Be More Mary in 2023

A little story about a fabulous human I met over Christmas.

My daughter has been proper poorly over Christmas and she was rushed into hospital on Boxing Day (luckily the ambulance services and NHS worked for us but, I can confirm, it's carnage in there.)

Anyway after 11 hours of treatment on Costa Del Corridor and two ward moves, we found ourselves on the respiratory ward which was mainly full of old bods; with Izzy at 20 being the youngest by a country mile.

There was Vicky who kept slipping down her bed and shouting at the nurses 

'why is no-one helping me?' 

(Usually at 3am) And then there was Vicky's daughter who came in during the day and clicked her fingers at nurses demanding table service (I kid you not). When Vicky turned on the radio at 4am one morning, I nearly helped her out of the ward through the window.

Then there was Margo who was frail, teeny weeny and a bed escaper (even though her little old legs couldn't carry her very far). I managed to catch Margo escaping her bed three times and return her to safety (and didn't tie her down).

Next to Izzy (and me loving the sleepover on the hard green plastic chair) was Salford Susan who's entire family, aunts, uncles and Steve from down the road came to visit.

Steve was telling Susan about his love life and why things didn't work out with Carol. Turned out Carol looked the "dog's bollocks" when she was done up but rough as shite in the day so as he told Susan (and the whole ward); he said:

"Carol, I can't go out with you looking like that. It's not for me."

Reader, I can confirm Salford Steve was no oil painting with style more from Salford Preccy rather than Stella McCartney..

And then there was Mary. Bloody marvellous 92 year old Mary.

I bloody loved Mary. She shared with me her life story whilst interspersing the story often with: 

"I'm 92 and I haven't had a bad old life; I've had some fun; I've made the best of it". 

Mary grew up in the highlands of Scotland on a farm and her Scottish accent still lilts through every syllable today.

Mary was born in a poor house in the highlands and her mother abandoned her. She was fostered by a local family and walked 1.5 miles to school on her own (after her foster brother who was supposed to escort her to school did one as soon as they left the house). She was four years old.

She told me she was kitted out twice a year in charity clothes that were very good quality including a fabulous pair of hob nail boots that were brilliant for walking to and from school but she didn’t like them because it meant she couldn’t skid in the snow and that really got on her nellies when everyone else was skidding along.

Then when her foster mother died she went to live with a widow down the road whose husband had been gorged to death by a bull. He bred cows. And apparently was quite normal to be gorged to death by the bull in those days.

Mary remembers the war coming to the highlands as troops from all over the world came to train and even remembers land mines being buried to protect from any invasions. She told me she was a bit young which she was gutted about because there were some very handsome chaps who were training near her. Although she didn't get along with the Americans.

Mary joined the Wrens because she liked the uniform and worked cleaning the officer's mess which she quite enjoyed but didn't like being in charge of people.

She moved to Manchester in the 60s because she had a friend that lived here and she thought 'why not.'

Mary met her husband in Manchester who then ran off with a not natural blond (Mary said at least she’s always had her own colour hair). She told me her husband was good to her (even though he ran off with the woman that worked in his motor cycle shop) and she was very fond of him. When they divorced, she told me she felt quite lucky because he gave her £7 a week and if she’d have gone to court then she’d only have got £2 and then been taxed. She lost a child and has a son who seemed to mainly shout at her on the phone but oh my did she have a lot of people ringing her to see how she was doing. She had a circle of friends wrapped around her.

Marvellous Mary was in a walking club and climbing mountains until she was 80. At 92, she proudly told me she’s still doing all her own washing and housework. 

Mary had pneumonia and a bug and wanted to get out of hospital but not until her breathing got a bit better so she decided she needed to take some action and get herself a bit fitter, so after nipping to the loo because (I quote), she'd wet her drawers, she decided she was going to march up and down the ward to keep her going with the odd little dance in between.

Now I'm mainly hoping I'm not doing my own washing and housework at 92 but I'd like to be climbing mountains at 80. Mary had such a positive outlook on life, she embraced every bit of it and she took action to make it hers; to own it, to lead herself forward; whether it was moving to Manchester as a single woman in the 60s or forging her life as a divorced woman, or marching up and down the ward

'to keep going because that's what we can do.'

So this year, I've decided I'm simply going to Be More Mary. I'm going to take action, own my decisions, look at what I can control and lead myself forward.

And I'm going to make the best of it. I'm off to look at what mountains I can climb. (Whilst hopefully not wetting my drawers).

Will you join me in Being More Mary?

(The daughter is now at home and well on the road to recovery.)