Last evening I returned home from a ten-day trip to Boston. My mother was diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago, and my brother and I zoomed in to visit lots of doctors, hear lots of opinions, do some of our own research, and, finally, with my mother's input, come up with a plan. A "big surgery" was a possibility, but all of our research and my mom's wishes ran counter to surgery as an option.
On December 7, Mom will be 91. She has had an extraordinarily healthy and productive life, and we all wish for that to continue, without interruption, for as long as it's possible. As she herself said, "A huge surgery? What would be the point of that?"
The miracle in all of this is that my brother and I, who have always been at thunderous loggerheads, found ourselves having not a moment of controversy or ill will between us. We were in immediate, mutual agreement about what we wished for our mother. We spent time together and healed some wounds, and the miracle is, we didn't have to work at it. It all seemed to drop down on us out of nowhere, perhaps because deep down we both knew we needed it to move forward. And in our togetherness, we were able to fully support our mother. It seemed like magic to me and I'm grateful.
I was not able to read at all for a number of days, but when I latched onto Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë several days ago, I've been reading and enjoying it ever since. I'm two-thirds of the way through as of this evening. I'm reading it on the Kindle, and I must admit I was originally drawn to it because it's a relatively short novel. I heartily agree with critics who say that Agnes Grey is reminiscent of Austen's novels in its depiction of English village society and romance among the gentry. I find Anne Bronte's acute and sometimes satirical characterizations highly entertaining. And, as a governess herself of some years, Anne knew fully the strait-jacketed role she had to play between the offspring she was supposed to instruct and the parents in the homes where she was employed. Highly recommended!
