with Mum, ay Craig?"
I felt I stole those final hours from Jean. That's what I felt. I wanted her to stay for me too though, wanted her strength, wanted her to hug away the pain that was too great for any of us to bear.
I don't know if she needed to go or not, she never did say. I don't know if she had a proper goodbye with Mum, don't know if she knew this was the final goodbye.
She left and I held my mother's hand.
Two wheels to four
She was walking when we got there but not when we left.
The Zimmer frame, with its torch tied to the handle for the dark hallway, would ease her slowly to the bathroom.
We fussed, too close behind, fearful of a fall that we could catch, stepping on her dignity.
She walked into the funeral parlour, "Do you have anything in cardboard?" The sombre man whose job doesn't involve much humour couldn't laugh. Didn't know if it was allowed, maybe didn't know how.
He fumbled around his "No," a man drowning in the jest. She sensed his discomfort and tried again, a conspiratorial whisper, "That's okay, just show me the cheapest you've got."
He did, she bought it, but I argued at the shade. It was too dark for her, she is merrier than mock mahogany. He scurried out the back returning with a shiny pine lid. "I can do you one of these, but without the gloss." "Great," she said. "I'll take it."
She paid, with a cheque that would bounce, probably the first in her life, a timing error borne of our administrative blunder. A tick mark too early on the list we'd made. No big deal, though her frustration showed. Not how she planned it, not how it was planned.
Funeral Directors probably prefer their customers dead. The living throw up too many surprises.
Not too many days later, we parked the frame and unveiled the wheelchair.
Words to Mum
She lay, flat on her back, eyes closed, mouth open. I waited for her to wake, to say "Hi," to welcome me back. I'm still waiting.
She couldn't talk to me, but I could to her. I kissed her forehead, so smooth, so warm and held her hand. "If I'd have known I was going to get to see you again, I wouldn't have cried the last time I left."
"I love you." "I'll make sure the kids know their Nana loved them." "I love you." "Can you hear me?" "I love you." "Do you understand?"
Eyes closed, mouth open. I'm still waiting.
Special cigarettes
She'd been rolling her own cigarettes for years. Cheaper than the packet variety she reasoned. Milde Shag acquired in Duty Free would be enough to see her through - there'd be no need the next trip.
A shining chrome box, rollers, paper, filter, baccy, a snap of the lid and I'd rolled the perfect cigarette… 'til the filter dropped out - she never complained.
A furtive exchange on a windswept wharf, something a little supplemental - unauthorised palliative care.
The paranoia's supposed to set in after smoking, not before. Her anxiety was more than the possible relief - the exchange will go the other way.
Nearly, but not quite
What did I miss in the Bellevue? What did I miss because I fancied a beer?
The girls had lived with 'it', a phrase Mum hated, not distinguishing between the situation she faced and herself. She didn't want to be an 'it'. She wasn't, but occasionally 'it' would slip out. "I can't deal with it any longer."
'It' was seeing our mother decline, wasting away.
'It' wasn't about helping her onto a toilet.
'It' was seeing the weakening effect of the steroids.
'It' wasn't about the need to dress her.
'It' was the separation from children who didn't know why.
'It' wasn't a loss of love.
'It' was the cancer, gnawing, feeding and growing.
'It' wasn't about catching vomit in a bowl.
'It' was the knowledge that she was leaving - forever.
The girls needed to get away from 'it' for a while and I took them. But I took myself away from more than 'it'. I took myself away from my mother. Shortened the few hours I had, so that her carers could wash her. We afforded her that dignity, but we were gone too long.
When we got back, her lips moved. Dry, rasping, non-words, trying to escape. Bending, trying to hear. "What's that Mum?" "Hoaach."
"She's always better after a wash, seems to come to then."
And I was in the pub.
For the moment when I might have had her, might have got the one word I wanted, the acknowledgement that she knew I'd made it, I was drinking a beer.
We huddled around her when we got back. She didn't have enough hands to share, each of us wanting to hold her. Stroking her hair, her face. She tried to speak, the last proclamation, but she was just too weak. The monumental effort of hanging on, waiting for me, was just too much. There was nothing left except the sandpaper scratch of her whisper.
And I don't know what she said.
Lists
There had to be order, everything had to be done. There were to be no loose ends. So we wrote lists. Lists for everything.
Lists for cards
Lists for things to do now
Lists for things to do later
Mum's list
My list
A list for the girls
Everyone had a list
Little squares down the side of a page, each another task
¨
¨
¨
Gradually filled with ticks. "Have you done this?" "It's on a list." "I need you to do this." "It's on a list."
Not everything would get done, but I kept the list close. "A scrapbook of my shows" still needs a tick.
The faintest touch
We took turns talking, each seeking the magic words that would encourage a response, each wanting to be able to rouse her.
The rasping might just have been her breathing. "Maybe she needs a drink." Maybe the water would lubricate the voice, allow her to form the words we sought.
Tiny dabs of moisture applied with a sponge on a stick. A lollipop to drink. H2O on a stick, most squeezed out so that she wouldn't choke.
Still we tried, one talking while the other two cried, rotation dictated by who could best hold it together. I had a hand. I fumbled with it, I jiggled it, I irritated it, trying to cause her to squirm, trying to find the optimum position for something non-verbal, a squeeze of the hand.
