We all have a little Joyce in us.

This was the theme of the eulogy that my youngest sister did for my mother’s funeral. It is also something we as siblings and grandchildren of Joyce would often tell each other when we were acting a bit odd or showing our quirks or phobias.

My mother had a lot of quirks, some cute and endearing and some that were annoying and embarrassing, especially to her children. She had phobias about water on her face, mice, closed in places, escalators, large crowds, talking on the phone, and going to the doctors, although she was a registered nurse. As a child and teenager dealing with these phobias got burdensome and embarrassing if we were out in public and I thought they were evident to others. I’m sure there were times I was the only one noticing that she was beginning to freak out in a store that had no windows but it felt like everyone was watching us.

My mother grew up in the 30’s and 40’s, never living in a home with indoor plumbing until she was older.  I don’t remember her ever lamenting that she grew up poor but she certainly was frugal her whole life. She seldom spent money on herself, instead wearing her children’s hand me downs and seldom spent it on anyone else either. She wasn’t known for much gift giving, at Christmas we all got one shopping bag with some things she had found on sale. Gifts were never wrapped; wrapping paper was seen as a waste.

Her father suffered from depression his whole life and frequently left and changed jobs. Her mother was a home maker, in the truest sense of the word, and also took in sewing and mending to make money for the family. 

When my mother was a young teen her older sister was diagnosed with spinal cancer and passed away 2-3 years later from it. This left my mother with her father for long periods of time as her mother travel to Buffalo so her sister could have treatments.

My mother graduated salutatorian at her High School but didn’t want to leave home for any further education. My grandmother told me that she forced Joyce to go to either nursing school or secretarial, both that were basically free and something the family could afford. My grandmother said that Joyce hated her and wouldn’t speak to her for long time after finally going to nursing school. Joyce did graduate from Wilson School of Nursing and her nursing degree helped her in many ways when she was older.

She married my father soon after graduating from Wilson and had my brother 9 months later with me following in 13 months. I do remember some good times with my parents and some apparent love shown between them. But I also remember a lot of fighting, both verbal and physical, mainly caused by my father’s excessive drinking and womanizing. Allegedly there was at least one child born of his affairs.

 At around the age of four I recall hovering near the phone that sat on a desk in a corner of the dining room, waiting to see if my father would call late in the afternoon asking if my mother needed anything to be brought home from a store. At that time my mother didn’t drive. If the call came I could be reassured of a somewhat good night, if no call came it meant that he was drinking and going out and I would warily go to bed,  for him to return home later and to be awakened by their loud fighting.

I think of my mother as having raised 3 families. I and my brother Mike were the first family and we had some semblance of a family in the early years.

Then 5 years later my sister Cindy came along. By then the fights were worse and more frequent with my father often stayed away for days at a time. A couple of times my mother left and that was scarier because then we were all left in my father’s care. I don’t remember that she ever stayed away more than one night so thankfully her children drew her back home but I never felt sure of that and the fear was constant that she would be the one that left for good. Cindy grew up from infancy with those fears and unpredictability of how long the family would hold together.

 Stacie came along 15 years later, by then my father would be gone for much longer stretches of time and my  mother was back to working as a nurse.Stacie remembers very little about living with my father in the home and both Mike and I were out with friends and made a point of trying not to be home often. My parents divorced finally when Stacie as about 4 years old. Stacie was raised by a much older Joyce who was working long hours as a night supervisor at a nursing home. I think by then my mother was worn out and didn’t have a lot more to give or offer to Stacie. Stacie didn’t hear all the fights in the middle of the night but she didn’t really have a parent either.

I think of all my mother lived through and how it affected the person she became. As she grew older I took over some of her care. She always wanted to live alone in her own home and fought having anyone other than family help with her care. She hadn’t been to a doctor for over 10 years when she fell and cut her hand that required 19 stitches. That began me helping with her health care, she had untreated high cholesterol and thyroid issues, she had let her prescriptions expire, as well as serious arthritis. When asked why she didn’t go to a doctor she said she didn’t want anyone telling her what she needed to do. I guess she had had enough of that in her life already.

At times  I felt like I was being more of a parent to her than she had ever been to me and lord did I sometimes get frustrated with her. I wish now I had been able to put in better perspective of why she was the way she was. I always knew but in the moment it was often hard for me to take that step back with compassion.

I often thought of her as a weak and overly emotional woman and at other times a woman that refused to show any emotions. I think she was afraid of her emotions and what they might unleash in her.  

I now see her as not weak but incredibly strong, raising 4 children basically on her own and learning how to drive, write a check and do her own finances at a much older age than most. Her emotions were always there but she had learned that showing them exposed her vulnerability and at other times they just boiled over. She ended up living her life her way, living on her own until the last 3 weeks of her life and dying with her 4 children surrounding her.

So when I decide I rather stay home and read a good book or take a walk with my dogs  than attend a fancy party I’m  glad I’m a little like Joyce. When I start worrying about things out of my control I’ll think of Joyce and feel her inside me. And when I refuse to climb a tall ladder or stand on the edge of a high roof I’ll acknowledge my phobia of heights and feel my guardian angel Joyce on my shoulder say I told you so.

Written: 5-29-18