In writing this book I have asked my mother lots of questions and have had numerous conversations with her. When at home in her kitchen recently, I asked her how she dealt with the decisions that her five children made over the years that she didn’t approve of.
‘Acceptance,’ she said. ‘Seeing you all for who you are, rather than what I think you should be. When any of you ask for advice or my opinion on something, I give you an honest answer, but it is your lives and you will do what you want anyway. I know that and I am OK with that.’
My mother has worked hard all her life on acceptance. Most of all, acceptance of herself. And she says that it was only when she accepted herself that she felt able to let us all go our own ways, too. Maybe your mother is having a hard job accepting a decision you are about to make. Letting her in might feel like the last thing you want to do. But instead of shutting her down, try giving her the space to say what she thinks. She might just surprise you and, even if she doesn’t, you’ve let her have her say.
9. Mind Your Mother Language
The language we use when speaking about our parents as they age is a real bugbear of mine. And my mother’s. Even in this book the dodgy mother language has slipped in. We ‘bring’ them on holiday, we ‘send’ them away on a break, and we ‘take’ them shopping. We ‘get them’ to take their medication. The worst one of all is we ‘pack her off’ somewhere or another. We have developed the habit of talking about our mothers as though they are children.
Last year my mother was staying with me for the Mother’s Day weekend. On the Saturday morning there was a special Mother’s Day supplement in one of the national papers giving ideas for Mother’s Day. The tone of the supplement read as though it was aimed at under fours. ‘Now treat your mother to a day of gentle pampering and book her into an Urban Spa.’ ‘Why not send Mum away on a relaxing weekend break to Aghadoe Heights? Oh, and for the more adventurous Mum, why not pack her off on a vegan yoga retreat in the mountains? Why not send Mum on an art course where she can explore her hidden creative side?’ And on and on it went. My mother read this to me over coffee at the kitchen table. She was expressing horror at the condescending language and she was laughing her head off at the idea of being packed off with the vegans. ‘They make mothers sound like imbeciles,’ she said. ‘Since when do we get packed off, sent off or brought anywhere?’
This patronising tone has crept into all facets of life, from the media to our caring professions. It’s all in the tone and language used. ‘Are you OK there, pet?’ ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, darling?’ You know what I’m talking about. Since when does everyone over sixty turn stone deaf and revert to childhood? What’s with all the raised voices in hospitals and nursing homes? Can we please save all the shouting for those who are actually hard of hearing as opposed to using it on every woman over seventy?
The same applies when we are talking about our mothers, though. I remember during my days at school, some of my classmates went home for their lunch. After lunch they compared what their mothers had served up. ‘My aul wan [old one] only gave me two spuds and a pork chop for lunch.’ ‘That’s better than what my aul wan gave me,’ said another. I know they were only joking but I remember being horrified at the time that they could talk about their mothers in that way. This patronising tone and language strips them of their dignity and is demeaning.
I know how we speak to our mothers and about our mothers is more habit than genuine ill intent. But habits can be broken. As our mothers age, I am asking all of us to be mindful of how we speak about them and to them. Banning the patronising patter around Mother’s Day would be an excellent start.
10. Plan her Funeral
It’s a Sunday in August. One of those unexpectedly hot Irish summer mornings. It’s a stark contrast to the rain and wind that had been forecast. The Irish love talking about the weather and it makes for a big part of the conversations this morning. I’m part of a 100-strong procession walking slowly behind the hearse that is carrying my close friend Joanna’s father Sean Gardiner to the church.
‘It’s a lovely day for a funeral; the weather makes all the difference,’ says a neighbour. Joanna links her mother’s arm and, with the rest of her family, leads us slowly through the beautiful village of Blackrock in Dundalk. As we make our way to the church, shopkeepers come out and stand on the footpath. Passers-by stand still, blessing themselves. The shops have been shut in his honour. Two men having coffee get to their feet and watch as the hearse passes. As we enter the church grounds a guard of honour lines both sides. Later, Joanna gives a beautiful eulogy for her father. A kind and funny man, president of the rugby club, owner of their family business, father and husband. I sit in the church listening and watching her tell the life story of her father. She gives him a great send-off.
