Mummy had great poise, elegance and a quiet dignity about her. She was the sort of women you would look at and think “she has it together”. Though this is all true the other hard truth is, she was the most clumsy person on earth. I myself have inherited these fabulous genes. My feet cause more of a hindrance to my mobility than a gain. My sister would no doubt make reference to my clown feet I’m very certain.
My mothers wake is a bit of a blur to me. The house was filled with mourners every day for three days (as is the tradition in Irish families). People were visiting round the clock bringing buns and sandwiches enough to fill a small café. It was very comforting those three days, we shared stories, had many giggles and generally celebrated my mothers memory. One day in particular fills me with great joy. I was sitting in the kitchen as my aunty and uncles filled the living room. I was in and out of my own little world when I heard a familiar story being told, well it was sort of familiar…
“Do you remember when she fell off the plane at Manchester and broke her wrist?”, “I thought she had broke her wrist shopping in the Trafford centre?”.
This sent me into a roar of laughter as yes my mother did indeed break her wrist however those two accounts were definitely not accurate on how it occurred.
Myself and Mummy always cherished our couple of weeks in the summer together. We would plan all sorts of things to do and usually not do any of them. We usually just enjoyed each others company. One thing we always did was go for a little drink down Canal Street. Mummy loved Canal Street as it was nothing like she had ever seen before. From end to end filled with colourful, loud, interesting characters, she loved to watch everyone with the same focus she would give to one of her characters on Coronation Street.
This one particular time we were heading out for the evening and decided to have a meal. With us meals are always accompanied by some wine. The meal is almost the obligation that makes us look half respectable and not diving straight into the wine. After what was a lovely meal we decided to head down the cobbled streets into some ‘quieter bars’, I could not take my dear mummy to some of the establishments on Canal Street as she would find them terribly brash and distasteful.
Eventually we had enough wine between us that filled us with a merry glow and a gentle spring in our step. It was time for a dance. My mother has a very eclectic taste in music but I wanted to take her to a place with a variety of eras. Not just modern music. We headed to New York New York, a bar known for a mix of age groups and song choices. Anything from Beyoncé to Tina Turner would be belted out from the double doors. We skipped in and headed for the dance floor. We were enjoying the music and dancing away like two teenagers on their first night out. It was hilarious until my clown feet kicked in. Before we knew it I had lost my footing, grabbed her and we both plummeted to the ground.
SNAP!
We both knew something was wrong. The pain set in her wrist and any effects quickly wore off my mother as the shock took over. Our night of frivolity was cut short. We were in a taxi lickity split and headed to the hospital. We waited in A&E for about an hour and were then seen. The doctor examined my mummy and confirmed what we both were fearing, she had broken her wrist. She needed a cast and would have restricted movement. What a fantastic way to start our two weeks together. As the doctor was getting some paper work, Michael (who had not the luxury of shock to dull his inebriation) gave mummy some really sound, logical and well thought out advice.
“Don’t sign a thing!!! Don’t Sign anything until we read through it! This is how they get you!”
What a could of possibly meant is beyond me. In that moment I had an instinct of a lion cub I can only imagine. My mother rolled her eyes and tried to ignore her intoxicated son, and prevent any further embarrassment. All the pain killers in the world wouldn’t shut her baby boy up unfortunately.
The wrist did heal and I’m happy so say we laughed about the experience over many late night phone conversations. The day of the funeral I couldn’t help but let my aunty and uncles the real story. The fact mummy had fabricated this ‘socially acceptable’ tale to hide the truth was gold to me. It really brought a smile to everyone there and remembering what a funny character she was. I guess I should feel guilty about breaking my 60 year old mothers wrist.
I would, If it didn’t make me laugh every time I thought about it.
A Grievers Guide to the Galaxy 