The Ballad of Lucille Edna

Mom passed away unexpectedly on July 11, 2008. She had suffered from severe angina for some time, beginning a few years after her first quadruple bypass in 1997. But her pain had now increased to the point that the nitro tablets she popped like tic-tacs no longer brought any relief.

She was admitted to the hospital, where they were able to stabilize her and control the pain. Another bypass surgery was scheduled. I lived eighteen hundred miles away in Florida at the time.

My sister Robin and I had limited vacation time available. We decided that Robin would stay with Mom in the hospital leading up to and through the surgery. After the surgery, I would fly up to Vermont to take her home from the hospital and spend a couple of weeks caring for Mom while she recovered.

The day of her surgery was agony for me. I managed to talk to Mom on the phone in the morning while standing outside the small business I worked for.

Mom was pain-free and in a good mood. She chattered about the flat of blueberries she and my dad had bought a few days earlier at the farmer’s market. She was hoping he would save some for her.

I burst into tears after she hung up.

My boss at the time, Jane, asked why I was crying. “I feel like I am never going to see her again.” I sobbed. Jane chastised me in her posh British accent. “Don’t be silly. Thousands of people have bypass surgeries and come out just fine.”

I had shaken it off, dried my eyes, and gathered the samples I would need before leaving for my sales calls.

I drove my sister crazy, calling between appointments to check on Mom's status. The surgery was delayed due to other emergencies, and she didn’t finally get into the OR until late afternoon. It was around eight in the evening when my sister called to tell me the surgery was finished, and the doctor had declared it a success. Exhausted from the stress of the day, I gratefully passed out on the sofa in front of the TV.

In my sleep, Mom was speaking to me. She kept saying, "I chose." Over-and-over again. I woke up confused by the sound of the phone. It was Robin again, and she was crying. Mom had passed away in recovery. “Pam, she’s gone.”

At first, I had difficulty understanding or forgiving Dad for not being at the hospital the morning before her surgery. He was a bit of a hermit. I guess he didn’t see the point of stepping outside his comfort zone because he knew he would see her when she came home after the surgery. He had already been through this, you see.

He and I never talked about it, but I know he suffered intensely. It broke my heart. He had never entertained the possibility that Mom might not come back, and he was so obviously lost without her.

I felt immense guilt as well. Why hadn’t I just told my boss I was flying home and would be back after Mom was recovered? Why had I let my job take precedence?

I loved my mother deeply. But like many mothers and daughters, our relationship was complicated. Mom had always been a fiery rebel. Growing up as her oldest child had been difficult. Unlike her, I worried about what other people thought of me, and I feared disappointing anyone. The day she died, so did the conflicting emotions I felt towards my mercurial mother.

As Robin and I made the arrangements during those first few days, I struggled to comprehend how a flame as bright as Mom’s could be snuffed out so quickly. I half expected the hospital to call and apologize for their mistake. It would go something like this: “Hello, this is the medical center. Are you the daughter of Edna Brown? Great news! Edna is doing well and ready to come home. Oh, that was another patient who passed away. So sorry.” Of course, the call never came.

Mom was hated by a few but deeply loved by many. Beneath her fluffy cap of white hair, her eyes could still shine with child-like wonderment and joy.

While visiting us in Florida one year, she had fallen in love with a CD I was playing, so I gave it to her. Rusted Root became the only music she played in her car, windows down, weather permitting. From that point on, wild drums announced her arrival wherever she went.

When Rusted Root came to Burlington for a concert, she bought tickets and brought a friend. The other more youthful attendees were so thrilled by the tiny white-haired woman and her animated adulation of the band that they created a circle around her. They escorted her to the front of the stage for a better view and more room to dance. She came home feeling like Cinderella.

We decided as a family that rather than holding a traditional and dour funeral, we would instead organize a Celebration of Life. Mom’s youngest sister, Helen, volunteered to host the affair at her lovely home with its surrounding terraces and gardens. The Celebration was a pot-luck affair. We provided a keg of beer, bottled wines, and other assorted beverages to get the party rolling.

There were well over a hundred attendees. Mom’s vase containing her ashes was given a place of prominence where she could witness the festivities. I was sure she was watching because Edna never missed a party.

Friends and relatives took turns standing on the terrace and telling funny “Edna Stories.” Some of them are too good not to share.

Lucille Edna was the fourth of twelve children born in 1934 to an immigrant couple from Quebec. They lived in a small two-story house in the heart of Burlington, Vermont. My grandfather, Hyacinth, owned a gas station near Battery Park.

She hated the name Lucille and insisted on being called Edna. She resisted her parent’s efforts to raise her to "just be a nice" Catholic girl. She manipulated and lied for whatever small freedoms she could achieve. Eventually, my grandmother threw up her hands in surrender. She had done her best.

Edna enrolled in nursing school so she could support herself and leave her parent's house. At eighteen, as she walked home from interning second shift at the hospital, a man pulled over, pistol-whipped her, and dragged her into his car. He had no idea what he’d let himself in for.

