You can never replace a mother

“You can replace a partner, but you can never replace a mother”.

These words cut through the haze shrouding my existence. I was walking towards the gates of the Immaculate Conception Church, Hawthorn with a pastoral worker. Her words were spoken kindly, even maternally; it was followed with a genuinely concerned, “take care of yourself”. But the sentence, ‘you can never replace a mother’ seared my heart, and forewarned me of the pain ahead. Spoken by someone who knew deeply, the grief of losing a mother.

I have come to terms with my grief since then, but in those raw, early days, I frequently wondered about my mother’s own bereavement. How did she cope with the loss of her mother? All I had left was her handkerchiefs to mop up the frequent waves of tears, a bitter irony not lost on me. Was this how she felt?

I was seven when my maternal grandmother died, and I never spoke about it with my mother. I had no knowledge or lived experience to prompt the questions. Her grief didn’t pervade my childhood. I recall her mentioning, on occasion, how old her parents would be on the day of their birthday – had they still been alive. I didn’t ask any questions or continue the conversation. I just didn’t think anything of it.

Eileen Hall with Elizabeth Hall c. 1945

Condolence letters and dance invitations

In the early months of grappling with my grief, I turned to the family archives. One of the first items I specifically looked for, was a black edged letter written in 1911. I had read it years before, but I could not remember the details. I was looking for insight from my ancestors; words of wisdom. I longed for visits in my dreams to answer my questions or give me guidance. Instead, I frequently had night terrors causing me to leap from the bed trying to outrun spiders and insects crawling over me. Grief is so universally common and yet such an intensely private and lonely experience.

The letter by my grandfather’s eldest brother Leo, to his brother Lux, was written two weeks after the sudden death of their mother, Catherine Sophia Meagher. Lux was working as a journalist for the Bendigo Independent newspaper.

‘We got your letter the other day & the oldie was very pleased with it, but not as pleased as dear little Mum used to be, when she used to delightedly read those marvellous concoctions of yours.’

Leo’s letter carries a strong sense of urbanity as he describes how various members of the family are faring, ‘We are all well down here & praying stoutly for Mum, though she doesn’t need it all I am sure.’ He notes their father, John S. Meagher, ‘The oldie of course is still battling but he wears a more care worn look than of yore’, unlike the younger siblings, ‘Jack & Fizz are as happy as larry & no shadow of sorrow overcasts their infantile horizon’. Leo also ponders the irony of his situation, ‘By the way in the midst of a shoal of condolence letters I received an invitation for a dance the other day. A nice contrast wasn’t it – condolence letters & dance invitations.’ You can read the letter in its entirety here.

Sorrowing for the loss of a mother

Catherine, a mother of eight and only aged 47, died suddenly at her residence in Manningtree Road, Hawthorn on Saturday 25 March 1911. The Catholic newspaper, Advocate, reported her death was announced the following morning at Mass, which ‘caused a shock to the congregation, as it was only on the previous Sunday she was present at the celebration of Mass’. The requiem Mass and funeral took place on the following day. It seems unlikely that Lux was able to return to Melbourne in time for the funeral.

Catherine Sophia Meagher

Although Lux’s letters have not survived, silencing his voice in the family archive, an obituary in The Xaverian in 1958 reveals his grief profoundly affected him. ‘While Lux was in Bendigo his mother died. Her death made a tremendous difference to his life. His carefree manner gave place to a more serious mien. He became very religious, though no less cheerful or less fond of good company. His keen sense and love of humor never diminished. Yet his mind seemed to become as closely set on the next world as it was on the material things about him.’

His obituary also noted this story,

‘One day, soon after his arrival in Western Australia, still sorrowing for the loss of his mother, he hired a boat at Fremantle and went for a row in the habor [sic]. Suddenly he found his boat being sucked into the wash of a passing steamer. In a few seconds it was close to the propeller and apparently about to be drawn under and smashed in the revolving blades. Lux, in terror, called to his mother to save him. By what seemed a miracle his little craft shot out from the turbulent wash into calm water where Lux was able to row in safety. That incident made a lasting impression on his mind.’

The Xaverian, Melbourne, December 1958, p.49.

There is no doubt many more letters were written amongst the family, however, only two other letters from the mourning period survive. Vincent and Mary, two of the younger siblings, wrote to Lux in Bendigo in July 1911, four months after their mother died. The school age children detail their activities during the school holidays, names of pets and other little anecdotes. I imagine the comfort Lux drew from these letters, especially at a time when the distance from the family would have been keenly felt. Clearly the letters were valued as he kept them in his possession all his life.

Lux’s wife, Muriel Meagher, found the letters in 1986 and passed them onto the family. In her own letter of thanks for a condolence letter my parents sent to her in 1987 she wrote, ‘to know that our relatives and friends are with us in our sadness is a source of consolation … one appreciates close relatives and friends more than ever on such occasions.’

Speak of her often

My family did not receive ‘shoals of condolence letters’ at the time of our bereavement, as it was no longer the custom. Nevertheless, I was incredibly touched by the cards and letters I did receive. It was an unexpected, but welcomed, gesture. Many contained heartfelt words; some revealed the pain of losing their own mothers. A pain never mentioned in idle conversation, a pain which, I have found since, lies silently and deeply.

Of all the sympathy cards I received, it was the sage words of my uncle’s sister-in-law, Linda, in England that also seared a place on my heart at the time … “speak of her often.”

In the days before my mother’s grandchildren were born, I wanted to know what their name for her would be. I asked my parents-in-law what name they used for their children’s deceased grandmother, and I was shocked and upset to learn that they didn’t have a name for her, because she simply wasn’t present.

So with my mother’s handkerchiefs permanently in my pockets, I take Linda’s advice and apply it where I can, especially with my mother’s grandchildren who will never know her, but they will know of her, because I speak of her often.