I pleaded, I needed a sign, needed to know that she knew I was there, needed her to know I loved her.
A tickle so faint it might have been nothing. Too faint to know for certain. I want to believe that was it, but the movement was too slight and my faith too weak. I needed more but it never came. A touch too light to know, to know if she knew I was there.
To know if Dad was there, to know if he was waiting.
Children's books and gifts
She gave her all to everything, never a half measure. There were books everywhere, so she built a bookcase; painting, papering, stenciling; a house to enliven - the pink room, the yellow room, fish in the bathroom and her beloved sunflowers in the kitchen.
She had a mysterious supply of wool that never depleted, opening a cupboard here, more would be found. A box on a wardrobe, more wool, fleeces ready to spin and dye, drawers more of the stuff and always knitting; flouting trademark and copyright law as the needles clacked for her grandkids.
She had stalls full of knitted Teletubbies, just in time for the Tweenies revolution. The Teletubbies faces seemed to wear the forlorn look of unwanted toys at a garage sale, which was what they were. They found good homes, the grandkids got them instead. The progeny numbered four at the time, so no need to create a new character.
Time was being lost though and the energy she brought to everything began to wane. "Bring me my jewelry." "Is there anything you want?" "For you to live another 50 years so that we don't have to have this conversation." "There's not much, but we should split it up amongst the kids." But her heart wasn't in it, she was too weary to reminisce about the pieces she had, the memories they invoked. Too weary and nobody was listening.
We perhaps should have chatted about that, but the cacophony would not allow. Five pieces of A4 paper, each with a name and she shuffled a necklace here, some earrings there. In and out the kitchen we all flew, scant regard to the task my mother was performing. The labour of love it should have been was just a labour.
There were achievements in that jewelry box and they were left scattered on sheets of paper, unannounced, an opportunity lost. We thought we'd heard all the stories. We hadn't of course and they're still coming, the modesty removed as someone else evokes our mother's triumphs.
She got angry with me, barked at me for not following orders. There was fight left, but the frustration of not being able to perform herself was great.
She worked at a publisher of children's books for five years, long before the first lungful of air was bawled by her oldest grandchild. But she made preparations, a lot of them. Naturally there was a use for all the wool, babysuits galore, but there was a library too, stories ready for her to read to a child, her grandchild, perched on her lap.
The lap was going, but the books would remain and they needed to be sorted. "You and the girls need to sort them between yourselves." "Plenty of time Mum." "DO THE BOOKS."
I started to argue, but realised the importance, realised that on a list I didn't have, one that sat in her mind, this was important. She wanted them split equitably and she knew our movements better than we did, knew that tonight was going to be the last chance her children had to reach a consensus before she could no longer arbitrate. Everything equitable, that was the way it had to be.
Another tick in a box.
Top 'n' tail and a La-Z-Boy
The room was generous, but the accommodation wasn't designed for more than two. Four was a pinch.
One lying, the others waiting, but not wanting. Providing each other comfort, trying not to wallow in the all too obvious misery of the situation. Not wanting to sleep, in case…
Sisters top and tailing on a fold down bed; each declaring the other to have worse feet. Jean, territorially post-it-noting the recliner, giggles to ease the pain, making the time better, almost fun; a pyjama party.
The next night, for a few short hours, the recliner would be mine.
Goodbye - part one
How do you say goodbye to a dying person? A person you love.
Repeatedly, that's how, clinging to every last moment, seizing each and every opportunity to do so, finding excuses not to get in a car, not to go to an airport.
A thousand thanks, and still too few. Too few to express all that she means, has meant and will ever mean. Too few for all that she has done.
Standing in a kitchen crying, trying to shake off the pain, clamping down with teeth on thumb tips to make the pain physical, to transfer it, make it a tangible ache that is easier to bear.
Still trying to be brave, but knowing it isn't possible, knowing that this is it. That this 'it', the one we all know about, has arrived. This is IT, when we finally have to say goodbye, with a finality that is more than any soul can bear. How can you say that goodbye, the goodbye that lasts forever. A final goodbye.
What did I say? My too few thanks. In the end there is only one thing to say, one thing that she should know. "I love you. Will always love you."
But it wasn't goodbye. Not yet.
Goodbye - part two
Telephone calls. There were calls from America to home. Calls to say yet more goodbyes, more "I love yous." Calls to hear a voice further diminished by a bronchitis that paid a visit, that would steal the last of the voice's power.
Then the 'almost call'. "She's in the final phase."
The journey, oh so long, wondering if I'd make it - if she'd make it. Making it. Then maybe another goodbye, but it wasn't. As it transpired, that goodbye was just goodnight.
Tiny Teddies
Jamie loves Tiny Teddies. Little biscuits, different flavours. Little Teddies, different faces - grumpy, happy, sad, then chewed. She always sent them.
There were other Teddies too, woollen Teddies, painstakingly crafted, the emphasis on pain. Five to do in the time, and with the wool she had left. Jamie wanted his to have a pink head. The unthinkable happened, the impossible. She ran out of pink. A duo-tone head, then she wouldn't entirely run out of wool.
