My mother tried it both ways:
Accepting in September a non-surgical intervention that would deal with the immediate, distressing and dull-aching symptoms.
Refusing further treatment when those symptoms returned four months later with a great deal of mess and pain.
Four months is a long enough time to reflect on your own mortality if you allow your intellectual mind to process the data and damp down the emotional turmoil of having to confront oblivion.
My brother and sister and I had agreed to spend a weekend together in the old house a) to please our mother with the idea that we could act like a family b) to process some of the accumulated gubbins that our parents had accumulated since they were born in 1917 and 1920. Cunning plan a) only happened if you believe in an afterlife but we definitely put in two days going through boxes and suitcases of Stuff . . . together. Well, formally and pedantically, we were mostly working in separate rooms to get space to create different stacks: discard - discard confidentially - for him - for her - for me - for more distant rellies - for outside bodies.
expected to report every address I'd lived at since I was born to prove that I wasn't going to abuse any young people I had to work with. I phoned my mother to ask where we had lived in Kingston, ON about 65 years ago. She said it was opposite a park in the oldest part of the city. I went on Google maps and reported #7 Rideau Street as the place where I first ate [part of] the contents of a sandpit. I was only 800m off target in a NE direction! That would have been a mighty score for Geoguessr. I shall write to the Gardai immediately, confessing my error, asking for the record to be amended and hope that the paedopolice don't come and take me away.
I have brought away a short stack of 5 decades worthy of my own dutiful letters to the honoured parents. The pathetic illiterate scrawls of 10 y.o me eventually started to fill out with biographical data when I took myself in hand at the age of 15 and developed a script that was fast, neat and legible. I am under no illusions that anyone is going to want to research or write my biography but I am now trying to add dates and places to the letters, so at least they will be in chronological order. The family policy quickly agreed that letters and cards to the parents from people we'd never heard of could be dumped. Photographs, especially if pre-WWII were given a stay of execution in case anyone from the wider family might recognise their own parents. But really, a picture of a Victorian gent leaning against the edge of a portico with no attribution on the back, what use is that?
Note to archivists: date, name, place on the back of all photos.
Too many photos for this to be feasible?
Everything in me is screaming at you to bring me those letters and scribblings that no one wants which are full of social history. Bring me those photos that hold the souls of the nameless ones. Don't destroy them.ReplyDelete
I am to Marie Kondo as Moriarty was to Holmes.