'Doris' - Placed 2nd in the 2014 Lillian Rose Troy Short Story competition
Some memories warm my heart; the
first time my sons smiled at me and secured the undying love I have for them;
or the hugs they give first thing in the morning when a whole night’s sleep has
separated us. Other memories make me laugh out loud; when I lost my temper at
my partner’s clumsiness and told him to watch where he was going, just before
losing my footing and falling face first down the spiral staircase at Hever
Castle, legs akimbo and face red; or trying to act sophisticated with a glass
of red wine at a nightclub with the view of attracting a man I had been
watching, only to walk past, trip over my own feet, fling my wine in the air
which landed over both of us and watch helplessly as my friend apologised on my
behalf and ended up dating him for a few months. But there are some memories
which do more than make me smile or laugh, there are some which have helped
make me who I am.
After taking my GCSE’s I visited my aunt Doris in Manchester who I hadn’t seen in years. Having suffered Polio as a child, her physique was weak, her leg in a brace, but her mind was alert and her eyes were wise. She made me feel welcome and her conversation was not just engaging but inspirational. Her childhood had been a catalogue of hospital stays, with education being virtually non-existent but she was as wise and clever as anyone I had met. And sad.
And sad. Her brother, Jimmy, whom she had spent her whole life caring for was in hospital, bed ridden, with no diagnosis and not much chance of survival. Every day we would order a black cab, for that was the only car which could accommodate her brace, to the hospital and sit at his side. In that week we watched his bedsores worsen despite turning him over in his bed as frequently as a sixteen year old girl and disabled woman, neither over five foot tall, could. We watched as he went from knowing who I was, to mistaking me with my mum; from smiling as we entered his ward, to staring at us listlessly, his sense of understanding and emotions fading fast. Every day a little bit more of the brother Doris had doted on disappeared leaving a shell, so frail, it looked painful. His mind, his body and his spirit was gradually being eaten away by an invisible disease.
Every evening Doris would struggle to descend the hospital stairs, walk through the clinical corridors and clamber into a cab driven by a man who cared little for the old, white haired lady and her teenage companion. We meant nothing as he stared straight through us, our significance wiped out by his disdainful glance.
Dinner would be simple for finances were tight, but it was cooked with love and warmed us up after our journey home in the August drizzle. The best times were in the evening, when I gained just a small insight into her life and wondered where she had found the strength to continue. After months in a brace and a childhood confined to the house, trips in and out of foster homes and a brother she adored being taken from her for long periods of time, she had emerged into a strong woman who had faced all adversity head on. Poverty, disability and separation had been her constant companions yet not once did she complain as the unfair hand life had dealt her.
Over the week our visits took their toll on her body, while watching her closest friend and brother deteriorate affected her emotions. Yet hope remained as we both put our trust in the hospital to find out what was taking such a kind man from this world. Even when the doctors took Doris to one side and told her she might want to prepare herself, we lived in hope that he would find the strength to stay with us.
But he didn’t, for miracle recoveries rarely grace the real world. In real life, and especially in Doris life, miracles don’t happen. On my last day, Uncle Jimmy, who I had never really known, left a bereft Doris alone. She wept. I couldn’t, for my sixteen year old head couldn’t comprehend the injustice of life.
Yet despite her loss, Doris remained determined. When she had every reason to despair, she didn’t. The courage she showed, the strength of character and the determination to continue were inspiring. I was glad when my parents arrived, for the week had been overwhelming. They knew what to say and how to console much more than I, for this was my first real experience of loss. I worried that I would say the wrong thing, but I needn’t have, for she would never say or take offence. Throughout it all, she remained graceful and comforting. She remained a person I wanted to become.
When I opened my results slip and the later letter informing me that I was to be the recipient of the Literary and Academic award later that summer, it was nice, but somehow, gaining good grades in my exams wasn’t as important as it had seemed before. That summer I had learned that what I wanted was to be like my aunt. I wanted to be strong, to be able to deal with everything life handed to me. To be kind and determined and to let nothing get me down. I wanted to be a good person and make a difference like she had to Jimmy and to me.
I hope that I have achieved my goal and like to think that, as a result, I have a husband and two sons who bring me laughter and joy with memories created as a consequence of whom Doris inspired me to be.
After taking my GCSE’s I visited my aunt Doris in Manchester who I hadn’t seen in years. Having suffered Polio as a child, her physique was weak, her leg in a brace, but her mind was alert and her eyes were wise. She made me feel welcome and her conversation was not just engaging but inspirational. Her childhood had been a catalogue of hospital stays, with education being virtually non-existent but she was as wise and clever as anyone I had met. And sad.
And sad. Her brother, Jimmy, whom she had spent her whole life caring for was in hospital, bed ridden, with no diagnosis and not much chance of survival. Every day we would order a black cab, for that was the only car which could accommodate her brace, to the hospital and sit at his side. In that week we watched his bedsores worsen despite turning him over in his bed as frequently as a sixteen year old girl and disabled woman, neither over five foot tall, could. We watched as he went from knowing who I was, to mistaking me with my mum; from smiling as we entered his ward, to staring at us listlessly, his sense of understanding and emotions fading fast. Every day a little bit more of the brother Doris had doted on disappeared leaving a shell, so frail, it looked painful. His mind, his body and his spirit was gradually being eaten away by an invisible disease.
Every evening Doris would struggle to descend the hospital stairs, walk through the clinical corridors and clamber into a cab driven by a man who cared little for the old, white haired lady and her teenage companion. We meant nothing as he stared straight through us, our significance wiped out by his disdainful glance.
Dinner would be simple for finances were tight, but it was cooked with love and warmed us up after our journey home in the August drizzle. The best times were in the evening, when I gained just a small insight into her life and wondered where she had found the strength to continue. After months in a brace and a childhood confined to the house, trips in and out of foster homes and a brother she adored being taken from her for long periods of time, she had emerged into a strong woman who had faced all adversity head on. Poverty, disability and separation had been her constant companions yet not once did she complain as the unfair hand life had dealt her.
Over the week our visits took their toll on her body, while watching her closest friend and brother deteriorate affected her emotions. Yet hope remained as we both put our trust in the hospital to find out what was taking such a kind man from this world. Even when the doctors took Doris to one side and told her she might want to prepare herself, we lived in hope that he would find the strength to stay with us.
But he didn’t, for miracle recoveries rarely grace the real world. In real life, and especially in Doris life, miracles don’t happen. On my last day, Uncle Jimmy, who I had never really known, left a bereft Doris alone. She wept. I couldn’t, for my sixteen year old head couldn’t comprehend the injustice of life.
Yet despite her loss, Doris remained determined. When she had every reason to despair, she didn’t. The courage she showed, the strength of character and the determination to continue were inspiring. I was glad when my parents arrived, for the week had been overwhelming. They knew what to say and how to console much more than I, for this was my first real experience of loss. I worried that I would say the wrong thing, but I needn’t have, for she would never say or take offence. Throughout it all, she remained graceful and comforting. She remained a person I wanted to become.
When I opened my results slip and the later letter informing me that I was to be the recipient of the Literary and Academic award later that summer, it was nice, but somehow, gaining good grades in my exams wasn’t as important as it had seemed before. That summer I had learned that what I wanted was to be like my aunt. I wanted to be strong, to be able to deal with everything life handed to me. To be kind and determined and to let nothing get me down. I wanted to be a good person and make a difference like she had to Jimmy and to me.
I hope that I have achieved my goal and like to think that, as a result, I have a husband and two sons who bring me laughter and joy with memories created as a consequence of whom Doris inspired me to be.