She wouldn't quite run out of time, but the skills deserted her. The hands, that for years had crafted glories, would fail.
The faces were stitched by friends, scrutinized by Nana. Eyes, nose, mouth and ears, sewn in black by another hand, lacking the shine of Nana's eyes.
Five loving teddies, for five lovely kids.
She's gone
She waited 'til it was quiet, 'til we were all asleep.
I'd kissed her gently on the forehead, making sure I wouldn't wake her. It still mattered. "Goodnight Mum, I love you."
Quietly we were woken. A still hand on my bare shoulder. Mum's carer so gentle with us. "She's gone."
It was 2.30am, April 2, 2004. Outside, the rain fell steadily.
I said another goodbye.
I hope he's waiting
For twenty-one years, all she'd ever wanted was to be reunited, to be together again.
She'd joked that she was going to kill him when they met, for leaving her so soon. Now that her end was near, she'd begun to fret, to worry that he might not be there. "What if I've upset him?" The thought troubled her - and me.
She was spiritual. Those that knew said she had a strong aura, that she was in touch. I want to be, but am not, the agnostic in me needing proof. In her though, I had faith, she did too and now, after all these years, she seemed to doubt.
We tell the kids about Grandad Jim a lot, tell them he loves them, tell them he's watching over us. We told them that Nana was going to be joining him soon.
I told Alex she'd gone. "She'll be with your Dad." I suffered that doubt, for the first time ever. "I hope so."
Wake up calls
We weren't going back to bed. Who can sleep at a time like this? There was work to do, a list to complete.
First item was to grieve, an unapproved item that we'd inserted ourselves. Then we made some calls.
Jean first, that's how Mum wanted it - Tracey dialed and spoke, told the best friend the news.
A call to America, from the hospice reception, the only international access point, to Alex - she helped me to tell her, knew it was too early for me to be calling for any other reason. We cried together, needing to hold one another, separated by 9,000 miles. Not for the first time, we questioned the decision of me traveling alone.
Auntie Bobbie needs to know. We can't call her, can't tell her over the phone. She's deaf for a start - won't hear it ring. But worse, she's alone. Her husband admitted to hospital the day before. No one should be alone when Death's visit is announced. I would visit, would circle the house, in the rain, banging for 90 minutes, banging at windows and doors. Standing outside, I could hear her phone ringing, my sisters trying to get through as we'd agreed, hear the alarm blaring that would normally cause the start of her husband's work day. We'd all known it would be pointless, knew that she'd wake in her own time, but we also knew someone needed to be there.
Before trying to raise Bobbie, we'd notified the Funeral Director. I phoned expecting an answer machine, but spoke to the kindest man on earth. It was 4.00 am and Michael Hill, who a couple of weeks earlier had delicately told me about a rubber cheque, entered our lives again. We agreed a meet at 6.30.
He left the room when I brought in Bobbie, giving her the space she needed. We all did, leaving her with her sister until we could hear her sobs subside and knew it was time to return.
Bobbie leaned on the side of Mum's bed, still on her knees, watching as Michael completed formalities - details, details.
She interrupted, directing her attention to Michael. "Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're very handsome." We laughed - dear Auntie Bobbie - so her. Michael however, had only just met her and I suspect, that when he's recording the facts of a dearly departed loved one, it's not a statement he hears very often. He appeared a little flummoxed - the Chilvers girls seem to do that to Funeral Directors. Bobbie sensed his unease and addressed it. "Oh don't get me wrong. I don't want you."
The kids were woken a little later and brought to see Nana. Aden, ever curious, lifted an eyelid to see if she'd wake. How to react? Shock or anger - neither. Gently, "Aden love, leave Nana alone just now."
Taryn senses a chance, it's not that we're vulnerable, she's just very good at sensing chances, and she's elbow deep in the lolly jar. "Taryn, what are you doing?" "Nothing." Today it won't hurt.
Friday's rain
A friend of John's, my sister's partner, asked him if she'd died on a Friday.
"In my culture," she said. "Friday is a good day to die, the best day, when really good people go."
"It was raining too, wasn't it?" "Yes." "God's tears. When good people die, God cries too. He weeps for the sadness of those she has left behind."
The mail merge
I'm driving my sisters crazy. I'm avoiding my grief, making lists, writing letters, making sure everyone knows. A promise, a commitment I must see it through. The names on her Christmas list, addresses collected and added to over a lifetime, all must be told. It's what I said I would do.
I've been away too long. The government's been tinkering. Half an hour sorting 167 letters into the right countries for postage purposes and then they tell me I can't buy stamps there. What self respecting Post Office doesn't sell stamps? I cross the road to the book shop to complete my purchase. She timed it well. On Monday, postage increases by five cents a letter, she'd be pleased she beat the rise.
A production line forms - me signing, Tracey folding, Bobbie inserting, John stamping, Susan sealing. The envelopes I've bought are crap and the self-seal glue is dry. The task takes longer, we hit the Te Puni mail centre a minute late, but still in time. The mail must get through.
All in order
It's not easy arranging a funeral, or so I'm led to believe.
Generally, whoever is making arrangements does so at a time of great sadness with the attendant stresses that brings; not having time enough to grieve, wanting everything to be perfect for the one you love, making sure you don't give cause for people to be offended.
