Digging up Hatshepsut

In the tenth grade I entered the school Humanities program. It was a combined art history/social/english program for keeners. The program taught content that was not studied in the general streams, which I found intriguing. Though admittedly, the biggest draw was that at the end of the program the class went to Italy for 10 days in May.

I worked the maximum allowable hours for a 15 year old and saved every dime for the trip. Working as a page at the Calgary Public Library I earned $4.25 per hour. I had saved enough to pay the deposit in January, but I realized I would still be short for the final payment in April. It took me weeks to build up the nerve to ask my father for a loan. He said that since neither of my older sisters went, he wouldn’t do this for me.

Having nowhere else to turn, I reluctantly asked Aunt Joan. Single, childless and well-paid - if anyone could lend me the money, it would be her. She agreed to repayment with no interest within the calendar year. I paid the 50% deposit.

In March, we started reading our Canadian literature novel. I had enjoyed every novel we dug into – from Tess of the D’Urbervilles to Ethan Frome. I also adored my Humanities English teacher. He was like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. Every class he inspired me, as he waved his arms and got excited about words and images, reading us passages aloud in his thick, Irish accent. He had even more enthusiasm as he introduced us to Child of the Morning, historical fiction by Alberta author Pauline Gedge. 

Child of the Morning told the largely unknown story of Hatshepsut, Egypt's second confirmed female Pharaoh. Written a year before my birth, the story chronicles Hatshepsut's reign, from age 15 to her death. She is the Pharaoh that was nearly written out of history by her successor, her stepson and nephew, Thutmose III. I was hungry for more.

I spent my work breaks searching. I was a young archaeologist on a dig through mounds of literature. The more I found, the more I searched. I spent hours pouring over dusty books, inhaling the smell of old texts, drinking in the facts, uncovering theories.

Hatshepsut was thought to be a regent for her stepson (nephew) Thutmose III, right up until the 1930’s, when an expedition near Thebes found a pottery jar, found in burial chambers, referred to Hatshepsut as pharaoh – not just a queen. Thutmose III tried desperately to erase his stepmother/aunt after her death.

Her images were removed, her accomplishments were no longer hers, her name was scratched out. No one could help her.

But still, so many questions remained. Was Gedge’s book accurate? What was her life like? What happened after her death? Did she want to accept the role she was born into? What was it like being back-stabbed by family?

When the final payment was due in April, I phoned Aunt Joan to ask for a cheque. After leaving three messages, she finally answered the phone. Her voice was aloof and cold. She said she never actually agreed to lend me the money, but she would if she could come on the trip as a nurse.

I asked my father again if he would loan me the money. He refused. I asked my English teacher if there was any way at all that they could accommodate her. Of course, it was beyond too late. I couldn’t even get part of the deposit back.

I was duped. Tricked. Lied to. I was never going to make it to Italy. No one could help me.

Last week, I texted my family a link to a new discovery in Egypt from Archaeology Network News. It’s nothing new – they expect these texts from me. My teenage daughter was sitting in the kitchen and yelled, “Mom, when are you going to stop trying to dig up Hatshepsut?”

She was 15 when she took power. Who really was she?

I was 15 when I found her. Who really was I?

"Never."

2011

October 1st. Mom wanted to smoke. I spent the morning getting the nurses to lift her into a wheel-bed. Her shattered hip, riddled with cancer, made this one venture to the garden an all-day event. I pushed her into the serene courtyard, under the canopy. Though the leaves were already turning, the sun was bright and warm. I unhooked her oxygen and helped her light the cigarette. She choked. She tried a second drag. She coughed, gasped and sputtered. Her collapsing lungs could no longer tolerate the habit that caused them to fail. She handed me the cigarette and said she'd try tomorrow. Then she threw up. 

She had no pleasure.

The nurses changed her clothes, wiped her up. The lift placed her back in her bed. I flipped through channels while she settled herself again. 700 marchers arrested crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. We are the 99%! The nurse turned up her oxygen. 

October 2nd. I arrived with Violet. I noticed Mom did not ask for a cigarette. We turned on the TV and Violet snuggled in the bed beside Mom's frail body. I turned to Treehouse, and they watched Dora the Explorer intently while Mom brushed Violet's curly hair, one of her favourite things to do. Suddenly Mom yelled, "Go help her! She lost the monkey, she lost the monkey!" I turned off the TV and tried to comfort her. Violet looked up at me, but said nothing, her four year old eyes full of confusion. When the doctor came I asked him what changed. I asked how much time. 

She had no time.

October 4th. I started my maternity leave. I balanced my visits with the obstetrician with dropping kids off at kindergarten and preschool, and visiting mom every moment I could. When I arrived in the mornings after kindergarten drop off, mom was always asleep. Little Violet liked to play in the kids area of the hospice. This moment was all to myself. I turned on the TV. 15,000 marchers in Lower Manhattan. We are teachers! We are the mothers! We are the nurses! We are the workers! We are the poor! We are the 99%!

The social worker came to ask if mom's affairs were in order. I explained that her lease was up in the summer, her few belongings were in storage. Her financials were in order; she had only one bank account, with no more than a thousand dollars in it. She inherited from her great-aunt the year before. It was the largest her bank account had ever been. 

She had no wealth.

October 10th. Before shift change, the nurse checked mom's vitals. She checked them again. Mom's breathing was changing. She suggested that we have the six  grandchildren in to say goodbyes. The last words she ever said were to the girls. I watched their brave little faces tell Grammy they love her. She strained to tell them she loved them, too. 

She had no strength.

October 12th. I dropped the kids off at a friend's house and went to the hospice. The doctor came in and checked her vitals. She had only hours. My husband, sisters and their husbands arrived. Mom's best friend asked if she could come for support. The seven of us waited, taking turns going to the garden for air. I flipped through the newspaper. Canadians were banding together. They would join the marchers on Saturday. They were rallying in major cities. They were making their signs. We are the 99%!  

She wouldn't make it to Saturday.

October 13th. At 12:08am, I held her hand and watched as the final air blew through her cracked lips. A friend she had made in hospice was lingering outside the door. He asked permission to say a traditional Indigenous prayer over her. The on-duty nurse came in and joined us. Nine of us held hands as Charlie spoke in his native tongue, then translated to English. Creator, please greet her. Bring her back home while she waits for those she loves. We cried together as we sent her away, out of the body that betrayed her. Out of a life that worked against her, that took her possessions and afforded her few worldly comforts.

They told stories about her. Her friend remembered the first time they met at school, as their children entered grade two. The nurse liked to sit with her and talk about the Food Network. Charlie would talk about Winnipeg with her. They loved her smile. Her easy laugh. Her loyal friendship. 

She was not alone.

The nurse said, "This room is so full of love. Most people in here don't have this kind of send off." 

October 15th. My sisters and I met at Ricky's to plan mom's funeral. One of Mom's favourite haunts, and right near the funeral home. While I waited for my sisters to arrive, I glanced at the TV. The subtitles read, '950 cities in 82 countries.... global occupy rallies.... representing the 99%....' Thousands of people gathered. We are the 99%! 

She had everything.