Life with Ma

If there is any lesson to be taken from losing one parent it’s to cherish the other, the survivor. I was fortunate and very privileged to be able to spend a lot of time with my dad during his final illness and when he died we were at completely at peace with each other. But Ma? Well, mums go on forever… don’t they?

I guess it’s taken me a while to learn my own lesson because Ma’s been like the Teflon Woman; nothing sticks, nothing damages the surface and she just carries on no matter what life throws at her. Or so it seems.

Red-haired, with the most amazingly beautiful dark blue eyes, my mum was physically strong and pretty fearless. As a very little girl I remember cringing and cowering at the shallow end of a chilly outdoor swimming pool (it later turned out I was cooking chicken pox) whilst mum powered up and down like an Olympian, stopping occasionally to cast pitying ‘I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-child’ looks, or so it felt at the time, in my direction. It was even worse when we went to the coast; Ma would be straight in the sea, diving through giant waves like a dolphin whilst I took fifty millions years to get in and was afraid of getting out of my depth!

Parties were another nightmare; in addition to her striking looks Ma was a snappy dresser. All eyes would be on her as she erupted into a room then they’d slide over me and my sister. Nearly six years younger than me, my sister could always get away with being cute leaving me hideously exposed as the geeky one with thick glasses, bad skin and buck teeth. Even being brainy wasn’t always enough – my sister and I always joked that if we came home with 99%, Ma would look unimpressed and remark, casually, ‘Well, next time you can do better’!

So there she was; shining, resilient Ma. Even when Dad died she refused help and went straight home to an empty house. The trouble is that lately I’ve been wondering if it’s suited me to see her that way, proud and independent. What if she’s just being brave?

Ma learned to be brave as a child. The sixth of eight surviving children, Ma had a particularly tough time of it. It’s doubtful that the man she knew as her dad was her real father; maybe that explained the real cruelty she suffered at her parent’s hands. Some children would have been broken by the violence she endured but Ma’s reaction was to dust herself off and carry on as if nothing had happened. What both angers and moves me when, occasionally, she might refer to being lifted up by her plaits, or being boxed round the head until her ears were raw is that she still talks about her parents with love and respect. I wonder that she can be so forgiving.

However, Ma’s childhood experiences are not foremost on my mind when we bring her back for a ten-day stay with us. In fact, I’m wondering if I can ‘park’ her with a good book whilst I finish FTT. I’m also dreading her shopping obsession – if there’s a bargain, she’ll find it, no matter where it’s hiding, her fascination with what my neighbours are doing – I don’t give a flying fart about what they’re up to and her morbid interest in ghastly medical programmes – me being a cultural snob. And then something else kicks in, thank goodness, and I see a seventy-four year old woman with a crumbling back and a bad hip who’s almost single-handedly renovated her house in four months. Jeez, who else is going to make Ma feel special?

So for ten days I spend time with Ma. We cut out new curtains for the boat and she patiently takes over and unpicks when I eff and blind at a bad seam. We garden – or at least Ma refuses to listen to my petulant ‘Nothing grows up here!’ and uses her considerable skills and love of gardening to transform my bleak, wind-battered plot into something that does actually look like a garden. We talk about Dad and laugh about memories both good and bad. We do the things that mothers and daughters are supposed to do and I’m grateful to get a second chance to appreciate her.

And so Tom and I drive her to the station to catch her coach and a tiny crack appears and Teflon Woman breaks a little bit. ‘I’ll be back at Victoria in the rush hour, ‘she muses, ‘last time a young woman tried to push past me and I nearly fell down the escalator.’
‘Stand your ground and push back’ I fume, full of anger towards this thoughtless commuter.
‘And the men open their papers and hold their arms in front of my face as if I’m not there.’
‘Bite them!’ I order, wanting to race down and take on the whole of the southeast.

Ma’s coach arrives and I’m despatched to deal with her bag so that she can get a good seat.
‘And go to the doctor’s about that hip!’ I yell, seeing the way she’s been limping.
‘Oh, I will when it hurts,’ she assures me.
Then she’s a face at the window, smiling, blowing kisses, brave again.
The coach pulls away and I cry.

Paiting is 'Co Cork' by Tom Tomos