In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

By February 1967, my mother suffered severe short-term memory loss, cognitive impairment and a constant sensation of being choked. She asked to be admitted to hospital so she could have round-the-clock care. I arranged for her to go to the psychiatric ward of the Women’s College Hospital for observation. The nurses believed she had suffered a mild stroke just before she came in. Within three days she was disoriented and hallucinating all the time. She often complained there were RCMP secret agents on the ward plotting against her. Still, there were moments of beauty even in those bitter days. Two memories stand out for me: My mother had fallen asleep so I went out to the patient’s lounge to eat my brown bag lunch. Suddenly a young woman sat down beside me. I recognized her as a patient on the ward who had been out of touch with reality several weeks before, but was now calmed down. She asked: “Are you Mrs. Endicott’s daughter?” I nodded. Her face brightened as she said: “Your mother is the most intelligent woman I have ever met!” I almost choked and asked: “How do you know that?” “Because,” replied the formerly psychotic angel-of-mercy, “I read poetry to her and we talk about it. She says the most interesting things.” Her admitting psychiatrist relayed the second episode to me. We had found a nursing home for my mother but, to my knowledge, had not yet told her of this. I was meeting to explain the arrangements. “Shirley,” the doctor exclaimed, “your mother was magnificent yesterday. It was the weekly Wednesday ward meeting. She was wearing her brocade dressing gown.” “That’s the one her sister Jane gave her last week on her seventieth birthday ,” I said. “What happened?” Epilogue 241 “She pulled herself up straight in her chair and made a speech: ‘We must all face our future with courage. I myself am going to a nursing home and will never be with my family again. But we all must accept what is to come. Learn to be brave.’ She talked about everyone—the patients, the nurses. They were all quiet and paid attention. It went on for almost ten minutes, then suddenly her energy was spent. She sank back into her chair and became confused again.” Mary Austin Endicott died early in the morning of August 9, 1967. At her memorial service—which she had discussed with Stephen far in advance—Jim’s two nieces, Joyce and Carolyn Gundy, played Purcell’s Golden Sonata, the piece that had brought her so much pleasure in Duckling Pond as she accompanied my father and Captain Brotchie on the violins. Lukin Robinson, a fellow-member of the National Executive of the Canadian Peace Congress, spoke of her personal contribution to the 1950s peace movement: “I wish I could describe to you her smile and her sense of humour. She enjoyed the work and made it fun. She loved people, her friends and co-workers, and we certainly loved her.” Several of her poems were read, including her 1939 “Vignettes of Chungking.” The service concluded with a recording of Paul Robeson singing Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy,” and then we all sang the theme song of the peace movement, the hymn “These Things Shall Be.” Finally, the large candle that had been burning was used to light two smaller candles and then extinguished. The ceremony symbolized my mother’s concept of immortality: her spiritual energy passing on to others, especially her grandchildren. 242 China Diary: The Life of Mary Austin Endicott ...

Share