Sleeping Tiger
Even though it really wasn't that long ago, I don't remember what I got Mark for his birthday. It was probably something computer or bee related, but apart from that, nothing. It has dissolved into the mists of the past.
What I do remember though, is the daft, ride-along present I got him.
We do this thing every birthday where we get each other something daft and preferably under a fiver. It comes from the times when the kids were young and we were too broke/ distracted/ exhausted to focus much on the what, even though we were squarely committed to the why. And as is always the case. The ride-along gift is the one that somehow stays with you forever.
This year, my ride along gift from Mark on my birthday was a T shirt that read, “Been there. Done that. Left early.” in recognition that I’ve a tendency to want to leave most events a little on the sharpish side.
On his birthday, his ride-along gift from me was a smallish rug in the shape of a tiger because I periodically call Mark, Tiger as he’s a little bit gingery and a little bit dangerous. And as rough as that joke is, the rug is rougher. If you're wondering as to the quality of this particular piece of feline floor covering, I can tell you it set me back a grand total of $4 and 99 cents.
And what it lacks in quality, it also lacks in attractiveness. When Mark showed it to a couple of friends who popped round with actual real gifts on his birthday, their expressions could only be described as a blend of horror and sympathy.
Anyway, unsurprisingly, the rug didn't make it into the house and has banished to a corner of my office ever since, where it lay, abandoned and forgotten, or so we thought.
In the past few weeks I've noticed Arthur being a little more independent. He used to follow me around all the time. Seemingly it's what rescue dogs do. They pick their person, and I'm his person and as a result, he follows me wherever I go. Recently though, he's been more relaxed. Occasionally I'll go into a room and not have my four-legged shadow following on.
So, one afternoon I went to look for him, and found his fast asleep on top of the bad-taste tiger rug. It is his new favorite place. Of all of the places he could sleep, the beds, the cosy blankets, none of them compare.
It made me laugh. It is always the small things that matter in the end. The little things you don’t think much about at the time.
Just as any fierce argument can break out because of one single barbed comment, or an ill judged facial expression, so can pure love be felt by the touch of a hand, or by making a little space and time to listen to a story that needs to be told.
The big things like parties or anniversaries or birthdays or Christmases might create the spectacle, but in the end, it's the random little things that remain.
It's my Aunt Irene's funeral tomorrow. I won't be there. The funeral is in Scotland and I’m here in the San Fernando Valley. There will be no livestream. I will not be up at 4am sitting in my living room, dressed in my funeral blacks. That's not what they want. The funeral will be small and private. Simple and full of heart.
My Aunty Irene was a little bit gingery and a little bit dangerous too. She would have laughed loudly at the tiger rug, and even though it is possibly the ugliest wee rug in existence, she would have found a place to put it in the house, and joke with her friends about it, and explain that it was a present from her niece.
Irene had been an only child, and when she married my Uncle James she inherited this giant rambling family of Fergusons and McCanns and Ingrams and Tweddles. And she loved it.
Irene was interested in everyone. She loved to talk books and films and history and music (except country music). She was at every party, every event. She liked to celebrate people. Though she never had children of her own, she was the best sort of Auntie to everybody's kids, remembering absolutely every birthday, and every Christmas... until she didn't.
Dementia is a brutal disease, relentlessly stealing tiny little pieces of a person every day, every hour, every moment.
I talked to my uncle on the phone this week. He was strong and sad obviously, but it was inevitable. She had died in her sleep. Peacefully. She would have known nothing. Dementia had not yet been able to steal her ability to be happy.
He told me that at Christmas, Irene had been gifted a copy of the Notes From The Valley book. She had loved it at the time. And loved it every day she rediscovered it sitting on her bedside table.
“Oh my God, Lynn has written a book. Do you see that?”
And my Uncle James would say, yes.
“Oh my God. That's brilliant. And it's stories about her and Mark and the boys. Do you see that, Jim?”
Yes.
“That's just brilliant. Oh my God. Did you see Lynn has written a book? Jim have you seen that?”
Yes, Irene.
Because dementia had stolen her ability to hold information, and the book is all just little stories, it became her bed time go to.
After a while dementia started stealing that too and so she was stuck on the same little story every night. The one in which I'd written how I learned my love of classical music from my Uncle James. So every night....
“Oh my God, Lynn has written a book. Do you see that?”
Yes.
“It's stories about her and Mark and the boys. Do you see that, Jim?”
Yes.
“That's just brilliant. Did you see Lynn has written a book? Jim have you seen that?”
Yes.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Jim, you are in the book!!!! Lynn has written about you. She says you introduced her to classical music. Look.”
And James would say, “Oh aye. Aye that is brilliant, Irene.”
Every single night.
The little things.
As he tells me this on the phone, I smile. And I nod because I don't think I can speak. Because loss is the boulder that will not lift. And then I tell him how I love that story, and I'm so glad he told me.
Then we talk about other things for a while: Weather and dinners and how the boys are. I tell him how it’s been as hot as Hades here in the Valley. And I probably tell him the saga of why we had to get a new dishwasher, because I know I’ve been telling everyone that self same story for the past two weeks.
“It's was the best way for her,” he said.
I tell him I'm sorry I can't be there for the funeral. He tells me he understands. We talk about when I’m next coming to Scotland, and about when he might come and visit. And before we hang up, I quickly tell him I love him. And he, equally quickly, tells me he loves me too.
I cannot change the Earth's rotation or control the axis of the sun. I have no hold on the past nor on the future. But the Universe is constructed of trillions and trillions of tiny things. And I am one.
Seeing Arthur's love for the tiger rug, I went and bought him another. The tigers were all out, so I bought him one shaped like a flower. He likes it. But not as much as the tiger.
Aunty Irene, wherever you are, I've put you in my book. Nothing scandalous. No big deal. Just a couple of paragraphs about how completely magic it was to have known you.
It is a ride-along gift to mark the occasion. Not the main thing, just the daft one. May it mean that in some way that you have it forever.
xo
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