packing up a life

I wrote my last post over three months ago, during the last few days of my aunt's life.   I wasn't with her when she died, but when I saw her body, already smaller in my grief stricken mind, I wept.  During the following days, the necessary tasks of funeral arrangements, meeting with lawyers occupied me.  And during the funeral itself, it felt as though I was more in touch with the grief of those around me, than with my own sadness.  Christmas and New Year passed, then it was time to sort through her personal belongings as we prepared her flat for sale.  As an executor of her estate, this was my task along with the other executor.

Both at practical and emotional levels, two is so much better than one for making decisions:  charity shop? bin? recycle? auction? family member interested?  Each item, it seemed, provided a snippet of information about my aunt's life.

As a young and new bride, she'd lived in South America where my uncle was a buyer for Coates.   In the bureau I found correspondence relating to her visa application in 1946 and a record of the mandatory inoculations.  She'd then lived in India before a bad bout of typhus led to her return to the UK.   There were family letters dating back to 1938 and many black and white photos of weddings, and bundles of bereavement cards sent and received.  In the bedroom wardrobe was an old brown envelope containing a forelock of golden hair from a child born in 1888.  Someone who'd died in early childhood?  All communication relating to bank statements, car insurance and other financial matters had been meticulously kept since the 1960s when she and my uncle moved to Edinburgh.  There were bundles and bundles of church bulletins as she'd been an active member of the church for many years.  I found Wimbledon brochures dating back to the 1950s and remembered her telling me about going to the championships in the days when women were expected to wear hats and gloves.

In the kitchen was a shelf of beakers for feeding her, packets of Complan, powder to thicken her tea. Swallowing something too thin was as potentially dangerous as something too thick, for someone having experienced a massive stroke which left her with a swallowing impairment as well as being unable to walk.  And of course, the liquidiser for turning solid food to a purée that she could manage.  In the dining room were piles of folders about her care over the last five years or so.  Depressing reading.  A formerly active woman confined to a special reclining chair, where the only thing she could do for herself was wipe her eyes.  And which had such an impact on her - along with ever deteriorating eyesight -  that during the last few years, she virtually stopped talking.

She'd been a keen curler, going to Switzerland every year for competitions.  There was an impressive display of cups won by my uncle and her.  Those Swiss trips were more than just about curling.  Always coinciding with Burns' Night, there was a chance to show the Swiss how many Scottish people celebrate this occasion.  In for a centime, in for a Swiss franc, they would drive there with large amounts of haggis in their car boot.  As the last part of the journey was (and still is) made by mountain train from Lauterbrunnen to Wengen, this was an operation requiring military precision.  My aunt and her friend would supervise the hotel chefs as they prepared the meal, a friend would pipe in the haggis and there'd be recitations of Burns' poetry.

She'd also been an enthusiastic gardener, and there were faded notebooks with information about bulbs she'd planted, and lists of gardening tasks.  Golf was also a passion and she'd achieved a low handicap and been captain of the ladies' section of an Edinburgh golf club.   In various cupboards I found packs and packs of bridge cards, grubby floral boxes containing tiny bridge pencils and yellowing score cards.

Less independent, for years she and my uncle had gone on National Trust cruises, and I stumbled upon invitations to join the captain's table for dinner and many photos of the Norwegian coast and other parts of Europe.

We are nearly finished the task of emptying my aunt's flat.  What has affected me most, to date, is finding a cinema ticket for Testament of Youth in her otherwise empty handbag.  My aunt's favourite carer Bea and I took her to the film.  Bea dressed her in a black outfit complete with black sequin top, a fur coat and hat, and made up her face.  Until the end, my aunt was a handsome woman, her green eyes never losing their beauty.  During the film, Bea made sure my aunt was warm enough, gave her sips of fruit juice from time to time.  Although my aunt probably couldn't have relayed the plot hours later, the outing was a great success, temporarily returning a glimmer of her former zest for life.

It occurs to me that once the flat is sold, more grieving will kick in, perhaps manifested in unexpected times and in unanticipated ways.  But although we could have opted for having a company pack up the flat, the process has allowed time for reflection.

It's not so much that I now feel I know my aunt better, more like a reminder of what an active life she'd led, something I'd forgotten during her last greatly restricted years.  And something I'll always treasure, are a few loving comments she made to me in hospital, all the more valued after two years of being unable to 'reach' her regardless of how hard I tried.

Jane