As the would-be kidnapper tried to drive off with his catch, Edna leaped on top of him, gouging, biting, pulling hair, and hitting. She used every bit of violence her tiny 100lb frame could muster. He opened the driver's door and shoved her out onto the pavement as he sped away.

She suffered a cracked skull and a concussion, but she survived. The victim was not a role she knew how to play.

I remember a long-running feud with a neighbor when I was about 12 years old. He had taken out a hedge dividing the two properties. It was on our side of the survey line. I was no longer allowed to go over to babysit or visit with his pretty young wife, who I liked and admired. I don’t recall the details of their aggressions back and forth. There was apparently one act he had found particularly offensive. I remember the incredulous look on his face as he screamed, "You’re crazy!" "That's right," she had snarled, her face jutting upward to match his glare as he towered over her. "So, you don't know what I am going to do next."

He listed the house, and they moved.

Mom worked the night shift most of her adult life. Eventually, she was no longer able to sleep at night or for more than a few hours at a time.

During one of their annual visits with us in Florida, she had her usual trouble sleeping. I kept a plastic bin in the laundry room for loose change. Over the years, the container had become quite full, and so on this visit, rolling coins became Mom's nocturnal activity.

About halfway through, she brought several rolls to the bank inside our local Walmart. But the teller refused to take the pennies. Mom was fuming when I got home from work that evening. She told me she was planning to unroll them all, put them back in the bin and then dump all the loose change on the bank counter. (Her favorite strategy had always been to create a scene.)

But the bin was too heavy to carry alone, so she needed me to go with her.

I laughed. As an adult, I could no longer be forced to serve as a foot soldier in her battles.

I told her that while she had certainly taught me how to draw upon my inner bitch, I did not actually enjoy going there.

“So,” I replied, “I have rules for engagement. First, I must believe I am in the right. I do not. Second, there must be a good chance I can win. There is not. Third, a winning outcome must be worth the effort. It is not.”

(I had not consciously formulated this set of rules beforehand. But they rolled naturally off my tongue. This was the form of rebellion I had chosen as her oldest daughter.)

As far as I know, she never followed through on that specific battle plan.

“Edna Time” was a familiar phrase to our family and friends. Mom’s life was chaotic, and she was habitually late. So among family and friends, she was typically given an arrival time a half-hour earlier than everyone else. She still rarely arrived on time.

Mom had a list of errands she had to complete one frantic day before hopefully getting a couple of hours of sleep ahead of her shift. She was patrolling the crowded Sears lot, looking for a parking spot, and found someone leaving. She waited for them to pull out with her blinker on. But as the car cleared, another woman tried to dart in to steal the spot.

Outraged, Mom hit the gas, rammed her out of the way, and parked. The woman from the other vehicle jumped out and started screaming, "Did you see what she just did?” Mom calmly exited her car, retrieved her youngest child from the back seat, and walked into the store as a crowd formed. By the time she emerged with her purchases, everyone had left.

(Years later, I saw an almost identical scene on Malcolm In the Middle. I wondered if someone on the show’s writing team had seen her stunt in the Burlington Vermont Sears parking lot.)

Perhaps my favorite Edna story happened about fifteen years before her passing. She was working nights at a nursing home at the time. As she was getting ready to leave for work, she saw the people next door were having a Christmas party. A car on the shared back road blocked her tenant’s access to their cottage and parking spot. (This had become a frequent problem.)

She knew her tenant would be coming home from work soon and would need to park. So, she knocked on the neighbor’s door. The couple claimed they didn’t know who the car belonged to. Mom knew from previous experience that they were lying, so she told them she was calling the police. They laughed and said, “Go ahead.” She returned to the house, told Dad to call the police, and left for work.

Mom enjoyed entertaining her co-workers and patients, so she had packed a Santa suit along with a bag of small gifts to pass out during her shift that night.

When she arrived home the following day, still in the Santa suit, she saw her tenant's car parked in the lower drive and the neighbor’s car still blocking access to the cottage.

She woke Dad and asked if he called the police. He said sure, but they never showed. She grabbed a crowbar and marched over to the neighbors. It was early. She knocked on the door, but no one answered. She tried the latch, and the door opened. Stepping inside, she roared, "Get up!”

The owners appeared on the stairs, bleary-eyed and outraged that she had barged into their home uninvited. (I can only imagine the shock of waking to find a tiny, raging Santa wielding a crowbar while storming the entry hall.)

She ignored their indignity and asked why the car was still blocking her tenant’s parking spot. The couple again claimed they didn’t know who the vehicle belonged to.

"Fine," she said. "Then you won't mind if I do a little work on it." She marched out the door crowbar in hand, up to the back road, and smashed out a headlight. Watching curiously at first from the front porch, the two began screaming “Wait! Wait!” and ran inside to retrieve the keys.

Once again, she suffered no consequences.

Many years have passed, and thinking about her rarely causes me to weep now. I have two grandchildren, and I often catch glimpses of her as I watch them exploring and giggling. She would have adored them both. I wonder if they would have called her Grandma Eggnog, as my own children did, substituting a word they knew for one that made no sense to them.

I like to think she is enjoying watching over us.