destroyed; it can only be transformed. These experiences describe the soul transforming and preparing itself for the next life—the afterlife!
14
For the love of Mary For the love of Mary
What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. Aristotle
S ometime after Mary’s husband died, she moved into a brand new townhouse complex, giving her personal security in a close-knit community where there would be help close by if she ever needed it. Mary did have some distant relatives; however, she was fiercely independent and somewhat private, so the thought of losing control to pestering relatives went against the grain.
A ‘lover of life’ would describe her perfectly. Even though Mary was in her late eighties, nothing would stop her getting out and about—her regular daily walk to the shops, or donning a sarong and having a dip in the ocean with squeals of joy. I admired her adventurous spirit. She even encouraged Tom, her next-door neighbour, who was in his seventies, to join her in a basic computer course. She was keen to learn how to navigate the internet.
Mary was childless so Tom was like the son she never had and he, his wife Lolita and their three children became her family. It was through their daughter, Kerrie, my best friend, that I became acquainted to this tiny energy ball of a woman. We would meet at Christmas, birthdays and special events. Lovingly, Kerrie and I referred to her in conversation as ‘Old Mary’ to avoid confusion between several other people with the same name.
Returning from a trip to Canada and Alaska, Mary excitedly told me how she had been wooed on a cruise ship by a Texan widower in his early nineties—he was phoning her regularly and had proposed marriage over the telephone. He had even sent her an engagement ring in the mail. ‘What should I do, Georgina? If I marry him I’d be leaving Australia, my home and my little dog.
What do you think?’
Weighing up the pros and cons, she decided to decline the offer—after all, her garden was her pride and joy, and it couldn’t be abandoned after all her hard work.
Mary had one vice, the love of cigarettes. ‘I’ve never been sick a day in my life,’ she would constantly tell us. I presume she was trying to justify her vice by reminding us that she was ‘fit as a mallee bull’, as the saying goes.
My last great memory of Mary was a Christmas Day spent at Kerrie’s home. We sat out in the bright Aussie sun among the beautiful gum trees. Mary was in fine spirits, laughing and making jokes about Lolita wanting to pull out or prune the climbing rose bush Mary had planted for Kerrie some two years earlier. Kerrie had christened the bush ‘Mary Rose’. Mary was insistent that the rose bush would regenerate in its own time, but it did look a tad sad.
Several months passed and Kerrie told me that her father, Tom, was concerned that Mary hadn’t been quite herself—not the bright, bubbly character we had all come to love and adore—and she was sharp, a bit cranky and sometimes more distant than usual.
Her back was giving her pain, and for the first time in her life, so she said, she had to visit the local doctor. A random X-ray revealed a spot on her lung. She had to see a specialist for further tests, and return for those test results a week later.
Tom became her taxi driver, and accompanied her into the specialist’s surgery for the verdict. The ill-fated diagnosis, ‘You have lung cancer’, was delivered, and the prognosis was not good. ‘It’s estimated you have only four to six weeks to live,’ the doctor said.
Determined to beat any obstacle placed in front of her, she threw away her cigarettes and stopped smoking—yes, after all those years. Mary commenced chemotherapy within two days. As it does in most cases, the chemotherapy took its toll on her energy and vibrancy. She constantly vomited, and progressively became weaker and frailer. I sense she realised there was no turning back, that the illness would
14
For the love of Mary For the love of Mary
What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. Aristotle
S ometime after Mary’s husband died, she moved into a brand new townhouse complex, giving her personal security in a close-knit community where there would be help close by if she ever needed it. Mary did have some distant relatives; however, she was fiercely independent and somewhat private, so the thought of losing control to pestering relatives went against the grain.
A ‘lover of life’ would describe her perfectly. Even though Mary was in her late eighties, nothing would stop her getting out and about—her regular daily walk to the shops, or donning a sarong and having a dip in the ocean with squeals of joy. I admired her adventurous spirit. She even encouraged Tom, her next-door neighbour, who was in his seventies, to join her in a basic computer course. She was keen to learn how to navigate the internet.
Mary was childless so Tom was like the son she never had and he, his wife Lolita and their three children became her family. It was through their daughter, Kerrie, my best friend, that I became acquainted to this tiny energy ball of a woman. We would meet at Christmas, birthdays and special events. Lovingly, Kerrie and I referred to her in conversation as ‘Old Mary’ to avoid confusion between several other people with the same name.
Returning from a trip to Canada and Alaska, Mary excitedly told me how she had been wooed on a cruise ship by a Texan widower in his early nineties—he was phoning her regularly and had proposed marriage over the telephone. He had even sent her an engagement ring in the mail. ‘What should I do, Georgina? If I marry him I’d be leaving Australia, my home and my little dog.
What do you think?’
Weighing up the pros and cons, she decided to decline the offer—after all, her garden was her pride and joy, and it couldn’t be abandoned after all her hard work.
Mary had one vice, the love of cigarettes. ‘I’ve never been sick a day in my life,’ she would constantly tell us. I presume she was trying to justify her vice by reminding us that she was ‘fit as a mallee bull’, as the saying goes.
My last great memory of Mary was a Christmas Day spent at Kerrie’s home. We sat out in the bright Aussie sun among the beautiful gum trees. Mary was in fine spirits, laughing and making jokes about Lolita wanting to pull out or prune the climbing rose bush Mary had planted for Kerrie some two years earlier. Kerrie had christened the bush ‘Mary Rose’. Mary was insistent that the rose bush would regenerate in its own time, but it did look a tad sad.
Several months passed and Kerrie told me that her father, Tom, was concerned that Mary hadn’t been quite herself—not the bright, bubbly character we had all come to love and adore—and she was sharp, a bit cranky and sometimes more distant than usual.
Her back was giving her pain, and for the first time in her life, so she said, she had to visit the local doctor. A random X-ray revealed a spot on her lung. She had to see a specialist for further tests, and return for those test results a week later.
Tom became her taxi driver, and accompanied her into the specialist’s surgery for the verdict. The ill-fated diagnosis, ‘You have lung cancer’, was delivered, and the prognosis was not good. ‘It’s estimated you have only four to six weeks to live,’ the doctor said.
Determined to beat any obstacle placed in front of her, she threw away her cigarettes and stopped smoking—yes, after all those years. Mary commenced chemotherapy within two days. As it does in most cases, the chemotherapy took its toll on her energy and vibrancy. She constantly vomited, and progressively became weaker and frailer. I sense she realised there was no turning back, that the illness would
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