The last time I saw Agnes was shortly before her death. I lived in England, she in California, so visits were rare. She had just had a stroke, but had recovered enough to sit up on her own. She looked good; neatly dressed with her silver grey hair cut short like a boy’s. Her fair skin, although wrinkled, had a healthy shine to it, and her dark, almost black eyes still had that playful sparkle. Not bad for a 90 year old great-great grandmother, I thought.
She had lost her speech. She did try to tell me something when I introduced her to my husband. It sounded like; "Your husband is handsome," which wouldn’t have surprised me in the least seeing as how Agnes never missed a beat when it came to a handsome man.
She had lost her speech. She did try to tell me something when I introduced her to my husband. It sounded like; "Your husband is handsome," which wouldn’t have surprised me in the least seeing as how Agnes never missed a beat when it came to a handsome man.
The only word Agnes could speak clearly was a swear word, which was a little odd because Agnes never went in much for swearing before her stroke. But the doctors assured us that this was not unusual for people who had lost their speech. Nevertheless, she could provide a whole range of expressions with that single word. Such as “I have to go to the bathroom” or “I don’t like the taste of that,” or “Now, that’s a surprise.” We didn’t mind. In fact, I was very proud of how well she could communicate with that one word.
Evelyn, my mother, was looking after Agnes in her home, saying that she didn’t want her mother in a old folk’s home or in some hospital attached to tubes and generally ignored by the staff. I appreciated my mother’s sentiments, but they were always presented with reminders of the burden this placed on her, something that seemed to misplace the focus on who had suffered the crisis. The whole thing seemed to be about Evelyn; Evelyn’s sacrifice, Evelyn’s trials and tribulations, Evelyn’s life stolen from her now that she had to dedicate her days and nights looking after her ailing mother. She never spoke of Agnes’s sufferings or hardships, and this disturbed me.
Evelyn had told me recently that Agnes had stopped eating and was refusing her medication. I had an opportunity to witness this, and to fully understand Agnes’s choice.
“Here you go, mom. It’s time for your medicine, and you aren’t going to make a fuss, are you?” There was a tray with a few pills, a glass of water, and some nasty looking stuff in a tiny plastic cup. There was a look of bland stubbornness on Agnes’s face, matched by something like angelic righteousness on Evelyn’s. They made eye contact, symbolically locking horns.
I guess you would call it a physical test of wills. There wasn’t much to it, though; just Agnes’s calm glare and half-clamped lips. She didn’t move. She just sat there. She didn’t offer her one word. I guess it wasn’t needed. But Evelyn was no match for Agnes. She finally gave up and left the room. Agnes looked at me, saddened, as if she thought that it was unfortunate that I had witnessed this thing. I thought of Evelyn in the kitchen. I could see her in my mind, leaning on the kitchen counter, head bowed, that pose that I had seen a thousand times from my bedroom door as she prepared herself for yet another day of selfless servitude. That was Evelyn. She didn’t see these things from another person’s perspective. It was only another chapter in her book of martyrdom. I think, early in her domed marriage to an alcoholic and abusive husband, she had traded in her dignity for this state of self pity. She savoured it, like a bold Vindalo curry, a dish known for its fire, for the way it seared the tongue, gave it life, so that she could proclaim to the world, ‘ME!’ It was how she chose to cope.
But Agnes, now that’s a different story. She fought to keep her dignity, running away from a suppressive husband, my grandfather Lloyd, Sherriff of Gilroy, who had the town in his back pocket and sent his buddies out looking for her with their flashing lights and sirens every time she ran away. They kept finding her; kept bringing her back, until the day she fled beyond even Lloyd’s influence. I’d heard the story from Agnes, and I was always proud of her for her courage. It was one of many lessons I learned from her – the value of courage.
I looked around at the scene, my mother’s house, Agnes in her chair, sitting there, small, sad. I thought of the things my mother said about keeping Agnes home, her never ending sacrifice. I wondered about the bathing, and the dressing, and the putting to bed. I wondered how it was with Agnes, living in that circumstance, the cause of my mother’s martyrdom.