That's how I imagine it would have been, how I or my sisters would have reacted. We never really had an opportunity to find out. Mum already had everything planned - the order of her service, the content, all neatly laid out and planned. Everyone teed up to perform.
Tracey and I were in Levin, paying bills, (Power of Attorney already arranged of course); Tracey a joint signatory on the account. Still, I had a moment of panic - the music. We knew what she wanted, it was all prescribed; Carylann to sign, Jeff to sing, the congregation to belt out the 23rd Psalm - Crimmond version.
But what about Gershwin's 'Summertime' or Mum's exit theme of 'When the Saints Go Marching In', where were they? I found a record store. Relief - Gershwin's Greatest Hits by contemporary artists. Peter Gabriel wouldn't be quite right, the thought closely followed by "I'm sure she'll forgive me" as I paid my $25 for the CD. Panic - I couldn't find 'When the Saints…' "Tracey, we're going to have to see Michael."
We crossed the road, the script of the Harvey Bowler Funeral Directors logo close by. "Have you got the music Michael?" "I thought Carylann was playing it." "Is she? All of it?" "Perhaps we should call her while you're here." "Can we, please?" "Carylann? It's Craig. We're with Michael; we just wanted to discuss the music." "Oh. Okay, do you want to change it?" "No. Just want to establish what you're playing." "What Josie asked; Summertime, Amazing Grace, the 23rd Psalm, Still the One, and When the Saints Go Marching In." "Ah Okay, that's it. Do you need anything else?" "I don't think so. Jeff and I are going to rehearse tomorrow." "Great. Hope it goes well."
She had it covered - Mum had everything covered.
Jean's Tony loves Gershwin, I hope he learns to love Peter Gabriel's version of Summertime.
Home alone
One of our friends went through a similar experience to me. She and her family were on holiday when her call came and they raced home to be with her father.
She tells a beautiful tale of him gently passing, having told those dearest to him that he loved them and that it was now time for him to go.
I didn't get that and one of the things I'm finding most difficult to cope with is that Mum wasn't really able to respond to me when I got there. I got tiny movements from her hands and there was a moment when I knew she was trying to say something, but I didn't know what. I so wanted to be able to have a memory like our friend's, but it just wasn't to be.
I find myself seeking signs from Mum that will give me some comfort; something to tell me that she's safe, that she is with Dad, that she knew I made it and that she loves me, but nothing seems definitive.
I spent a night alone in her house the day after she died, taking comfort from being there, knowing every inch of it is testimony to her.
I was standing in the hall, looking at the pictures, asking for my sign, just before I went to bed. On the bookcase in the hall, lying where it had been when we were there two weeks earlier was a book titled 'A little book for my Mother'. I picked it up and took it to bed with me to read before turning out the light. I had thought I would read it all, then read through the 'Grandparents Book' that had been laid at my bedside.
Anyway, I started the little book and having got fifteen pages in, I came across this by Rebecca Walker, daughter of Alice Walker.
After reading it, I turned out the light and went to sleep.
"I have... learned to really hear the message my mother has given me all my life: "I will be with you always." As in forever, into the eternal hereafter, no matter what."
I think now, I'll stop looking.
Losing days
I had a whole day on my own; me, the house and things to do. I opened the door, left it wide; it's what Mum would have done. I didn't really get past that; I seemed to speed through the day in slow motion, the hours racing, but me taking an eternity to do anything.
As it transpired, I didn't really do a thing. I had intended to begin the monumental task of clearing up Mum's house, sorting through a lifetime's habitual accumulation.
The first cupboard I tackled posed too many questions. So much looked like it could have gone straight to the dump, but then what if the girls wanted it. What if, as Mum had maintained forever, the grandchildren really did want to read through the collection of New Zealand Heritage magazines that must have been acquired in the 60s or 70s. Everywhere I looked the same questions were posed. I switched the TV on and watched the rugby.
Even though she'd gone, the visitors still came. Jeff from across the road; he or his lovely wife and daughter a daily feature in Mum's life - checking to see if she was OK, but also visiting because they loved her, she was a woman toward whom all gravitated. He, and my other two visitors for the day stayed a while, taking a cup of tea or a wine and we chatted. Each had a smile as they evoked the memory of my mother, so warmly remembered.
They filled my day, just as they'd filled Mum's, or she theirs, a far preferable way to spend the day. Tracey and John arrived and I found the excuse to avoid progress of any kind. Before long, it was time again for bed.
The dénouement
A great deal of the last few months was a performance. A show to let people see that dying wasn't so bad, to let everyone know that in our lives, we have a lot to be thankful for and that these trials, the trials that were killing my Mum, weren't too difficult to bear.
She made it seem easy. There wasn't any wallowing in self pity. She'd accepted her fate and was eking out enjoyment from the last few weeks.
We saw some bad times - those closest to her - with us she let down the guard. We saw her vulnerable, which ironically, allowed us to see the act, to know her performance was worthy of Oscar glory.
