Born Again
Last week was a bit surreal. Something peculiar happened that … well … left everybody feeling a bit weirded out. I’ll start at the beginning.
Every morning I telephone my parents to see how they are. Last week was no exception. On this particular morning Father Bryant was getting ready to take Mother Bryant to her weekly hair appointment. The Senior Citizen special. This is a shampoo-and-set glued into place by an entire can of salon hair lacquer. My parents were running late, so I didn’t chat for long. I’d barely disconnected the call, when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Debbie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uncle Phil here.’
‘Hi, how are you?’
‘Well, shocked, obviously. What about you?’
‘Er … I’m fine.’
‘Really? Are you coping all right?’
‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ I said, wondering if my Uncle was having a ‘senior’ moment. They’re not unusual in 80-year-olds. I have enough of them myself these days, so heaven knows what I’ll be like when I get to eighty. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re shocked,’ I said carefully. ‘What’s happened?’
There was a stunned pause from the other end of the line.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Uncle Phil. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Oh dear. I don’t know how to tell you this. Ah, let me see now. Have you spoken to your father recently?’
‘Yes, about two minutes ago.’
‘Right … right. And how was he?’
‘A bit fed up.’
‘Hardly surprising. He must be devastated.’
‘Well it’s only a backache. But it can be tiresome.’
‘But what about the heartache?’
I boggled at the handset. Heartache? ‘His doctor said he has a sticky valve, but it’s not painful. Uncle Phil, what has happened that I don’t know about?’
‘I’m really sorry to tell you this,’ said my uncle taking a deep breath, ‘but I've been told your mother has died.’
In the five second stunned silence that followed, my brain whizzed off and did some calculations faster than Broadband’s fibre optic line. I’d literally just come off the phone to my parents. They’d been about to get in their car. Had there been a terrible accident? If so, had the Emergency Services teleported to them? And why would the police contact my mother’s brother two-hundred miles north rather than telephone me twenty miles away? This was crazy.
‘Uncle Phil, I’ve just come off the phone to my parents.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘You spoke to your mother?’
‘Yes!’
‘And … how was she?’
‘Alive!’
Meanwhile, my mobile phone started buzzing with messages of condolence coming in as far away as Canada. What the heck was going on?
So sorry about your mum…
When is the funeral?
Where can we send flowers…?
Can I have the address of the undertaker, please…
I felt my blood run cold.
‘Uncle Phil, who told you this?’
To cut a long story short, it transpired that a very elderly cousin’s wife several times removed (I didn't even know them) had passed away, and the message had been conveyed by somebody who didn't speak English. Talk about setting the cat amongst the pigeons! My main concern at that point was getting hold of my father and warning him that he was possibly about to be bombarded with messages of condolence and to make sure my mother didn’t know anything about it, as I didn’t want her distressed. Unfortunately, Father Bryant is quite deaf, so it wasn’t the easiest of phone calls to make.
‘Dad?’
‘Hello, dear, I’m at the hairdresser’s with your mother. I’ll put you on loudspeaker so she can hear you.’
‘NO!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t put me on loudspeaker.’
‘What?’
‘DON’T PUT ME ON LOUDSPEAKER. LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY AND DO NOT REPEAT ANYTHING I SAY.’
‘Don’t repeat anything you say?’
I slapped my forehead a few times and tried not to get frustrated.
‘Dad, I don’t want Mum knowing what I’m about to say to you.’
‘Okay, understood. What’s the matter.’
‘The family think she’s died.’
‘Who’s died?’
‘Somebody!’
‘Somebody has died?’
‘Stop repeating things, I don’t want Mum hearing. DOO YOO UND…ER…STAND?’
‘Yes, stop shouting. Now tell me who’s died.’
(Mother in the background) ‘Who’s died?’
Bugger.
‘No one.’
‘But you said someone had died.’
(Mother in the background) ‘Tell me who’s died.’
In the end I had to make out I was ringing about Mother Bryant’s imminent 85th birthday and needed to speak to my father in private about a surprise birthday present and that he should call me back, out of earshot, once home.
It later struck me that the entire thing was quite funny in a dark way. But it also left us feeling very out of sorts, as if we were doing a ghastly rehearsal for a funeral. Needless to say, family was informed that Mother Bryant was alive and kicking and none too pleased with her hair-do, because the shampoo girl hadn’t given her a thorough enough rinse and the stylist always insisted on backcombing her hair which she hates. Hearing Mother Bryant’s complaints was music to my ears. Needless to say, we will be doubly looking forward to celebrating her 85th birthday next week. Long live Mother Bryant! Which reminds me.
A one-hundred-year-old husband and wife were having trouble remembering things. The doctor suggested they write things down so as not to forget. The couple thanked the doctor and left. That night they were watching television and the man got up from his chair.
‘Where are you going?’ asked the wife.
‘To the kitchen,’ he replied.
‘Well get me some ice-cream,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Do you think you should write it down?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ll remember,’ he said.
Twenty minutes later he returned with a plate of bacon and eggs.
