Apples vs. Pears
The
other day I was with the kids and found myself telling them about my paternal Grandmother. We used to travel to England every year and
visit both sides of the family. My
paternal grandparents were my favorites.
They
lived in a little village called Ugham and there was a pub called The Forge
that had a shop next to it that sold candy from jars with scoops. I can remember the colors and the smells and
the wax paper sachets they gave your candy to you in after twisting them at the
top with a flourish. Beyond The Forge
was a little war memorial to the local men who had died in both World Wars and
further still a bridge over a small stream where I would go and catch tadpoles
in jars and skip stones. As I grew
older, I would take a book down to the stream and read, listening to the water
babble by. It was one of the most
peaceful escapes of my childhood.
But
best of all was waking up in the morning and crawling into bed with my Grandmother. She was a big lady and very cuddly and warm
and she would read us books and tell us stories until my Grandfather came
upstairs with breakfast on a tray for us all, singing out-of-tune all the way. He would get up early and make us a full
English breakfast. Eggs, bacon or
sausages, beans and toast with butter and jam.
Sometimes he would also give us black pudding (blood sausage) but I
could never bring myself to eat that! I’d
hear the Grandfather clock downstairs chime and then he would appear with his
tray. I can’t express how loved I felt. My paternal grandparents weren’t perfect,
they fought at times. I can remember them
getting into frequent squabbles; one ending with my grandmother throwing a
packet of biscuits at my grandfather’s head and him muttering (loudly) “Damn
and blast”! But they were very loving
and very interested in everything that we did.
In
any case I was telling my kids about my Grandmother and the breakfast-in-bed
memory and stated to them that they would have really loved her if they had had
a chance to meet her. Dermot asked me if
they would have liked my maternal grandmother.
I thought for a moment and then said, “My Grandmother on my mother’s
side was a lot like my mom.” He paused for
a second and then said “Well I guess that the apple didn’t fall far from the
tree in your mom’s case.” I nodded and
then raised my hand and said, “But this one did. In fact I think I may be more like a pear!”
At
which point he rushed at me and gave me the warmest hug. It is the kind of hug he used to give me so
much more often when he was little and not so self-conscious and tweeny. From this embrace he raised his head and said,
“And I’m so glad you’re a pear Mom!” And
then I predictably cried.
My
point in telling the story is that trauma and addiction are frequently systemic
and multi-generational. I have come to
see people through a lens of both love and tolerance, but also now with the
beginnings of a clinical mind.
I can look at my maternal Grandmother
and my mother now as women who must have suffered in their own pasts. I see them now as women who were sick and
lacked the resources to get better. I
think they also lived in times where mental illness was not spoken of and
certainly any abuse would not have been discussed. We, as a society, don’t speak about abuse or
addiction or mental illness readily even now so I can only imagine how swept
under the rug it must have been when they were both growing up. My healing didn’t begin until I started
talking about it though.
I firmly believe that you have to bring
these things into the light in order to start getting better. You have to examine all aspects of these
things no matter how painful it might be.
You have to be brave and you have to get up after you fall. If you don’t then the cycle won’t be broken
and that would be a tragedy.
For the record, I’m glad I’m a pear too.
