Poetry and Persistence Make for a Long Life

(Editor’s note: Canada Free Press Literary Editor and musical composer Michael Vallins, diagnosed with cancer in April 2008, was happy his 92-year-old mother got to meet her first great grandson, Seth the day before he had to tell her about the death of her first-born son). In early July of this year I flew from Toronto to London, England to visit my 92-year-old mother. Besides wanting to see her of course, I also had come to break the news to her that Harold, her first-born son, my brother, had died. He lived in Australia. He had actually died a few weeks before, but at this particular time my mother was going through a deeply emotional upheaval and my sister Marion, my aunts and I decided it would be better to wait a week or so until she was more settled. Also for obvious reasons, I wanted to tell her personally and not by telephone.

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She was living alone in a third-floor flat in an old town near London. No elevator, but smooth, rounded, narrow stone steps, 4 inches wide. In June she fell down the steps and gashed the frail parchment skin of an arm and leg. The surgeon at the hospital, after treating her and checking her heart over the following week said that this woman could no longer live by herself and should have 24-hour care. My mother, my lovely, kind mother, had experienced more than a few knockdowns in her almost 100-year existence. My father whom she dearly loved died when she was 27, leaving her with two boys, three and four. She later married, more for security than love, had a daughter, Marion, and at last divorced after 25 years, later marrying Harry who loved her and looked after her. He died two years ago in 2008 at 96. Ninety now and alone after living 35 years in the same flat. Her toes and fingers are curled from arthritis although she still plays piano for the old folks at the Centre she visits weekly. She keeps on keeping on, knocked down but never knocked out. I call her “The Barnacle”. The emotional upheaval came when after 35 years she now had to live in a care home. She didn’t want to. Even though at the care home she had her own flat, washroom, bath, kitchen, washing done and folded, meals brought to her or she could eat communally, and emergency help whenever needed. The barnacle syndrome was adamant -- she wanted to go back. But that chapter had been written and closed. She could not care for herself. She couldn’t ever go back. When I arrived in England. she was in the throes of the first week in the carehome. The seeming loss of independence brought out her stubbornness, sorrow and sadness. Gone was her living room with piano, menorahs, coasters from Jerusalem, a Star of David clock, driftwood from Malta, photos of grandchildren, and Sabbath candlesticks, where with her eyes closed she could maneuver around the chairs and footstools and tv tables. Now a strange place with strange although kind people. It would take a while. If I told her about Harold it could only impact her acceptance of the situation and it was decided again to await telling her. Before I came over, I knew I’d have to be the one to tell her and I could only do it face to face so prior to my visit to England, in order to break the news as gently as possible I had been phoning and telling her that Harold was in and out of hospital, having heart rhythm problems and other health issues and the doctors weren’t pleased. She knew he hadn’t been well for some time so it wasn’t too unusual for her to hear. I kept this up each time I called. But now here I was in England, specifically to tell her, and because of the move and upheaval I couldn’t. I talked with my niece who was coming from Australia to England a month or so after me and we planned to have her tell Nanna. It grieved me that I couldn’t. I flew back to Canada, July 18th. In the last week of July I coughed up a few flecks of blood. In April 2008, at 66, I was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. I’ve had various treatments over the last 18 months some of which are ongoing. I hadn’t told Mum about this either. Mum is a worrier. After recently losing her husband the last thing I wanted to do was give her this news. What would be the point? I wasn’t dying as far as I was concerned and as I planned to beat this she would be gone long before me anyway. The doctor sent me for xrays which came back without pinpointing the cause and further tests were arranged for two weeks’ time. The blood changed my plans. Supposing I was to die and Mum hadn’t been told about Harold? My sister would have to break both pieces of news. It seemed unthinkable. It so happened that on July 26th my son Jesse, the chef at Trevor Kitchen and Bar near St. Lawrence Market left for England to work/study for a month at The Fat Duck, a 3-star Michelin restaurant which is run by Helmut Blumenthal, a well-known somewhat eccentric celebrity chef. Jesse is a culinary student, studied in his art, ‘goes to bed thinking about food, wakes up thinking about food, not to eat but to design,’ as he told me. This was to be a special time for him. Coincidentally, while he was there he planned to see my daughter Laura, his sister, who now lives in Southampton, and they would both go up to London August 10th to visit my sister, Marion, their aunt of course, taking with them my 6-month-old grandson, Seth. Marion would bring Mum up from the carehome the day before and for the first time she would meet her only great grandson. So on one day in my sister’s house would be herself and her husband Jerry, Mum, my eldest children and my grandson. When would that ever happen again? Mum could pass on. I could pass on. In fact, anyone could. I’d recently coughed up blood. I thought, I have to go. Only my sister knew. I arrived at their house on August 9th. They picked up Mum later that day, and brought her into their lovely back garden and there I sat on the patio in the sun. She was, of course overjoyed. The next day Laura and Jesse arrived with Seth. When they came into the garden there I sat with Mum grinning and they too were overjoyed and puzzled to say the least. I saw my son, my daughter, my Mum, my grandson and my sister all together. I saw my Mum hold and kiss and cuddle her great grandson for the first time, she 92 and he 6 months old. Laura and Jesse left that evening. The next morning I sat down in the living room with Mum. Serenely quiet after the excitement of the previous day, we talked about Seth and the kids. The glow that was on her face from the memorable day before shone again as we laughed about how Seth had dribbled on her mouth and she said that it was just like honey from heaven – a little of her poetic mind she’d passed on to me. I then told Mum that I had come for two reasons -- to see all that happened yesterday but also there was something else important -- something very, very sad had happened to Harold. That’s all I said. She clasped my hand, stared at me and said, “Oh no,” and shook her head slowly back and forth. After a while to soften the silence I whispered, “Mum, you know he’s in a better place now,” but she said nothing, just crumpling and turning wet tissues in her wrinkled hands, staring into her thoughts. When she did say something, it was just, “Michael, take care of yourself son.” The rest of the day she sat near the French windows looking out into the back garden. Contrasts. The day before had gently cushioned the day after . . . gained a great grandson, lost a son. Knocked down but not knocked out. Sadness and joy. Mourning and celebrating. The next day we took her back to the care home where her personal care nurse, Felicity made a little fuss of her and took a photograph. I left on the morning of the 12th August. Four days, two jetlags, two continents. I didn’t tell The Barnacle about me. What would be the point? I’m not dying as far as I’m concerned and I plan to beat this thing anyway. Poetry and persistence make for a long life. Michael is a freelance writer in Toronto.

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