| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 12, 2022 |
  |
A harrowing experience. (757 words)
Goodbye Mum
by LisaMay
A Harrowing Experience Contest Winner
The worst event of my life happened at 2.00am on a quiet January morning in 1969 in a peaceful domestic setting. ‘Harrowing’ would be an understatement.
I was jolted awake by the feeling that something was very wrong. Claws of fear gripped my mind; my heart thudded. What had woken me? My ears strained, trying to pick up clues.
Was it all in my mind? Was I more terrified about going to the high school athletics championships than I was admitting to myself? At 6.00am my friend Cathy and her parents would be coming to collect me, then we’d drive for several hours to the athletic stadium in the State capital. My own parents had driven us the previous weekend, when we two young athletes had qualified for several junior events. Now Cathy and I would be representing our school at the State championships! Was I worried that Mum and Dad — my proudest supporters — would not be coming too? This weekend they’d be prioritising my brother’s activities.
Had my nerves woken me prematurely? No. There was definitely something wrong. There was a strange gurgling noise coming from my parents’ bedroom. We lived in a small government house (it would be called state housing elsewhere); the walls were thin and my bedroom was right next to theirs.
I jumped out of bed and stood uncertainly in the doorway. Dad suddenly appeared in his pyjamas, his hair dishevelled and a wild look on his face.
“Get back into bed and stay there!” he commanded in a loud, angry tone. My father was a kind man who never raised his voice to anyone, let alone his daughter, so this shocked me. I slunk back into bed, quivering with anxiety.
Dad went to the phone in the hallway and made a call. I heard him say urgently: “Come quickly! There’s something wrong with my wife.” Then he returned to their bedroom and slammed the door. A while later he came out again and made another phone call. “You don’t have to come now. She’s dead.”
Maybe I wasn’t really awake, just having a vivid nightmare. Maybe my dinner was reacting. Maybe… But no. This was all horribly true and actually happening.
Our family doctor arrived; Dad took him to the bedroom. I heard the doctor quietly explaining something to him. By this time the ambulance had also arrived. Dad came into my room and asked if I’d like to see Mum’s body before they took her away. It felt like this was all occurring in muffled slow-motion, yet my mind was tingling with electric currents of shock, especially when I heard my brother start howling with distress when he went in to see her. I couldn’t cope with the idea of seeing Mum lying dead, so I said no. (As an adult, I regret not saying goodbye to her.)
The last I saw of my Mum was her bare feet sticking out of a sheet in which she’d been wrapped; then her body was carried down the hallway over an ambulanceman’s shoulder. I peeped around my bedroom doorframe, numbly incredulous at this turn of events.
I became an automaton, doing tasks by instinct. No tears were shed. The doctor administered sedatives to my father and brother to calm them; I refused it. At 5.00am I phoned Cathy’s mother and spoke like a robot: “Due to a family emergency I won’t be coming on the athletics trip today. Goodbye.” I phoned a couple who were Dad’s closest friends. I made cups of tea for people.
My brother was seventeen and I was fifteen when this happened. Dad was a broken man and withdrew into himself for several years. Without Mum’s guiding hand, my brother left home and became a delinquent, often in trouble with the law. Dad and I adjusted to a different life, with me as the responsible adult taking care of things at home. Our relationship deepened into a very close connection.
The Mum and Dad I mention in this story were my adoptive parents. I met my birth mother for the first time when I was forty-five. She insisted I call her ‘Mother’ when I addressed her. Thirty years after Mum died, the dam burst. My tears of loss came. This stranger was not Mum. ‘Mother’ thought I was getting emotional at the delight of having a mother again, but I was grieving the one I’d loved and lost. My own flesh and blood was no match for the loving parenting I’d received from my adoptive Mum.
The worst event of my life happened at 2.00am on a quiet January morning in 1969 in a peaceful domestic setting. ‘Harrowing’ would be an understatement.
I was jolted awake by the feeling that something was very wrong. Claws of fear gripped my mind; my heart thudded. What had woken me? My ears strained, trying to pick up clues.
Was it all in my mind? Was I more terrified about going to the high school athletics championships than I was admitting to myself? At 6.00am my friend Cathy and her parents would be coming to collect me, then we’d drive for several hours to the athletic stadium in the State capital. My own parents had driven us the previous weekend, when we two young athletes had qualified for several junior events. Now Cathy and I would be representing our school at the State championships! Was I worried that Mum and Dad — my proudest supporters — would not be coming too? This weekend they’d be prioritising my brother’s activities.
Had my nerves woken me prematurely? No. There was definitely something wrong. There was a strange gurgling noise coming from my parents’ bedroom. We lived in a small government house (it would be called state housing elsewhere); the walls were thin and my bedroom was right next to theirs.
I jumped out of bed and stood uncertainly in the doorway. Dad suddenly appeared in his pyjamas, his hair dishevelled and a wild look on his face.
“Get back into bed and stay there!” he commanded in a loud, angry tone. My father was a kind man who never raised his voice to anyone, let alone his daughter, so this shocked me. I slunk back into bed, quivering with anxiety.
Dad went to the phone in the hallway and made a call. I heard him say urgently: “Come quickly! There’s something wrong with my wife.” Then he returned to their bedroom and slammed the door. A while later he came out again and made another phone call. “You don’t have to come now. She’s dead.”
Maybe I wasn’t really awake, just having a vivid nightmare. Maybe my dinner was reacting. Maybe… But no. This was all horribly true and actually happening.
Our family doctor arrived; Dad took him to the bedroom. I heard the doctor quietly explaining something to him. By this time the ambulance had also arrived. Dad came into my room and asked if I’d like to see Mum’s body before they took her away. It felt like this was all occurring in muffled slow-motion, yet my mind was tingling with electric currents of shock, especially when I heard my brother start howling with distress when he went in to see her. I couldn’t cope with the idea of seeing Mum lying dead, so I said no. (As an adult, I regret not saying goodbye to her.)
The last I saw of my Mum was her bare feet sticking out of a sheet in which she’d been wrapped; then her body was carried down the hallway over an ambulanceman’s shoulder. I peeped around my bedroom doorframe, numbly incredulous at this turn of events.
I became an automaton, doing tasks by instinct. No tears were shed. The doctor administered sedatives to my father and brother to calm them; I refused it. At 5.00am I phoned Cathy’s mother and spoke like a robot: “Due to a family emergency I won’t be coming on the athletics trip today. Goodbye.” I phoned a couple who were Dad’s closest friends. I made cups of tea for people.
My brother was seventeen and I was fifteen when this happened. Dad was a broken man and withdrew into himself for several years. Without Mum’s guiding hand, my brother left home and became a delinquent, often in trouble with the law. Dad and I adjusted to a different life, with me as the responsible adult taking care of things at home. Our relationship deepened into a very close connection.
The Mum and Dad I mention in this story were my adoptive parents. I met my birth mother for the first time when I was forty-five. She insisted I call her ‘Mother’ when I addressed her. Thirty years after Mum died, the dam burst. My tears of loss came. This stranger was not Mum. ‘Mother’ thought I was getting emotional at the delight of having a mother again, but I was grieving the one I’d loved and lost. My own flesh and blood was no match for the loving parenting I’d received from my adoptive Mum.
A Harrowing Experience Contest Winner |
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. LisaMay All rights reserved.
LisaMay has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
