My mother was an original Corbeautowner. Born in 1925 in Duncan Street, in the days when birth certificates were delivered to parents without naming the child, probably because so many children died early, her father soon moved the family to Duke Street West, opposite Victoria Square, the heart of Corbeau Town, where she met my father playing hide and seek among the American bunkers. After her father’s early death at the Port-of-Spain Hospital from a cardiac arrhythmia as he was being prepared for surgery, her aunt moved the family to 1 Scott Bushe St where most of her children were born, under the careful eye of Midwife Ramona Wears, who in the 40s, must have delivered every child born in Woodbrook.
She died the Sunday before last. She was 98 and had been slowly slipping away from us for some months, sleeping more, eating and drinking less and, in the last two weeks did not know me when I visited. That Sunday morning she woke up, drank something and went back to sleep. Around 11 am her breathing became slower and deeper, I was called and had the privilege of being there as she passed a couple of hours later. I was there at two major moments of her life, her first birth and her death.
A strange thing happened about ten minutes before she breathed her last. I was holding her hand and reading something my sister had sent me by WhatsApp when Anjee said to me, “She’s looking at you!” and when I looked up, indeed, she had opened both eyes, turned her head to the right and was staring at me. We looked at each other intently for some minutes, I said something or the other to her, but she did not respond but continued gazing into my eyes with what seemed to be some sort of consciousness, then turned away and closed her eyes.
She never opened them after that, her breathing gradually became irregular, I had my finger on her pulse which was now racing feebly and suddenly stopped. She gave a last bubbled breath and was gone.
I was lucky to be there. She appeared “comfy”, in the lovely expression of her doctor and went quietly, the way she lived. My mother was “cool” before the expression was invented. She lived her life calmly despite having to move all over Trinidad and Venezuela in the 50s and 60s with her husband. She was an old-time housewife, she never learned to drive and even after 50 years in Venezuela she could not speak Spanish beyond some social expressions and a powerful knowledge of the Spanish words for any fruit and vegetable or household appliance.
I remember her best for her tolerance. She taught her children to take each individual as they came and if they fooled you, that was their loss. She was the least biased person I know. She had few friends, but everyone was her acquaintance and she accepted people as they were. Race, religion, skin colour, sexuality, tribe, nationality, conservative or liberal, it made no difference to her. You treated her husband and her children well, and she supported you. If not, well, as she would say, “too bad”!
When an old person dies everyone says they had a good innings, even though they got out in the 90s. It’s what is expected and that is quite true. The old must give way to the new and young. I accept this. Inherent in this, though, is the belief that the death of an older person is of less concern than a younger one. But … two days after she died was a slow morning in the office and as I opened the door of my car to go home, the thought hit me that I should take advantage and go see her, as I had done for the last five years. And I couldn’t and never will be able to do so.
I am no believer in esoteric manifestations but the ladies at the care home, where she contentedly lived for the last five years of her life, called the day after her death to tell me about the “white butterflies” that had suddenly appeared in the home the afternoon she died, mainly flying around outside. Some had entered the home. They had never seen butterflies like this before. They tried to send me a video, but it was mostly blue sky. I steupsed and went over some days later. Most had disappeared but yes, there still were a couple flitting around and everyone became very serious when I suggested that if they disappeared the day she was buried, today, I might put some credence to the story.
My thanks to them for their devoted care of my mother.
