I found myself thinking a lot about my maternal Grandmother today. Although I was very thankful to be able to talk to my Mom (80years old this year) and hang out with my children, I still couldn't stop thinking about Irene, the Grandma I never met.
I will repost this 2yr old blog entry in memory of her. Instead, I wish I could tell her that she mattered in this world, that she is still touching lives, and that she is loved.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Irene's death
I have been preoccupied with thoughts of a woman I have never met. For most of my life, everything beyond ten years of age actually, I have missed her, felt empathy for her and felt anger on her behalf. She lived and died long before I was born.
Irene was from poor Irish-Canadian stock, she was a devout Catholic whose parents never quite forgave her for marrying a lowly Irish-Canadian Protestant who was just as poor as herself. She had moved down the social ladder, but - alas, she was a young woman in love.
Bless her sweet groom though, he at least agreed to be married in her church, which back then required that all possible future children be signed-off to be raised Catholic.
...Easy to do before you have children.
...Impossible to reverse.
But, I am getting ahead of myself - more on that later.
As it turns out, Irene and the love of her life (they called each other "Buddy" affectionately) were extraordinarily fertile - numerous pregnancies followed their marriage.
There was not enough food to go around by the time there were only 4 people in the family. Very soon, however, there were a half dozen children and the rent could not be paid. Irene was often sick or in hospital. She had become weakened and sickly because she, as many women had done in the Depression, gave her own food rations to her children. Her weakend state lead to at least three late-in-the-pregnancy miscarriages.
The family was in dire straits, and being the devout Catholic she was, Irene went to the only place she knew for help. The church.
Irene wanted to know if there was anyway she could avoid pregnancy - just for awhile. Maybe she had heard about condoms, there was a woman handing them out in the city at that time who has since become an icon of the reproductive rights movement in Canada. Or maybe Irene was hoping the Priest would give his blessing to the couple choosing temporary abstinence in order to gain some ground health-wise and money-wise in their lives.
She pleaded with the Priest that it broke her heart whenever she miscarried and she also implored him that a weakened, sickly mother couldn't care for so many children. She explained about her husband having to take time off work to care for the children when she was sick: and that meant there would be no money coming into the household at all during those times. She also shared the one thing that she feared the most: her doctor had told her that she might not survive another miscarriage.
All the Priest said was "you must be subject to your husband", and he suggested she spend more time praying her rosary.
At that time, (unlike now), there was no acceptance of natural birth control methods for Catholics. Nowadays there are "Serena Seminars" held in parish basements for Catholic couples wanting to space their children naturally. This includes education about basal body temperature sampling, vaginal mucous change observation, and temporary abstinence during times of ovulation.
Not so then. Not for Irene.
So who knows what happened after Irene went home. Maybe they abstained for awhile, maybe not. But they were in love, and they recieved no education about the timing of ovulation. With the rent unpaid, six children asleep in the next room, and worries aplenty, my guess is that the physical comfort of their love beckoned loudly.
So eventually, Irene became pregnant again.
I can only imagine how frightened she must have been. I imagine her pondering her situation for days on end. Holding her children in her arms with a fierce love and desperation and then going quietly through the daily routines of caring for them in a cold house with little food. I imagine the despair that she must have felt when she thought about her doctor's warning that she may not survive another miscarriage.
So Irene made a decision to save her children's mother's life. She made this decision on behalf of her living childen, so they would continue to have a mother.
It would have been the most difficult choice because of her devout Catholic beliefs. Irene may even have believed that she would go to hell for her decision.
You see, Irene had decided to terminate the pregnancy.
She purchased something called Orange Lily from the corner drugstore, a product that was known for its purgative effects and use in homemade abortions. I don't know if she had some help, or if she was alone. I don't know if she drank it or applied it vaginally, but Irene ended up with blood poisoning and died in hospital days later
She was refused last rights by the hospital clergy.
Today she is buried under 3 other people in an unmarked pauper's grave.
I cannot get my mind off of this woman, my Grandmother. I think about her feelings of love for her children, her love of God, and her dying thoughts that she had betrayed both.
I imagine how strongly she must have struggled against the death that eventually overtook her, and my heart goes out to her soul in ways I can't understand. I want to soothe her somehow through the time continuum. But I can't.
So I say prayers to Irene, that her soul might be comforted somehow knowing that her children survived and that I, one of her grandchildren, are right here, loving her still. I listen intently when my mother tells me stories about her mother's laugh, her beautiful hands, her white and blue apron, and her remembered advice to "drink warm water for a tummy ache", or "put a fig on a sore tooth".
When I think about Irene, I smile and I shed a tear, but mostly I long to meet this woman who was taken from this earth too soon. I look at the same 2 pictures of her over and over again. One with her husband before they were married, and another shortly after they were married. Yes, they do look like they were so very much in love, and hopeful. Crazy kids.
I am saddened that she was shown cruelty rather than love in her last moments of life: Her request for last rights should never have been denied by the hospital clergy. This summer I will attempt to find my Grandmother's unmarked gravesite, and tell her how her wee black-Irish granddaughter feels about her.
I may write more details later on the rest of the story:
After Irene's death, the children, were removed to be raised in a Catholic orphanage as per the wedding-day signed church document, and not allowed to remain with their father even though his sister agreed to come and help with the children. This was because the sister was a protestant. Years later when Irene's husband remarried, his children were still not permitted to come live with him because the woman he married was protestant.
Some of the children were frequently beaten and/or sexually assaulted by nuns and others while in care at the Catholic orphanage. Some of the children were there for all of their childhood years.
But there is always an observed bright spot, a grain of beauty or hope in any life circumstance, especially an Irish one:
#1.Father O'Brien, a Priest who restored Irene's eldest daughter's faith in a God that could truly love her Protestant father enough to allow him into heaven.
#2.Peter, the orphanage custodian, who sprouted wings and a halo one day. He ran shouting and brandishing a broom in order to stop a nun that was threatening to beat Irene's youngest daughter, a small girl who couldn't speak properly.
Irene's eldest daughter stated very matter-of-factly at 70 years of age with a twinkle in her eye "I know what Angels look like!, I have seen one. They look JUST like Peter, running down the corridor to save my little sister.
________________________________________________________
In closing,
Irene's eldest son recalls overhearing his father saying the following words on the day that all the children were taken to the orphanage:
"I'm sorry Buddy", he muttered in remembering his wife, "I tried my best, I am so sorry" It was the first time the boy saw his father weep. It wouldn't be the last.
