A tale of two hands: Remembering my mother’s death
Beverly Roberts enjoys writing and has belonged to few writer's groups in Cairns. Over the years, she has written for the local Cairns Post newspaper, doing book and theatre reviews, as well as for the local Rondo Theatre. As family has always played a big part of her life, she loves writing about her family.
I was close – very close to my mother. This story begins as she arrived home from hospital, to stay with us. We all knew she couldn’t return to her own home. So it was decided that she would come to our place where we would care for her. Would I have had it any other way?
For Mum, this meant she could sit on the verandah in the sun, eat the little food she could enjoy and have visitors. And they were plenty, as so many people loved her and wanted to spend time with her.
And she and I just talked and talked.
We continued with this odd, fun-and-love-filled lifestyle for the short time the doctors had predicted. Although none of us ever mentioned that.
It was a Sunday when Ken, our friendly doctor, called in unexpectedly. “Just checking up”, he called cheerily.
He seemed odd, not wanting to dash off as usual, but insisting on staying around and chatting. I knew he couldn’t do very much for her as she was asleep all the time he was there, and I was happy to just sit and hold her hand.
Ken looked in again and, as he was about to leave the room, insisted I leave too. I refused. All I wanted was to sit and hold her hand.
“No,” was his firm reply. “I hear you didn’t sleep at all last night, so you need to have a rest now.” With that, he virtually pushed me outside and down onto a lounge. I was angry, but must admit, I did sleep.
Sometime later – when? How long? I couldn’t tell – Ken gently shook me awake. I leapt up from the lounge to rush into the bedroom. Ken held me there. “She’s gone love, she’s gone.”
No. No! Reaching out…
A photo of Beverly’s mother.
I quietly went to sit by her bed, looked at her now-peaceful face and held her hand. For a long, long time. Just as I’d wanted to do before she left us.
Some years later, in a different town, I was the one in a hospital bed, awaiting an operation. I lay in the darkening room and drifted off to sleep. I’m sure I did.
After a time, I felt someone holding my hand. I opened my eyes, wondering who it could be.
It was my Mum. She smiled that remembered smile and spoke to me quietly. She told me she knew how worried I was, about this operation.
“Don’t be frightened, darling,” she said, “you’ll be fine.”
Still holding my hand, she added, “I’d love to have you here with me, but the time’s not right. Don’t worry any more though, because I’ll stay with you the whole time.”
Then, she was gone.
At Beverly’s eldest sister’s wedding. Back row: Judy (sister), Pop (grandfather), Mum, Dad, Beverly. Front row: Siblings Noel, Carol and Tony.
My eyes opened and I shook my head, wondering what had happened.
I could still feel her hand holding mine. But when I looked down at the bedcover, I saw my right hand holding tightly to my left hand. It wasn’t Mum’s hand, holding mine. It was my own. It was the hand that would have held hers as she lay dying, all those years ago.
I will never forget those two vastly different days.
Now, with me in the hospital bed and she, in that other place, were both aware of the love and understanding of holding hands.