"Mary" by Kathryn Reilly

It was not always easy being a part of Irish catholic family, but I always enjoyed hearing my Mom’s stories about growing up. One of my favorite stories was about her father who died when we were still too young to remember him.

She told me once, “I was born in a strict Irish catholic family at the height of the
Depression fall out. My Dad worked many odd jobs to keep our family afloat. Although there wasn’t much in the way of food and clothing he always provided for us.”

When I was in my twenties, I worked at Nordstom and my Mom loved sharing stories about her retail years.

“I worked at Walker Scotts,” she would say, “in the men’s department and they were such pigs! They would pull the men’s dress shirts apart and just throw them back on the table, so I was con-stantly refolding and pinning them back together. That’s also where I met your Daddy! Some mutual friends set us up. They brought him by the store after he was off work, and he was a mess from working all day!” She said she was a little concerned about how he would show up but her fears were put to rest when he came wearing a suit and tie. They were married a year lat-er.

There were many other stories and life went on. I got married and moved to Denver. My parents came to visit and she said she was losing weight and was healthier than she’d been. We talked, went shopping and went to dinners. It was just like old times. A couple of months later I received several urgent calls from my brother in-law, saying that my mom was in the hospital and had had a stroke. I had never felt more fear and sadness in my life!

Immediately, I went see her. She had lost most movement on the right side of her body and she couldn’t swallow well. When she spoke it was not her voice--she sounded like a toddler, but she still had a story to tell me. I crouched in beside her on the left side when she said “I dreamed there was a break in the rehab hospital. I was so scared they came in to rob us and I couldn’t move.” I smiled and gave her a big hug! It’s been years since her stroke, and she doesn’t tell her stories any more. She mostly sleeps and when I do speak to her on the phone it’s a very short conversation. The last time I saw her she was sitting in a wheelchair surrounded by her loved ones. She still has short, silver, permed hair with bright blue eyes. She is hunched, straining to sit up holding her left arm under her chin with her right to hold her head. It is hard to see her so frail but I always have her stories to cherish.