Being a chip off the old block, my existence can be defined by my ability to write. My fidelity towards maintaining the daily log comes as a familial propensity, a trait that can be directly traced back to my mother. With her impending death serving as my current subject matter, time and again, my focus pivots to her fading existence.
Few bits and pieces are here.
I am gradually becoming aware that her oncoming demise forms my full-time commitment. Absorbed in its vastness, my life is left with little space to dwell on anything else. I stand at a crossroads where the inevitable event lurks in the fog of the undetermined future. This firm grip of certainty over the mystery of the unpredictable defines my existence. My senses are kept on high alert, adjusting to this uncertain lifestyle.
My mind often wanders into the future, contemplating a life devoid of both parents. My dad passed away in 1998, and my mother is soon to join him. Pondering the prospect of life without her, I’m hit by a sense of loss. The notion of having a parent as a backup, a safety net, a final refuge even if not utilised, has always been tucked away in the corners of my consciousness. That unfaltering reliance on my mother in times of grave calamity isn’t something that can last. With her imminent departure, the safety net dissolves, folded and stored away forever. Left wondering how I’ll manage without this fail-safe, I struggle to visualise a life without her.
As her end draws near, I find solace in revisiting past moments. These memories, of which I have an abundance, are a shield against the inevitable end. A subtle reminder, such memories proclaim – life has been lived to the fullest, each moment being relished, enjoyed, and cherished. Acknowledging death, they assert life’s triumph, denying death its absolute reign. Memories are my fortress.
Getting ready for a trip to London to meet her, I realise the importance of coming across as well-maintained – a value she’s always cherished. I make a short trip to the neighbouring hair salon for a quick trim. The salon, in my neighbour’s house, welcomes me with its distinct hot hair and shampoo aroma coupled with a distinctly amiable, alert, and serious female companionship.
Reminiscences stream back of times spent alongside my mum at her hair salon. I would often be stationed on an uncomfortable chair, sipping a fizzy drink, observing the salon’s activities. I remember the warm water cascading over my mum’s reclined head in the sink, the junior hairdresser working in shampoo into her hair, the stylist cropping her hair and the discarded wet strands littering the floor, leading eventually to curlers being placed in her hair, and her sitting beneath the droning hairdryer that bore a striking resemblance to the Mekon, the adversary of Dan Dare. She invariably brought her spiral notebooks, usually two, and a set of pens and dedicated any spare time she had, especially while under the dome of the dryer, to scrawl her large, looping writing across the pages. She found the salon a conducive environment for writing, even better than home, she’d claim.
There are times when I’m with my mum and one of her good friends joins us, and we sit beside her. My mother, who is fragile, mostly sleeps and only rouses occasionally. I sense that she fails to notice my presence during these moments of wakefulness. I yearn desperately to be noticed, to be acknowledged. Although her friend assures me we are noticed, I remain sceptical despite my longing to believe otherwise. During a prior visit, following her brief period of wakefulness, her smile suggested she recognised me, but not on this occasion. However, I sense that she is aware but her gaze extends beyond me and around her, perusing the threshold realm she’s currently in, inducing in me a startling feeling that we exist in separate, yet concurrently present realities.
The following day, post-breakfast, I venture towards Parliament Hill. From the zenith, I spot the Post Office (currently BT) Tower, where on my 13th birthday, my mum took me for dinner at the rotating restaurant at its skyscraping tip. She never failed to turn an event into something staggeringly exceptional. Even though the Tower no longer strikes me as enormous and grandiose as it did back in 1967, the places and experiences from my juvenile years remain vivid and radiant. They persist in their holy brightness.
I can still remember the tactile sensation of my mother’s hands – delicate and fragile, like aged parchment – juxtaposed against the vivid childhood memories where I adored those same hands that guided me on school routes, effortless in shaking out table cloths, adeptly positioning dinnerware, skillfully tending our garden, and perpetually filled pages with her pronounced, looping script. Her lyrical whispers would accompany each letter and word she wrote, it hypothesised the eloquent creativity those hands encapsulated.
The inevitable news arrives, later, and from the tranquility of Fermanagh, it’s the carer on the line. Palliative care is her new environment. Exhausted, I confirm my travel arrangements though sleep seems like the most distant reality. Amidst the chaos, I am in search of an emblematic symbolism — something that I could clutch onto in the aftermath of her demise. Then, it’s apparent – it is those hands. The left hand encircling a spiral notebook, the right poised to scribe, navigating the pen across the blank canvas, producing an unending stream of writing. Words. Endless words.
As I find myself penning down these thoughts, my wife interjects the silence of my study with a sombre update, “It’s happened.”
Carlo Gébler’s publication – A Cold Eye: Notes from a Shared Island, 1989-2024 – is scheduled to hit the shelves this upcoming September, released by New Island.