I’m now at an age when funerals have replaced christenings and weddings as the big social events. I am attending more of them than I ever have before. It makes me think about how I want to give my mother the send-off she deserves. I want it all to be done the way she has chosen. My father, who is now eighty-five, calls it ‘the big event’. We’ve discussed what he wants, too.
Joanna’s father has been buried and we are back at her house. The crowds of mourners have gone. We are reflecting on the funeral. ‘He would have loved today,’ she says. ‘He would have loved the walking behind him to the church part. I feel we did right by him.’
Over the years, even before she got sick, my mother has asked me and asked herself the question: burial or cremation? The first time was while we were watching Six Feet Under. I took one look at her and turned up the volume on the TV.
More recently, I’m the one who has started the conversation about what kind of funeral she wants. But since she’s been ill, it’s been increasingly important to me that I make sure everything will be as she wants it at the end.
You might think, as many of my friends do, that this is an unthinkable conversation. It’s morbid. And it’s not a chat anybody really wants to have. I can understand if funeral arrangements are the last thing you want to bring up with your mother. It’s not easy. But I’ve found that having these conversations not only has allowed her to prepare for the inevitable but it’s given me a chance to prepare, too.
The most recent chat about her funeral happened as we were walking on the promenade in Salthill, down the road from her house in Galway. I was linking her arm and we were chatting about this and that. I don’t know exactly how it started but I asked her, ‘Have you decided whether you want to be cremated?’
‘Actually, I have,’ she said. ‘I do want to be cremated. And you are to scatter the ashes in my back garden and the rest in the sea in Maoinis.’
Even though I had asked the question, I was taken aback by her certainty. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘And do you mind if I keep your ashes on my mantelpiece for a while before we scatter them?’
‘No, I’d love to be on your mantelpiece,’ she said.
I meant it. I want my mother’s ashes on my mantelpiece for as long as I can have them. We have discussed how she doesn’t want to be laid out in the coffin but in her bedroom in my grandmother’s linen sheets. She wants to be waked at home. With the traditional whisky and snuff.
We have since gone into greater detail. I was shelling prawns in the kitchen and she called down from the sitting room that she’s thought of something else. I didn’t even have to ask her what she was talking about. ‘Queen,’ she said. ‘What about her?’ I said. ‘No, Freddie Mercury. “We Are the Champions” I want that song played during the ceremony.’
It brings great comfort to me to know what my mother wants when that time comes. It’s not an easy conversation but you can try to broach the subject in little snippets, like asking her what music she’d like or on another occasion, you could ask whether she’d like a cremation or burial.
One day when we were having a gin and tonic in the garden as the sun set, she told me she also wanted ‘Carmina Burana’ by Carl Orff played. I couldn’t recal
l the tune offhand. ‘You know, the one I used to always play when I was doing the hoovering?’ I did. She used to keep time to the tune by clattering the nozzle off the skirting boards as she tried to wake us up. She also told me she didn’t want any fussy notice in the newspaper. I’m sure she’ll let me know more details in time and I’m more than happy to carry out her wishes, including having a big party to celebrate her life.
The Dedicated Daughter writes to her mother
A Mhamaí
When I went down to visit you this weekend, we talked for a long time about what we would be doing if you weren’t sick. You had an infection, you were weak, and so, instead of doing those things, we conjured them up by talking through the day we might have had.
We probably would have gone to the craft village in Spiddal, to the shop we both love, where everything is made of glass, from sparkling jewellery to stained-glass lamps. We would have then strolled down to the beach and gone for a swim. From there, we’d have dropped in to Stándún’s, that beautiful clothes shop where there is always a big sale on at this time of year. We might have gone into town to Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop, had a cup of coffee outside Neachtain’s on Cross Street, and watch the world go by.