The visitors never saw the pain, or the frustration. She'd admit to both, brushing them off as trifling. She said to me early in our last visit that she believed we are all placed on earth to do a job, that hers was to show people that there should be no fear in dying, that we should seize all that life has to offer, that we should count every breath we are able to take as a blessed moment, that we should live.
She lived for those who came to call and the strength she found for them, found its way to us to help us all cope when it left her.
Her final performance was on Tuesday, April 6, 2004. She entered stage centre, carried by six giant men who felt dwarfed by her presence. It was a wonderful funeral of course, orchestrated entirely by her. We slipped in a song, knowing she'd approve, but the rest went according to her plan. They (we) applauded at the end. I've never known that before at a funeral, but it could not have been more fitting.
I had my own words to say, a eulogy to deliver, a chance to let all present know that I love her, another goodbye.
When I was seventeen, I stood on the stage of my school hall and delivered that year's valedictory. Mum, who was a councilor at the time, sat on the stage behind me representing the mayor. In the years that preceded that evening, she had often made a point of telling me that I never thanked her for cleaning the toilet. It seemed an appropriate moment to do so and much to her embarrassment I expressed my heartfelt gratitude. At the time, this day, the day on which we want to express gratitude of an altogether different kind, could not have seemed further away.
Towards the end, Mum expressed concern that she hadn't been a good mother to us, that somehow she had failed us. Sure we had our differences, but like all good and strong families, we were able to air our differences because we came from a family with a foundation that was firmly built on love. Our parents gave us that and after Dad died, Mum sustained us all with a mother's true love.
She has said to us that there were times when she didn't want to get too close, for fear that like Dad, she too would be taken from us. It's a rich irony that her love for us was such that she wanted to hide it. On that score, our mother, usually the consummate actress, failed miserably. We know she loves us and that she owns a big piece of all our hearts.
I look around today and I see just how far that love extended in the form of the friendships that our mother found so easy to forge. On this day of great sadness for my sisters and I, the burden of our grief is eased by the sense of loss that we know you all feel.
She wouldn't want us to cry, she didn't want to whenever we parted, for fear of expressing that love that she tried to hide. As her children, each of us has been at the airport when one or other of us has left. When we disappeared through the departure gate, those that remained with her saw her love, saw the tears she wept as we left.
Today it is Josie, our Mum, who passes through that gate. Wait until she is gone, then join us in expressing the love we all felt for our Mum, feel free to shed some tears. When the tears have dried though, remember above all else, that today, Mum would want us to celebrate her life. She'd want us to pour a pewter glass of medium white wine, sit back on the couch and share our favourite stories.
Thank you all for coming, for confirming to us what we already knew, that not only was she a great Mum and a wonderful Nana, but also a dear and special friend to many and that we are not the only ones that will miss her.
Go in peace Mum, give our love to Dad and watch over us always. We love and miss you dearly.
THE END.
Our remarkable Mum
The celebrant, a friend - everyone was - had her script too. Mum's hallmark was everywhere - hell, she edited it twice, though she was always too polite, always too considerate, to be confrontational with her friends, she allowed a couple of errors to go uncorrected.
It also reeked of her modesty. She wouldn't show off and so the words that Hilary spoke, which follow, provide an outline of her life, but not the justice she deserves. Don't blame Hilary though, her editor's preference was for the understated.
Josie Brown was born in London, within the sound of the Bow Bells, a proper cockney from the East End of London. 1938 was a world still at peace and on the night that Josie was born there were eleven other arrivals, all the others were boys.
After the war had started, there was a period of massive employment shortages caused by the need for military service and war work. By late 1941, extra pressure went to find workers and Josie’s mother had to work in a munitions factory while her Nana looked after her. Josie’s father worked as a drug grinder and the war went on around them. For years on end in the East End, there were nightly tolls of around 400. The common phrase was "the East End has copped it again," with the late Queen Elizabeth describing her emotions after Buckingham Palace was hit with the comment "It makes me feel as if I can look the East End in the face."
On one occasion her mother followed her intuition and insisted that Josie and the family sleep in the Anderson shelter in the garden. The next morning her cot in the house was filled with shards of glass.
It was a time of great passion; whilst her mother worked nearby in the munitions factory, word went around that a school had been hit. The bosses did not want to allow the workers, mothers of school children, to check the school. Unsurprisingly, the workers revolted.
By 1944 the bombers were joined by the rockets, the V1s and the V2s. Josie was evacuated to Wales with her cousin, Terry. She was just six and her cousin was charged with looking after her. The children rode by train and then by bread van and arrived in a small Welsh village. There her cousin was selected to join a family where there was a boy of his own age. Josie was the last child in the van when a woman arrived to ask if they had an eleven year old to be a companion for her daughter. The authorities said "No just a six year old." In Josie's words, the woman open the door to see a snot nosed little tot in tears - "I’ll take her," she said.
The year she spent in Wales was critical to all the adventures and advances that Josie was to make in the rest of her life. There she learnt Welsh and succeeded at school. It was a peaceful and lovely life and a time of great achievement. The people who had her share their lives made a spirited attempt to adopt Josie allowing her to live a life of comparative comfort and security. They were so upset that they could not keep her, that communications were cut off. Josie did not tell me whether she, in her own mind, should have stayed in Wales or returned to London.
