Mom never hesitated to call on Phoebe in times of need, and even once asked her to give my father an enema, but they couldn’t decide on the right size apparatus to use so left him to solve his own problem. Another time when Phoebe and her husband were in London, England, and Phoebe became seriously ill and had to stay in bed for two weeks. Mom wrote her and caught her up on family news. Her best letter ended with the information that the cat had pissed in their daughter’s bassoon. Apparently, it was Phoebe’s elixir, for her spirits lifted.
There was no friend, relative or antagonist unknown to the other. When a bad thing happened, they gave each other comfort. When good things occurred, there was rejoicing with a cup of tea and forbidden sweets. Diets came and went. Pickles stuck. Water got in the basement.
The power went out and the food in the deep freeze had to be thrown out. Sickness caused concern, and most painfully for each, a grandchild died at birth. But then, the children all graduated and most married well producing grandchildren to love and spoil. There was much to be thankful for between Phoebe and Mom. They were bosom buddies and, as Mom announced, they never had a fight.
Their husbands died, each of cancer, and left the two matriarchs to cope. Not only did they manage, but they also adapted like storm troopers, coping with their own growing illnesses and supporting their families when they had disappointments, depressions and concerns. Then Phoebe suffered a stroke and had to go to a nursing home. Mom was in a community care facility herself, so one day I took her over to visit her dear friend. There was such laughter with tears rolling down their faces. They held hands and hugged tightly and didn’t want to leave each other.
Three years ago, Mom died. I don’t think Phoebe knows that at this point. She tells me how young I look, but I believe she sees my mother in me. Although I hated to see her just lying on her bed without her vivacity, I sensed her graciousness by her smile and the warmth of her hand as she touched my face,
I phoned Phoebe’s youngest daughter, a red-headed accountant in Halifax, to tell her I had seen her mother and how beautiful she was. When she visits her brother in Charlottetown, she plans to come to my home for tea and sweets. I hope we will tell stories of Phoebe and Mom and laugh ‘til the tears run down our cheeks.
