Reflectivesurfaces's Blog

Sometimes it is the smallest things that stir up the most crap. It is the little, seemingly unimportant item that like a small slide on snow on the top of a mountain, creates an avalanche. And when you experience that tremor, you instantly know that there is way more depth to the thing than what you are prepared to deal with. You almost instinctively know the sensation. It zings through the nervous system like nails on a chalkboard. I had one of those moments tonight. A little thing on the grand scale, but for this self-acknowledged moment of pity, one that held many, many other levels that I would as soon as ignore.

Many,many moons ago, I had a great-aunt for a neighbour. Aunt Florence was her name and she was the second wife of my Great Uncle Thomas. I must have been a terrible burden to this woman because I remember going to her house many, many times. Believe it or not, (and those who know me will chuckle and some will go into hysterical laughter), I was a rather high-energy girl. Perhaps I would have even been diagnosed as hyperactive.  I was not allowed to stray too far from home, but there was field beside the house and I was allowed to play there.  (I am surprised how much that field as shrunk as I have grown older, and wonder if sunbathing nude there in my teen years was not so smart, no matter how high the grass, but I digress..)  I remember Aunt Florence quite clearly.  Slim, tall with little round glasses.  She had very long white hair that she kept in a bun, but I caught her once or twice on wash day and I remember wishing that my hair would grow as long as hers, and that I wouldn’t cut my hair like I did last time.  She was almost always very kind to me, but I remember being there a lot.  I never saw other kids there,  I hope she didn’t think they were all like me.

I also have a clear mental picture of later, visiting Aunt Flo in this ward at the hospital after she had had a stroke.  My mom would go and visit her regularly, but the quiet of a hospital setting and me didn’t go exactly hand in hand.  But this day, I was allowed to go.  (Or maybe there was no one Mom could leave me with, either, or.)  I remember that Mom was worried she had ‘t been to see her in a week.  I can clearly in mind see us walking into a ward with four beds and they were all old people, lying down with no music, or sound.  Aunt Flo was at the end, by the window and there were flowers outside.  I liked those.  I turn and  see Aunt Flo’s face, but it is different.  Scary even.  She didn’t greet me and instead, when my Mother leaned down she grabbed her arm like she was drowning.  She was scared.  That scared me, because this was a woman who could cut the head off a live chicken AND pick up garner snakes with her BARE hands.  My Mom didn’t flinch away.  She just grabbed Flo’s hand with both hands and held on.  Flo made some terrible sounds, like her soul was being pulled apart.  It is a sound full of pain, fear and being out of your own control. She   talked softly to her for a bit and when Flo relaxed, took her hand away to stroke her hair.  Flo looked different, I know now that it was the stroke that had taken her smile and her voice and all of her left side.  I regret now that I was so afraid of a woman who had been nothing but wonderful to me.  But I freaked.  Mom tried to explain that Aunt Florence was just trying to tell us something and she can’t speak.   Mom calmed Flo and Flo leaned back more comfortably in her bed.  Mom turned to pick up the glass on the side-table and she noticed the watch on Flo’s wrist.  She wore it to keep track of the time, passing, and it had really big numbers on it and I recall it was a man’s watch and it looked so huge on her arm.  Mom said “Oh, Florence.  I’m so sorry.  I should have been here yesterday, but it was crazy.  You were trying to let me know your watch had stopped.  I’ll wind it for you right now.  Here, I’ll get the right time.”  And she did and Flo really relaxed.  My Mom always knew what was what. 

When Florence passed, everyone picked something from the house and what I wanted was an old, really ratty, fainting couch that was in the attic.  It was really cool and I had never seen one like it, outside of Gunsmoke.  My Mom was totally against the whole choice.  It was dirty, had nowhere to go and would cost to fix it.  Somehow, that couch managed to make it to our garage, where it sat for 20 years.  One day, Dad got it refurbished and it was beautiful.  I was surprised he did it, but maybe it was as a gift.  I used it in my wedding photos and returned it to sit up a shuffletable in the basement.  My house was too full of little kids and animals to protect such a wonderful seat.  It was full of memories, of Florence, my brother, my old Mom, and of course, my wedding.  However, I discovered that no one now remembered who fell in love with the piece first.  Dad loved it now.  And of course, my sister-in-law fell in love, too. 

Now, remember when I said little things causing avalanches?  Well it is true.  I did not realize that my Dad had given the couch as a housewarming present to his son and daughter in law.  True, their house was by far the better setting for it all.  True, they would love it.  True, they would treat it better.  But they didn’t really have a clue how it ever came to be in the garage in the first place.  My Mother would have known, but the Alzheimer’s has stolen most everything away now. 

I think a rational me would have gladly given the piece to her family, if she had been asked.  Or have known.  But that didn’t happen and I would never attempt to regain this inanimate object.  But the irrational side had tied a lot  of extra bows of meaning on that package.  My Mom would have known….but she doesn’t….and I wish she was her again.  Stuff like that.  This year has been a particularly trying year to say the least.   I have  had a really difficult time trying to keep a positive focus.  All of this is leading up to an indisputable truth….I cried over a piece of furniture.    Let us wrap our minds around that now…..Over furniture.  True, it is a beautiful piece that I’m not sure if I can ever go into my brother’s house again because it will call to me,  but it is still only a piece of furniture.  I had it for my wedding day and I had it first.  That can be enough.

My Mom is not the woman she once was.  She was something else and I think a child like me requires a something else.  If she was the old Mom, she would have had sage advice.  Now the speech is garbled and sometimes nonsensical.  Or she doesn’t feel up to the energy required to fake conversations.  It struck a chord in me that it was like Florence.  Or, there is a strong possibility that it will be like it was with Florence.  Can’t walk, can’t talk, nothing to do, but be in your own head all day long.  Waiting for your watch to run down.  Hoping there is someone around to wind it again.  That strikes a fear in my heart that I can’t even put my mind around.  Like a big, massive, black hole.  I just don’t know if I can be the rock my Mom was once for Aunt Florence.  (And honestly, no other mother deserves it more.  I haven’t even started on what my brothers were like when they were little.  Or how old they were when two of them died.)  It is a depth that I fear if I really take it all in, it will drive me bonkers.  And not the good kind of bonkers either.  But I know that I will be there to wind her watch, or change her bed or whatever else I can do.  I’m just sorry she got stuck with me.  I’m none too graceful, if you catch my drift.

All this over a couch?  I’m afraid so.  I prefer to bury things deep, but sometimes they pop up at the most inconvenient time.

I am proud to report that I was able to keep my lips together, mostly, and leave the room when all this started to roll over me.  I walked home in the rain and I am ashamed to admit. cried in that really unattractive way when you are a ll goopy and open-mouthed.  After I paced for an hour, I saw how little the little thing was that started the snowball rolling.  And I saw how big the thing chasing that snowball was.  It is bigger than I imagined.  I also think there may be some yellow snow mixed in there somewhere.  Sounds about right.

So, the couch itself is not that important in the scheme.  Just what I thought about it.  Good to know.  Now, time to go back to “active ignorance”.