Did you ever think it would be your eldest daughter who would steal your dignity? I thought, looking at Agnes as she looked at me.
Then the sparkle came back, the playful spirit. She smiled a lopsided smile, the best she could manage, raised one eyebrow, and gave me her one word, almost in a whisper, like a secret shared, that simply said, What? Her? Steal MY dignity? Never! Now you just listen to me, dear grandaughter. No one can steal your dignity.
Yes, Agnes kept her dignity, and died quietly in her own bed in the middle of a windy October night. It was her choice. And I am forever grateful for that one last lesson she taught me, that no matter what life hands you, dignity is a matter of choice.
Evelyn, my mother, was looking after Agnes in her home, saying that she didn’t want her mother in a old folk’s home or in some hospital attached to tubes and generally ignored by the staff. I appreciated my mother’s sentiments, but they were always presented with reminders of the burden this placed on her, something that seemed to misplace the focus on who had suffered the crisis. The whole thing seemed to be about Evelyn; Evelyn’s sacrifice, Evelyn’s trials and tribulations, Evelyn’s life stolen from her now that she had to dedicate her days and nights looking after her ailing mother. She never spoke of Agnes’s sufferings or hardships, and this disturbed me.
Evelyn had told me recently that Agnes had stopped eating and was refusing her medication. I had an opportunity to witness this, and to fully understand Agnes’s choice.
“Here you go, mom. It’s time for your medicine, and you aren’t going to make a fuss, are you?” There was a tray with a few pills, a glass of water, and some nasty looking stuff in a tiny plastic cup. There was a look of bland stubbornness on Agnes’s face, matched by something like angelic righteousness on Evelyn’s. They made eye contact, symbolically locking horns.
I guess you would call it a physical test of wills. There wasn’t much to it, though; just Agnes’s calm glare and half-clamped lips. She didn’t move. She just sat there. She didn’t offer her one word. I guess it wasn’t needed. But Evelyn was no match for Agnes. She finally gave up and left the room. Agnes looked at me, saddened, as if she thought that it was unfortunate that I had witnessed this thing. I thought of Evelyn in the kitchen. I could see her in my mind, leaning on the kitchen counter, head bowed, that pose that I had seen a thousand times from my bedroom door as she prepared herself for yet another day of selfless servitude. That was Evelyn. She didn’t see these things from another person’s perspective. It was only another chapter in her book of martyrdom. I think, early in her domed marriage to an alcoholic and abusive husband, she had traded in her dignity for this state of self pity. She savoured it, like a bold Vindalo curry, a dish known for its fire, for the way it seared the tongue, gave it life, so that she could proclaim to the world, ‘ME!’ It was how she chose to cope.
But Agnes, now that’s a different story. She fought to keep her dignity, running away from a suppressive husband, my grandfather Lloyd, Sherriff of Gilroy, who had the town in his back pocket and sent his buddies out looking for her with their flashing lights and sirens every time she ran away. They kept finding her; kept bringing her back, until the day she fled beyond even Lloyd’s influence. I’d heard the story from Agnes, and I was always proud of her for her courage. It was one of many lessons I learned from her – the value of courage.
I looked around at the scene, my mother’s house, Agnes in her chair, sitting there, small, sad. I thought of the things my mother said about keeping Agnes home, her never ending sacrifice. I wondered about the bathing, and the dressing, and the putting to bed. I wondered how it was with Agnes, living in that circumstance, the cause of my mother’s martyrdom.
Did you ever think it would be your eldest daughter who would steal your dignity? I thought, looking at Agnes as she looked at me.
Then the sparkle came back, the playful spirit. She smiled a lopsided smile, the best she could manage, raised one eyebrow, and gave me her one word, almost in a whisper, like a secret shared, that simply said, What? Her? Steal MY dignity? Never! Now you just listen to me, dear grandaughter. No one can steal your dignity.
Yes, Agnes kept her dignity, and died quietly in her own bed in the middle of a windy October night. It was her choice. And I am forever grateful for that one last lesson she taught me, that no matter what life hands you, dignity is a matter of choice.
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