‘I told you to write it down,’ she scolded, ‘you’ve forgotten my toast…’
Every morning I telephone my parents to see how they are. Last week was no exception. On this particular morning Father Bryant was getting ready to take Mother Bryant to her weekly hair appointment. The Senior Citizen special. This is a shampoo-and-set glued into place by an entire can of salon hair lacquer. My parents were running late, so I didn’t chat for long. I’d barely disconnected the call, when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Debbie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uncle Phil here.’
‘Hi, how are you?’
‘Well, shocked, obviously. What about you?’
‘Er … I’m fine.’
‘Really? Are you coping all right?’
‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ I said, wondering if my Uncle was having a ‘senior’ moment. They’re not unusual in 80-year-olds. I have enough of them myself these days, so heaven knows what I’ll be like when I get to eighty. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re shocked,’ I said carefully. ‘What’s happened?’
There was a stunned pause from the other end of the line.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Uncle Phil. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Oh dear. I don’t know how to tell you this. Ah, let me see now. Have you spoken to your father recently?’
‘Yes, about two minutes ago.’
‘Right … right. And how was he?’
‘A bit fed up.’
‘Hardly surprising. He must be devastated.’
‘Well it’s only a backache. But it can be tiresome.’
‘But what about the heartache?’
I boggled at the handset. Heartache? ‘His doctor said he has a sticky valve, but it’s not painful. Uncle Phil, what has happened that I don’t know about?’
‘I’m really sorry to tell you this,’ said my uncle taking a deep breath, ‘but I've been told your mother has died.’
In the five second stunned silence that followed, my brain whizzed off and did some calculations faster than Broadband’s fibre optic line. I’d literally just come off the phone to my parents. They’d been about to get in their car. Had there been a terrible accident? If so, had the Emergency Services teleported to them? And why would the police contact my mother’s brother two-hundred miles north rather than telephone me twenty miles away? This was crazy.
‘Uncle Phil, I’ve just come off the phone to my parents.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘You spoke to your mother?’
‘Yes!’
‘And … how was she?’
‘Alive!’
Meanwhile, my mobile phone started buzzing with messages of condolence coming in as far away as Canada. What the heck was going on?
So sorry about your mum…
When is the funeral?
Where can we send flowers…?
Can I have the address of the undertaker, please…
I felt my blood run cold.
‘Uncle Phil, who told you this?’
To cut a long story short, it transpired that a very elderly cousin’s wife several times removed (I didn't even know them) had passed away, and the message had been conveyed by somebody who didn't speak English. Talk about setting the cat amongst the pigeons! My main concern at that point was getting hold of my father and warning him that he was possibly about to be bombarded with messages of condolence and to make sure my mother didn’t know anything about it, as I didn’t want her distressed. Unfortunately, Father Bryant is quite deaf, so it wasn’t the easiest of phone calls to make.
‘Dad?’
‘Hello, dear, I’m at the hairdresser’s with your mother. I’ll put you on loudspeaker so she can hear you.’
‘NO!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t put me on loudspeaker.’
‘What?’
‘DON’T PUT ME ON LOUDSPEAKER. LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY AND DO NOT REPEAT ANYTHING I SAY.’
‘Don’t repeat anything you say?’
I slapped my forehead a few times and tried not to get frustrated.
‘Dad, I don’t want Mum knowing what I’m about to say to you.’
‘Okay, understood. What’s the matter.’
‘The family think she’s died.’
‘Who’s died?’
‘Somebody!’
‘Somebody has died?’
‘Stop repeating things, I don’t want Mum hearing. DOO YOO UND…ER…STAND?’
‘Yes, stop shouting. Now tell me who’s died.’
(Mother in the background) ‘Who’s died?’
Bugger.
‘No one.’
‘But you said someone had died.’
(Mother in the background) ‘Tell me who’s died.’
In the end I had to make out I was ringing about Mother Bryant’s imminent 85th birthday and needed to speak to my father in private about a surprise birthday present and that he should call me back, out of earshot, once home.
It later struck me that the entire thing was quite funny in a dark way. But it also left us feeling very out of sorts, as if we were doing a ghastly rehearsal for a funeral. Needless to say, family was informed that Mother Bryant was alive and kicking and none too pleased with her hair-do, because the shampoo girl hadn’t given her a thorough enough rinse and the stylist always insisted on backcombing her hair which she hates. Hearing Mother Bryant’s complaints was music to my ears. Needless to say, we will be doubly looking forward to celebrating her 85th birthday next week. Long live Mother Bryant! Which reminds me.
A one-hundred-year-old husband and wife were having trouble remembering things. The doctor suggested they write things down so as not to forget. The couple thanked the doctor and left. That night they were watching television and the man got up from his chair.
‘Where are you going?’ asked the wife.
‘To the kitchen,’ he replied.
‘Well get me some ice-cream,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Do you think you should write it down?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ll remember,’ he said.
Twenty minutes later he returned with a plate of bacon and eggs.
‘I told you to write it down,’ she scolded, ‘you’ve forgotten my toast…’
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