Betty McArthur

This is my mother.  She was in the finals of Miss Great Britain once.  I think she'd like people to know that.

She died of lung cancer nineteen years ago today.  This morning I woke with a start at 6.00am.  This was the time the nurses woke me after a nap during our all night vigil.  Her life was not a happy one, I doubt she would want me to say any more about that.  

When the nurses changed shift at 7.00 that morning they brought my sister and I tea and toast.  The wizened figure in the bed opened one eye and reached out grasping at the smell of toast. We fed her toast, a sip of tea, though she was long past digesting food.  I have never, ever seen my mother so satisfied as when she was eating that toast.  She looked beatific, transformed by joy, and died soon after.

This was her husband, my father, Jim.  He died of pneumonia in 2005.  Metaphysically lung problems are associated with a lack of joy.

True to the 'wounded healer' tradition their unhappiness inspired my search for joy, and my life's work and I decided it was time to say a bit more about myself on the 'About' page.  

May they both be at peace, in my heart I know they are.