Just after Christmas in 2010, during the worst winter for 50 years, our Ma died.
I remember there weren’t enough chairs for us all in the room. But it was way after midnight, and no-one, not even the lads from New York, nor the contingent from Melbourne, was of a mind to make a fuss.
So we took turns at sitting and standing and heading down the corridor to maintain a vigil by Ma’s bed. Anyhow, when we were growing up, there were never enough chairs to go around, so it wasn’t a big deal. We were used to making do with what we had and getting on with things.
They have put her in a room down past the nurses’ station. One of my brothers tells me that the ambulance took over an hour to cover the 18 miles because of the atrocious conditions. I was on a Melbourne beach when I got the text. But by now, it’s no longer an emergency, although, tenacious as ever, she is still hanging on.
It’s well below zero. Mounds of dirty frozen snow have rendered sections of Mullingar’s hospital car park no-go zones; though the parking metres were still gobbling up our euros. The worst winter in 50 years and still no end in sight. It’s a wonder some of us were even able to make it here at all. The biting cold takes me back to my childhood winters; when our turf fire made little difference, chilblains were common, and old overcoats doubled as duvets; long before I decided to take my chances under the scorching Australian sun.
At first glance, you’d think she was just sleeping. Her breathing is unremarkable, perhaps a little shallow; it’s hard to be certain. There are no tubes or life prolonging equipment. No need for anything. Her dentures are in a clear container on the locker. She and the old man had all their teeth taken out when they were barely adults. Back when it was considered the financially prudent thing to do. Back then, pragmatism prevailed. Someone has already placed a Mass card beside the dentures. Grapes or chocolates will most likely next arrive.
I haven’t seen her for six years; though I’d paid a deposit with Etihad for an early March flight. She has lost weight. A slip of a thing is a description that comes to mind. Just lying there, breathing away without any fuss. She is dying quietly, almost politely, and oblivious to all of us standing and sitting in the room.
We can’t even hope. All we can do is wait, for the inevitable. And pray, if you’re so inclined. And, sure enough, in the early hours of the morning, a cousin from Cavan will arrive, take out his rosary beads and enthusiastically take us through the recitation.
By the end of the night, it will be just me at her bedside. Snow is falling again. She will go on breathing quietly. I thought she might start chainstoking at some stage. But that doesn’t happen. She simply sighs and she is gone. No flickering of her eyelids, no involuntary twitching. Just silence.
Two of my brothers were downstairs at the café having tea and toast. The others had returned to the farmhouse outside Castlepollard. I wasn’t sure if I should press the buzzer. So I decided to stay put a little longer. There was nothing anyone could do. Later that morning, a doctor would confirm her death and sign the certificate.
At her wake, everyone remarked on what a great woman she was to rear ten children without any fuss and with very little. Everyone marvelled at her enduring ability to look after the old man as his health deteriorated.
Christmas was Ma’s time of the year; maybe even her raison d’être. But it went beyond religion. Preparations had usually begun by early September when she set to baking multiple Christmas cakes and the jumbo-sized pudding; and she’d carefully seal them in old biscuit tins. By early December, all her cards would’ve been posted and presents dispatched to grandchildren abroad. And on the day itself, all the traditional trappings would be on display. But over the years, fewer and fewer chairs were occupied at the dining table.
For sure, she was selfless, and much more - I'll give her that. But to be honest, I hardly knew her at all. Maybe our relationship was stymied when I emigrated after my seminary days ended badly. When you leave a door swings shut. And no matter have often you return the die's been cast. That's not to say I don't miss and think of her, all the more so at this time of the year.
Philip Lynch is a regular contributor to Generation Emigration.
