My Mother died in April, 2011. But rather than remember that date, I prefer to commemorate her birthday, which is today. When she died, I wrote a tribute to her to be read at the funeral. I am presenting it below, unedited, just as I wrote it, for anyone who cares to read it. If there is one word that sums up my mother it is devotion. Devotion to her husband, to her family and to God; because she was very religious – in her own quiet way. Often, when out shopping, after walking for miles she would slip into a quiet little church and give a thanks for her family and for her health that allowed her to go on caring for us all. She rarely went to church on Sunday. She watched Songs of Praise – before they changed the format and made it trendy. She rarely read the Bible and knew precious little of its contents. Her faith was simple but it was sufficient to her needs. Only when her health began to fail her did she question why she was losing the strength and capacity to look after her most dependant child, Christine, my sister, whom she had looked after for seventy-five years and who had severe learning difficulties that rendered her totally dependent on my mother’s uncomplaining satisfaction of my sister’s needs. And all our needs, all our wishes came before my Mother’s own. I remember coming down in the morning and finding her sewing costumes for my other sister, Janet, while my father sat beside her and helped. I remember her going out with a bucket of paste and some posters and fly posting notices for a play I was producing. And this was when she herself was in her seventies. She had boundless energy, even though she had had more than her fair share of ill health. She shared our enthusiasm for show business and loved to go round singing to people in care homes. And when the group she was going round with were unable to turn out she went on her own, with a tape recorded accompaniment. Even when her eyesight was failing, she continued to sew and draw and paint and write poetry, often using a magnifying glass and a lot of patience. There was scarcely anything that she could not turn her hand to. She had a good business head and worked as a seamstress and dressmaker on her own account. She had a dress shop and made fashionable clothes to sell in it, or to order – as well as selling second hand ones. She ran a fish and chip shop too. She never needed a calculator. She could add up columns of figures fast enough without one. With these good management skills and thrift, Mum and Dad owned a long string of houses, never taking out a mortgage and eventually owning a lovely big house which Mum was rightly proud to own. She shared this varied life with my father, her husband Billy. They were a devoted couple, of course. They truly worked as a team. They ran the shops together; Dad would do the electrical side of the business while Mum managed the dressmaking. Long after that, Dad would come home from work and drive around looking for Mum who would usually be out shopping. She was easy to spot as she had Christine on one arm, a shopping trolley on the other and they would walk for miles, hunting down bargains. They were a well-known sight in the community. Mum knew all the shopkeepers along the route and many of them knocked a bit off the price of things she bought because of her cheery smile and friendly chat. They will all miss her. In the last few years of her life, when she found it harder and harder to walk very far, all these people certainly missed her. And she missed them and she missed the active life she led. I should mention that it was her lifetime habit to do the housework after Christine had gone to bed. Sometimes working all night. Often the birds were starting to sing and the sun was filtering through the curtains when she climbed the stairs for two or three hours of much needed sleep. Sleep was something she did when she had a moment to spare. When Dad died, this was a bitter blow for such a devoted wife. And also, she found it hard to climb the hill to her beloved house – and keep it all spic and span, for it was a big house. With deep regret she decided to sell it and move into something smaller and not at the top of a hill. Dad’s death hit Mum hard. In many ways, she defined herself as ‘Mrs Butler’. She was proud to be ‘Mrs Butler’. She proudly bucked the trend for informality by insisting on being called “Mrs Butler’. Only after Dad died did she start to be known as ‘Joyce’. In these days it is hard to find a marriage that lasts for more than fifty years. For Mum, with her simple faith, marriage was eternal. She could never contemplate another partner. She looked forward to being reunited with him in some kind of afterlife – but not yet. She vowed that while ever my sister, Christine needed her, she would look after her. And she did look after her. When Mum turned ninety, she found it harder and harder. First cataracts and then macular degeneration rendered her nearly blind. Her hearing failed almost completely and she had to have hearing aids. She was more and more crippled by arthritis yet despite being in a lot of pain she kept active for as long as she could. She became very frail. She became prone to various ailments. Although her faith never wavered, time and again, she asked, “Why?” She asked this not for her own sake but because she was finding it harder and harder to look after Christine. She struggled with this dilemma. It was heartbreaking. All that we could do was celebrate her richly varied life and sometimes, her spirit broke through the pain and shone out as a brilliant example. But inevitably, her strength failed her more and more. And more and more she found herself doing the unthinkable, accepting help and support for something that she was devoted to doing on her own, caring for Christine, my sister. Often she confessed to me her doubt that she would ever be able to look after Christine again without help. And yet, even at the end, when she could hardly stand up on her own, she was asking me, “Is there something I can do to help you? I would like to help you.” I think I said something like, “Just get well again, Mum!” But that was a mistake. What she wanted was to help. Helping us, her family, was her life. She did not put herself first. She believed in sacrifice. That is how she lived her life. And in so doing, she showed us what devotion really means. * * * We all miss you Mum, every day we think of you with love and pride.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Jul 2013 23:18:07 +0000
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