After the war, things were even blacker for Londoners. There were disastrous shortages of housing and the family lived in a house condemned before 1938 as unfit for habitation. Rationing was still in full swing, even with the coupons, after long queues there were difficulties finding food.
Growing up, Josie's day would start at 5.30 when her father made her a cup of tea and some bread before going off on her paper round. It was then back to the house to clear the fire and do other chores before going to school. After school there was the fire to start again and other help around the house, which then allowed her mother to work full time at the telephone exchange to help to make ends meet. There were highlights though; Thursday nights were spent at the movies with her father with some crusty bread while her mother stayed at home to scrub the house, laying the week's newspapers on the floor to protect the polish. The papers stayed down until Saturday morning for Josie and her sister Bobbie to tiptoe around.
At fifteen she studied business subjects, preferring the perfectionist Pitmans system but having to settle for Gregs as it was easier for the others. She also tried lots of sports but did not quite find the right one until she chanced upon rowing at which she was to shine, initially as a cox. There was a brief pause in her rowing career following the accidental death of another girl on the river, Josie's mother suggesting she give it up. The gasman gave her mother sage advice, which also stuck with Josie and helped shape her life. He convinced Josie's mother that one cannot live in fear and that Josie should go back on the water. She did and later rowed as a part of the England coxed-four that competed in the 1959 European Championships. Happily, she said, they beat the French.
To pay for training, Josie worked on Saturday mornings and after leaving school went to work as a Burroughs machinist for a London brewery. Soon after completing her training, a long-term friendship with a boy came to an end. Coincidentally, the same thing happened to a girlfriend. Together they decided they would leave the world of Britain in the 50s and they contacted New Zealand House to consider emigration. Letters came to the house covered in New Zealand House stickers and the word got out - Josie was congratulated for her courage from everyone. She hadn't actually decided to go but, being too timid to counter all the reaction to her bravery, she felt compelled to go. Her friend wasn't quite so brave and so it was that Josie arrived alone in New Zealand on the 26th of June 1959.
Having landed on the second to last voyage of the Captain Cook, she found midwinter Wellington to be short-sleeve country. Josie had a preference for life in New Zealand, she ultimately wanted to go to Nelson and work in private industry. Despite her preference, she was based initially in Trentham and worked at the Government Print Office where she set about tidying up the accounts, as she was to do so many times in her life here. They were out eight thousand pounds when she swung in, and they found it all bar two pounds ten.
After a period in Trentham, she shared a house with others before marrying Jim in December 1960. Jim, a Scot, who was a craftsman builder, had also had success in sport representing Scotland as a junior fencer. Although they had intended to return to Britain, they bought a house in Petone because their daughter was unwell and medical advice said stay in New Zealand. Tracey rallied much sooner than expected but the trip back to the other side of the world was delayed in favour of the purchase of a house and the arrival of a second daughter, Susan. They did however get back to the UK with a trip in 1979-80.
Jim and Josie continued their love of sport and their coaching of swimming went on for eleven years, not however with their children who usually stayed in bed.
Tracey and Susan were beginning to make their own way when Jim, then 49, died unexpectedly after a soccer match in Taradale. They had twenty-three happy years together but now Josie had to face a new world.
After Jim’s death, Josie took herself off to night school to get up to speed on house painting and decorating, carpentry and car maintenance, all previously Jim’s province. Josie even had a term as a borough councillor in Petone, but this she felt was a burden too far and she did not seek a second term.
The early 80s were just so sad with her mother and mother-in-law dying in '81, Jim in '83 and then her father in '85. When Jim died, Craig was only thirteen and decisions had to be made about Josie working part time with the help of the DPB or full time, with Craig taking more responsibility around the house. She worked for a number of employers including five years in the publishing house Nelson Price Milburn.
Ever adventurous, she went to England and then Europe. In Europe, with Susan, it was backpacker country; 19 cities, 9 countries and the loss of 4 kilos in weight. Her letters have been saved and collated by her friends and will provide delicious reading for her grandchildren when they are older.
The final swoop in her varied career was to teach in the Horowhenua Learning Centre, a new step with a wonderfully high 94% pass rate at a time when she felt only one page ahead of the students. And happily for so many of us, she was to move to Otaki.
Always a trier, she had a go at watercolours but decided it was not for her. She did spend three years helping people to read, she has been a pillar of the Otaki Players, appearing in Social Climbers, Fiddler on the Roof and That’s Entertainment. She also made costumes and was there for the front of house for all shows at her time with the Players.
I have particular reason to be grateful to Josie for her time as secretary for the Greater Otaki Literary Trust a group she joined as secretary through having attended one of Judith Holloway’s creative writing courses.
Josie was first diagnosed with cancer in 1997; there have been many happy days since then, including attending the wedding of her son Craig and the birth of five grandchildren.
She has lived a remarkable life and achieved things that could be scarcely believed. The year in Pontypridd and learning Welsh allowed her to speak in effect two dialects of English, one cockney the other with the lilting cadences of Wales; the judgement on when to use which grew quickly.
The representing of her country at European championships, the brave move to the other side of the world, the continued taking of responsibility has marked her whole life.