Instead, we were at home in your lovely house. You slept for most of the day. Later, sitting at the kitchen table, over dinner, we talked about the adventures we might be having. But neither of us felt the loss. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing because it’s the ease we both feel in each other’s company that makes our relationship so fabulous. That ease has always been there, from our backpacking days in Australia to sitting in the garden in Galway having a G&T. I know from the millions of mother–daughter conversations I’ve had that I’m incredibly lucky. We’re incredibly lucky. You, Mary Troy, are a woman I love being around. You also happen to be my mother.
Thank you for your infinite belief in me, your constant encouragement and for accepting me for who I am.
Grá mór,
Tasha
8: THE LAST SUPPER
We began on a freezing cold and rainy January night and end on a balmy evening in June. Quite a lot has happened in between and I – Natasha – thought about it as I looked around my house at the daughters: Cathy’s sister had died; Maeve was pregnant; Grace had got married; and Sophie’s mother had been in hospital and out again. Róisín and I still thought it was so funny and wonderful that our transcriber had ended up stepping away from her keyboard to join The Daughterhood. There was Debbie now, deep in conversation with Anna. And to think she started off as a completely independent, if not so impartial, observer.
As a group we had bonded. I looked around the table for one final time and saw daughters who had, if nothing else, unburdened themselves of some motherly baggage that they’d been carrying for a lifetime.
We weren’t strangers any more. Were we friends? It was an odd kind of acquaintanceship. We knew more about these people than we knew about some of our closest friends. And yet their real lives, outside of their capacity as daughters, were still a bit of a mystery. Sunlight shone through the patio door on the women as they laughed and chatted together; the mood much lighter than at our first meeting six months ago.
Previously unspoken secrets had been exchanged. Fears expressed. Unspeakable things uttered, in some cases for the very first time. Now we went around the group, as we always did, but this time we asked whether The Daughterhood had made a difference to our mother relationships.
Maeve sat at the head of the table, rubbing her beautifully pregnant belly. It was funny to think that the life inside her was almost the same age as The Daughterhood. She sipped her water, thoughtfully. ‘It’s like deciding to do a yoga class or, and this is a bit more extreme, to go to counselling,’ she said. Anna poked her head around the patio door; she had flown over from London that morning. She had taken part in most of the previous meetings on Skype – a dislocated voice from the East End. I used to look at the bookshelves behind her and wonder what stuff she read. ‘Mind you,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t go to counselling – this is as extreme as I go!’
There was more laughter and clinking of plates and glasses as Cathy came to join us at the table. She was still grieving for her sister but said she felt closer to her mother than ever before. ‘The thing with these meetings is that you are setting aside time to dedicate to an issue you might otherwise not take time for. You look at things that were right in front of your face, but that you’d never seen.’
‘If I hadn’t done this, I think I might have just ignored it, run away from my responsibilities; instead I feel I’ve embraced them a bit more,’ said Anna. Maeve had another point: ‘I would never have considered that the issues with my mother were major issues; I would have just accepted things the way they were, and maybe that would have been fine. But setting aside the time has felt like a positive thing to do. And it has made a difference.’
‘Do you still hide behind the couch, Maeve?’ someone asked.
‘The odd time,’ she said. ‘I think what that is really about is my mother’s selflessness, which can be overwhelming at times. She is coming from a good place but sometimes I see her and I think, “Here she is again.” I can’t always give her what she needs. I’m really busy.’ As she poured herself more elderflower cordial (‘Made by my mother. Cravings!’), she said she had been ‘mentally checking’ herself more lately and that her mother had noticed a difference. ‘I’ve spent more time with her, gone for walks or lunch, and I’ve noticed that she is landing on my door a bit less. I’m more relaxed around her; maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, who knows?’
