Mum’s the word: It’s a relationship like no other
To have a mother who is loving and communicative across your forties, fifties and even into the sixties is a precious gift. I cannot fathom the pain felt by those who are denied this experience.
My mother died four years ago at the age of 95. I had the privilege of a parental connection for longer than most Australians. My father died nine years earlier at the age of 87 although, to my regret, I did not have the same chatty relationship with him as I did with my mother.
To my way of thinking, mothers and fathers are generally present for at least the first 40 years of life. Their role is to nurture children through to adulthood and perhaps even to assure (in a survival-of-the-species kind of way) the arrival of the next generation.
To have a mother who is loving and communicative across your forties, fifties and even into the sixties is a precious gift. I cannot fathom let alone appreciate the pain that must be felt by those who are, by whatever cruel fate of life, denied this experience.
I would call my mother on Sunday nights. She was always happy, always inquiring about the kids, her grandchildren. She would talk politics and football (go Cats!), and bring me up to date with what my siblings and their children were doing. She aggregated and disseminated family news to keep us all connected. I miss our chats. There’s a vacancy that’s still there at that time each week.
My mother was remarkable. She left school at 14 and yet was exceptionally well read and intellectually curious. She was a methodical recorder, a dedicated documentarian. She kept records of the height of each of her kids as they were growing up. She maintained account books of her household income and spending. She recorded swimming times for me, netball goals scored by my sister. She wrote “newsy” letters to her beloved younger sister, and letters to the editor when riled!
When she was 17 and going to dances in Victoria’s western district, she would record the number of times she was asked to dance. Her record was 24 at Woolsthorpe in November 1941. I once asked, roughly what proportion of all dances were you asked to dance? She replied (quite proudly), “Oh, I was asked to dance every dance.” Good for her!
I have this column to thank for a discussion I had with my mother a month before she died. I asked if I could interview her on the topic of her upcoming birthday. It gave me an excuse to ask things I had never asked. Bear in mind at this time I thought she would live to 100.
I said now that you’re 95 you must think about the end of life. I asked if she was concerned about dying.
She didn’t hesitate: “No, I’ve had a good life … I’m ready … I’m ready.” I was oblivious but she knew the end was coming. I asked how she would like to be remembered. She paused and said: “That I loved children.” Perfect words.
We discussed her unwavering Catholic faith. I asked: “Mum, how many times a day do you pray the rosary?” “Three,” she replied.
And in that moment, I understood what was so remarkable about her. Her strength came from what she would say “worked for her” and that was her faith. She had a daily spiritual connection; it gave her a strength that I have not encountered elsewhere. I think this shows the impact that a loving parent with clear values – however sourced – can support, give strength to and shape those who follow.