She has just turned 66, an absurdly young age to pass on and yet a fate that she has accepted with her usual charm and grace. There has been time to say goodbye and to resolve issues of the past that will help allow her children and their children to get on with their lives. That she survived the cancer another six years is remarkable.
Those and the other sixty have been a bonus for us all.
With the parting words well done thou good and faithful servant we can say goodbye to a loved parent, grandparent and a dearly regarded friend of so many.
Fine words, but finer would come with the stories that followed.
A party
It was a party in three parts, two public, and one private.
The first was in the hall adjoining the chapel. A lot of people didn't have too far to go, there was no room in the chapel at the start of her service, so the overflow squeezed into the hall. Those that hadn't come outside to see Mum leave or speak with us waited patiently inside to share a moment with us.
When I walked inside, I was greeted by Les Everson, my old cricket coach. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me, as was his wife Marie, the mother of one of my old school friends. It was great to see Les, he has an effervescent personality. He asked if I was still playing cricket. "No," I said. "I'm even worse now than when I played for you." "Really?" He sounded incredulous, at that point he was supposed to be gracious and say I really wasn't all that bad, he didn't. Effervescent - and honest.
I moved on, citing a genuine need for a cup of tea. The way was lined with well wishers. Separating me and the tea table was an outpouring of emotion, overwhelming love for Mum and her family. Les came to the rescue, taking down my order and serving it so I didn't miss a comment. People I've never met, all telling me how important Mum was to them, all walks of life, everyone proud to have known her.
The second party, the private one, was in Levin; just the family, Jean and Sheila. Not really a party, another goodbye, but as has often been the case these last few days, Auntie Bobbie unintentionally provided comic relief.
At one moment, she is torn apart by grief, huge sobs racking her body. The next, she's crawling under the pews chasing the children, ever their entertainer. As a kid, I remember her as a great Aunt, someone always with time enough for me. She's now a Great Aunt and still has all the time in the world to love the children she wished she'd had.
The final party is with the people with whom Mum used to party. Though the day was sad, this evening is the real celebration of Mum's life. Everywhere you can hear people laughing and it is beautiful. They're laughing at the things she did, the woman she was, the life she lived; enjoying each moment, reliving the past as though it was yesterday; she is central to every tale.
She should have come out of the corners, chipping in her biscuit, telling us off for our irreverence, but not really minding, her mock indignation another part of Josie the actress. Not tonight though, not ever again. How can it be a party without Mum? Easily, she is a part of each and every one of us.
The rower
The River Lea, the outer skirts of London's East End. Freezing mornings, still waters, powerful strokes, blades cutting the water, shared tin baths with cooling and darkening water, she rowed.
The Thames, joyous regattas, hot showers, bliss.
Duisberg 1959, the European Champs. I thought it was the eight. Tracey said it was a coxed-four. Hell, Mum said it was a coxed-four, but that was close to the end. I thought I knew better, corrected the story she had drafted with Hilary. A lifetime of listening to my mother's self deprecations and I was convinced it had to be the eight.
She was carried by the rest, that's what she used to say, so I concluded it had to be the eight, more of the others to do the work. It wasn't, I had one of her team mates correct me, and she also let me know they'd got through to the final. The way Mum told the story, they were lucky to scrap second to last. They weren't lucky. They earned it and Mum was integral, just too modest to say. Another of her harmless deceptions.
A video
Her life as an evacuee, the lost lamb of Wales. We had heard her story about being a lone straggler on countless occasions. Although she was only six, so many of the memories of that time remained, etched in her mind and with her storytelling, they became a part of the fabric of our lives. Her trip to buy bread and butter - becoming bara and menyn on the walk - forgetting how to translate back to English in a London shop. At times it seemed everyone she knew had heard that story.
Then an extraordinary thing happened, Terry, her cousin who we knew had been evacuated at the same time as Mum lamented that with his parents dead, the history of his time in Wales was lost. "Why?" Mum had asked. "Because I can't remember where I went, so I have no way of tracing it." "You went to Pontypridd." "How did you know?" "I remember." The conversation happened just a few months before Mum died.
With a passion, Terry began to search his past, yearning to learn as much as he could in a short space of time and share it all with Mum. Every week he'd call, Mum saying for hours before that Terry would call soon. He always did.
In one of his last calls he was very excited. "Josie, they're going to have a special on TV about the wartime evacuees. It's going to be filmed in Pontypridd." He promised her a copy of the video. A promise he kept. Mum too was excited, but she never saw the footage, it arrived on the Monday after she'd gone.
We looked for her face, but she wasn't there.
The actress
She arrived late at something she'd been doing all her life - acting. Roped in to help out, she soon took centre stage and excelled. A comic role, they laughed. She made us all laugh, a reason everyone loved her.
I never got to see her perform, not on stage. She sent a video, a copy of a copy of a… Shot from a distance, the back of the hall, with poor sound quality, you can hardly hear the words, but you can hear the audience laugh.
The strongest role though, the one that didn't play out on stage was the part of a woman who didn't want to be a bother and to do that, she had to be the Great Deceiver.
She'd had tests in November 1997, but didn't tell. Wouldn't let anyone else either - no need to worry me unnecessarily.
Diagnosed before Christmas, told me January 7, the day after my birthday. "Didn't want to spoil your day." I never knew, didn't even suspect.