Did Sophie have any conclusions? ‘I just have to accept my mother the way she is. I don’t mean that in a negative sense. I’ve realised that our relationship is stronger than I thought it was, even if it’s very different to most people’s. And this whole process has made me think about the fact that this is one of the most treasured relationships of my life, so why would I not take time to consider it, to nurture it?’
Now it was Lily’s turn. Had The Daughterhood been useful for her? ‘Yes, very,’ she said, smiling. ‘It has been good to be in an environment where I could share and, while my story might not be the same as the person sitting next to me, it helps just to say it out loud. The fact that I wasn’t being judged was wonderful. I felt judged and rejected by my mother my whole life. I’ve found this a very safe place to be. My situation is not normal. But what situation is? This process helped me feel normal, despite the challenges with my mother.’
Lily said she felt very different from most of the daughters in The Daughterhood. ‘But I have no regrets about joining. It’s like any other group meeting with a common purpose. The book club analogy isn’t far off. I’ve got one member in my book club who never reads the book but she likes the social aspects of the group. Some nights you get more out of it than others. Sometimes the book is the best thing you’ve ever read, other nights you can’t wait to stop talking about it. But, like with this group, at each meeting there is an engagement with others – you talk, you connect, you disagree. It is supportive without being intrusive.’
As she did at almost every meeting, Lily apologised that there was no happy ending to her story. We reassured her that this wasn’t about fixing people. ‘You have to lead your life,’ said Maeve. ‘You have to come to terms with all of it. That’s all any of us can do.’
‘But I just want you to know that you are all so lucky,’ Lily said. ‘Leave me out of that one,’ Anna scolded. ‘Well, fine, but the rest of you are definitely luckier than Sophie and I,’ Lily continued. ‘And I don’t care about telling you the truth. I might not have been brave enough to say this at the start but I’m envious of you. I’m jealous that you have a chance to improve things with your mothers. That you even have a chance. For me it’s about accepting that it’s OK not to like my mother. That it doesn’t make a monster out of me. Or out of her either. I feel sad about it but the sadness is closer to acceptance now. As for forgivene
ss? I don’t know.’
Anna was curious. ‘Do you need to forgive her? Is that necessary? I feel ambivalent about my mother. I’ve come to embrace the ambivalence and I don’t feel bad about it.’ She got up, reached over to the bowl of Thai curry and helped herself to more food. ‘The cards I was dealt, motherwise, weren’t the best. But the cards she was dealt were worse than mine. She was never really in the game. We’ve all gone out and taken our chances and made a better game for ourselves. This card-playing analogy is going on a bit longer than I’d have liked, but my point is that I think forgiveness is not essential.’
Lily wiped some invisible crumbs from the table and straightened her napkin. ‘You’re right, to a point. I suppose maybe acceptance is bigger than forgiveness. She is who she is. Good, bad or indifferent. There is no going back. But I do feel less angry with her. I feel calmer. Counselling has helped with that . . . but forgiveness is still a tricky one.’
Grace said she knew what Lily meant, and that she did feel lucky even though her mother, the mother she knew, was no longer part of her world. The mutual support at the meetings had meant a lot to her. ‘We didn’t know each other, so it was pure listening. And the acceptance and support surprised me. The mother–daughter relationship is a huge one in our lives, I think; particularly in women’s lives. If you are very lucky it’s one of the most important relationships in your life, and one of the longest. We don’t analyse it that much. We take a lot of the mother–daughter business for granted. I do think that daughters have a lot of guilt about their mammies. You feel the responsibility. You should be her best friend. You should be the person who is there for her. Sons get away with more, I think, in general.’
‘It has made me think about my words and actions much more,’ Debbie said. ‘It made me hope that I can eventually fix things and that my mum and I can be there for each other again in the way that we were during Dad’s illness. But, in a way, it has also brought home a certain sadness – I listen to the stories of some of the rest of you and I do wish that I had that relationship with my mum.’
The Daughterhood Page 24