On Tuesday 27 June 2023, my mother would have been eighty eight years old. She used to joke about being the embodiment of war and peace; Eirene was the Greek goddess of peace whilst Edith comes from the Old English Eadgyð, encompassing the elements ead, meaning “riches” or “blessed,” and gyð, meaning “war.”

To me, my mother was a fearsome presence who took up the mantle of raising three sons and contributing to the lives of her grandchildren and the British Polio Fellowship with selfless determination and pride.

As a no nonsense let’s sort this out persons, Mom resolved the question of my secondary school by going to the headquarters of the Birmingham Education Department and not leaving until she had confirmation, I was not going to the local one with a reputation of high levels of bullying.

From an early age, Mom encouraged us to pursue our interests. There was no judgement from her when as a child, I created a teddy bear bridal parade using a pale blue nylon and polyester night dress she had donated for me to use. When at a loss at what I wanted to ‘do’ at a meeting with the career advisor at secondary school, Mom said gently, ‘you like making cakes, Rob’; the decision was made, catering college was the next step.

My husband and the grandchildren brought out a softer affectionate side to Mom’s resolute force.

She insisted on keeping an immaculately clean home. During school holidays our chores included washing the skirting boards and architraves throughout the house.

Mom graciously welcomed guests sharing what she had even though her meagre weekly budget had to be tightly managed.

Through sheer determination, Mom contradicted the prognosis of doctors who said she would never sit up unaided, let alone walk after contracting polio at eighteen months old. Mom refused to visit Stratford-on-Avon as it was believed the river Avon was the source of her infection.

Not giving into the restrictions of her body was part of Mom’s being. Mom wore a full caliper (leg brace) on the left leg to take the weight of the left side of her body.

One of Mom’s stories recounted a day during the Second World War when she jumped into a hole, breaking the caliper. Back then the NHS (National Health Service) did not fund the caliper. Mom’s parents were understandably not amused.

The adult caliper consisted of a deep padded leather thigh brace similar in shape to a bucket fastened with heavy duty leather straps, along with leather knee and ankle braces fastened with leather straps. Each brace was connected to the next with bilateral steel struts. The knee had a mechanism to lock the leg straight or release it to be able to sit down. The caliper had a raised steel platform at the bottom to correct the three and half inches difference in length between Mom’s legs. There was a steel peg underneath the platform covered with a rubber ferrule. The whole thing weighed around 14lbs. This did not stop Mom from touring Snowdonia, Wales in the ‘50s riding pillion on my Dad’s motorbike.

Mom’s morning routine included tightly wrapping the left leg from thigh to ankle in crepe bandage to help prevent chafing and keep it warm due to pour blood circulation. A crepe sock and tights finished the ensemble.

Mom’s peers at school were as cruel with taunts as you can imagine however, calling her peg leg, hop along or a cripple would result in a clout. The bravado covered up a sense of self-consciousness. Up to her sixties, Mom chose to wear slacks to hide the caliper from judging eyes.

In middle age, Mom steadfastly refused to use a wheelchair preferring to switch to a considerably lighter cosmetic leg brace having full length moulded plastic upper and lower limb cradles, fastened with Velcro straps plus an updated locking hinge at the knee. A custom made built up shoe plus a sturdy right shoe completed the ensemble. The NHS funded one pair of shoes every two years. Mom could choose from a colour range of black, brown, navy, mid-grey, claret, or fawn. There was only one fully enclosed lace up style available. A below knee brace had to be added to the right leg to provide support as it had degenerated doing the job of two legs.

Mom spent decades battling the symptoms of post polio syndrome and in managing the excruciating pain and physical restrictions of spinal osteoarthritis. She was an early adopter of acupuncture sessions to help relieve the pain.

Eventually, Mom found a new lease of life using a motorised wheelchair. In my mind, I can still see her whizzing around the house singing along and dancing to her favourite vinyl albums of James Last and his Orchestra. She thought his music lifted her spirits allowing to fly.

My second step-dad, Barry quietly and gently adored and cared for Mom. He arranged for Mom to meet her idol, Mr Last back stage after one of his concerts. Mom proudly displayed a framed photograph of the two of them meeting on the living room wall.

A fortune telling gypsy told Mom she would live until ninety, I truly believed this would be the case.

The last time I saw Mom in person was when she turned seventy. After demanding of herself a full life, complications from a respiratory infection took Mom fours years later in 2009.

It has taken me this long to come to terms with her passing. It’s perhaps not a good look typing during the work commute with tears running down my face while listening to James Last on Spotify; it’s okay no one is paying attention.

On the third morning of writing this epic composition, I am calmly listening to Non Stop Dancing 8 from Mr Last in 1969 to herald the memory of a great and wonder-filled woman, Irene Edith, Mom.