Her act, the ultimate act of consideration, believing herself unworthy of the concern, not an act at all, continued 'til the end.
Hi everyone February 2, 2004
Just an up date from the phone call yesterday. Received a phone call from the hospital today and the Radiologist and Neurologist can't make up their mind regarding the 5mm (which is near the spine) whether it is benign or malign, so I have to go into Wellington at 9.30am for another MRI scan just to find out a bit more, My legs are wobbly and they want to find out if it is the degeneration of the discs in my spine. Anyway they will get in touch with me to give me the information as soon as possible after they have made a decision. So I will get in touch with you as soon as I know the results.
Sorry to be a bit of a worry but I know that you wanted to know any developments.
Lots of love Mum, Nana and Josie
Biding time
I miss her and miss them terribly. I miss the arms around my shoulders when I need the special hug that only she can give. Miss being able to engulf the little ones, smell their hair and be thankful for the blessings that they are.
I hated hearing the loss in Alex's voice, knowing she was alone, knowing that she too needed the kind of comfort we were getting.
I hated knowing that as we sat in a crowded chapel singing the 23rd Psalm, she sat alone in our home grieving with no one to comfort her.
After the pain of Mum, that hurt the most.
My time here is done, I'm needed somewhere else, need to be somewhere else.
The friend
The pain is felt by so many, so many people she knew, but none better than Jean.
Susan summed it up, what friendship is, what their friendship was. "It's great to watch them, they've been telling each other the same stories for 52 years and they still laugh as though it's the first time they've heard them."
Others grieved and warm eulogies flowed, from people we'd never met, that she'd never met…
Dear Tracey, Susan and Craig,
I'm so sorry - I never seem to know the words to say. All I can tell you is that it was knowing your mom that made me decide that the nicest people on earth had to be New Zealanders. Her letters were always full of life, and caring, and interest in how I was doing. I never met you Tracey or Susan, and Craig you were a teenager the last time I saw you but your mom always talked about the three of you and I felt like I got to know you all a little bit. Her Christmas card was always the first to come in the mail and I always looked forward to her news. I have a sweater she knitted for my daughter when she was born. She's almost 11 now but I still have that sweater. It meant a lot to me that she made it. It really hurts to know she's not here anymore but I'm so glad that I met her. She was special. My thoughts and prayers go out to all of you and your families. If any of you ever do visit California and need a place to stay, you're always welcome in our home.
This is Jim writing now. I never met your Mom in person, but she has been, from afar, a part of my life since I met Diane. She indeed wrote the finest letters, as Diane has mentioned. The bond of friendship which endured all these years after a single brief visit was testimony to the fact that she was an exceptional person, a warm and intelligent soul whose writing I cherished. For a brief time about 2 years ago, I thought there might be a chance that we would get to New Zealand, and your Mom and I had a little conspiracy about that - exchanging e-mails which were kept secret from Di until I had to reluctantly admit that we just couldn't swing the trip financially. I had so hoped to get Diane to NZ and your Mom was the biggest single reason that it was on top of our priorities for that "big trip". I cried when I saw the e-mail from you the other day. I hope you'll find some measure of comfort in knowing how many people she was special to.
Love, Diane, Jim and Jennifer Mahon
So much to so many.
The family tree - part one
So much is lost, not just a woman, but a part of history. She knew so much and would share, if only we would listen. There was too much taking for granted, too much thinking she would always be there.
John listened, and he recorded, took down the notes on who we are, where we are from - the murdered kinsman, the tinker's progeny.
We sat and typed, him and me, playing with a free download, so easy to record, mapping the lives of the Browns, extending the veins up the generations.
Too many questions and now, no answers.
The lover
At the beginning and in the end, there was only Jim; twenty one years apart and no flicker in her love.
In the family, there'd been a rift and though I didn't want to admit it, I knew time was short. My Band Aid on an open wound was Luther Vandross, 'Dance with my Father'.
That F word, 'Father', the one we lost, has power. He too heals and comforts.
Before her birthday she'd asked for it, in a passing kind of way, the 'I don't want to be any trouble so don't worry if you can't' sort of way and I forgot, didn't add it to the list.
Route 17, a memory, a record shop, a DHL envelope and a prayer I wasn't too late.
"Track seven. Track seven. Track seven." "But don't you want to hear…" "Track seven."
She hadn't planned it for her funeral. 'Still the one' was the song, the one to evoke the F word, the one Mum wanted. We made an alteration, an addition, Track 7.
Somewhere, in a place not too far from here, they are dancing.
The family tree - part two
Their veins stretch forever back, but not so far ahead. Therein lies our future and I must tend to the tree.
Beneath Mum there are two generations that love her, and many more that will.
In time, her memory will put a smile on our face, not a tear in the eye.
The creed
She lived by a simple doctrine, a phrase from Thomas Paine that Dad had written in his diary, but which she'd followed long before she read it there.
The world is my country
All mankind are my brethren
And to do good is my religion
The bequest
Her bequest to us all - health and happiness.
She also had a fortune which she freely gave. All that met her were given something special, a keepsake - her love.
© Craig Brown, 10 - 20 April 2004