My Mom; if nothing else; was a feisty gal. When she felt you were in the wrong, she let you know it...sometimes in no uncertain terms. She didn't care who it was. It was how she was. She was my Mom...and I loved her.
The first time My Mom went through her cancer treatments (summer of 1992) she would stay at her friend Shirley's house after her treatment as she was too weak right afterward to drive the 45 minutes back to my Grandparent's apartment in the city that they lived in. My Mom was mainly living in Sarnia with my Grandparents but the cancer clinic is here in London.
Before I continue and tell the story I'm going to, I need to explain and give a little background. When I was a child, my Grandparents lived in a large 3 bedroom ranch style home set on a large lot on a quiet street. I loved that house. I still do. Shortly after my Grandmother was diagnosed with emphysema they sold the house (for reasons beyond me - I still don't know why), moved here to London and into an apartment for about a year (I only ever remember going there twice to be honest). They then (as quickly as they had sold the house and moved here to London) quickly left London and moved BACK to Sarnia and into another apartment. This apartment was on the first floor in an end unit of an 8 story apartment building. Their "balcony" was on the ground floor and faced the parking lot. It was not in the best area of the city, although the apartment itself was fine the neighborhood that surrounded it went into rapid decline shortly after they moved in.
One week between treatments, my Mom (who was sleeping on a fold out couch at my Grandparents very small apartment) had been sleeping for crap due to the treatments, the summer heat and the lumpiness that invariably is a mattress on a fold out couch. She finally was getting a decent night's sleep; the heat had finally broke and the patio door was open for a breeze. At about 3am my Mom awoke with a start. She had the distinct impression that she wasn't alone. She focused in the dark and at first thought it was my Grandfather. A side note, like everyone My Mom (once she actually got INTO a good sleep) HATED being woken up -so she was already a little annoyed. She then realized that it was not my Grandfather standing at the end of the bed but a burglar. Very calmly (because she was more pissed off that she'd been woken up than afraid) she said "You've picked the wrong apartment." The burglar must have shit his pants because he did not know my Mother was right there. He (according to her) hotfooted it out of the balcony door whence he'd came in from and into the night.
My Mom didn't tell my Grandfather that story until just before her death in 1996 (Four years later). As she knew he would fear for her safety especially at night. I remember when he was finally told the story he laughed and said that even in her weaken state even he wouldn't have wanted to wake her up!
This story still makes me laugh...
One Last Glimpse,