Mother

     Goodbye Keanu 

 

 On January 25^th at 5pm the phone rang. I couldn’t answer it. I was behind a wall trying to eradicate the smell of a rat that had died somewhere above our living room ceiling. By 5.30pm I was dirty and exhausted and my legs and back hurt. I took a shower then retrieved the message from the phone. It was from my mother. I braced myself. It had been about five weeks since my diagnosis and about a week since my sister had read her the two-page detailed email I wrote explaining my condition. She left a message that was painful to listen to. She could barely get the words out between tears.

      “I heard about… (mwaa, mwaa) I’m sorry…(mwaa, mwaa)

      It was 11pm her time when she called, now it would be nearly midnight. I was not going to call her back today. I was too tired, it was too late for her and we would both be too emotional. I would call her in the morning. I could not sleep thinking about my poor mother. What a burden to put on her! The next morning we had a long talk. She sobbed a lot.

      “Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m here for you”. (sob, sob)

Luckily that didn’t break me. I was able to stay in complete control of my emotions for her.

      “Okay.”

      “You sound really good.” (sob, sob)

      “Thanks.”

      “I’ve read the email a hundred times.” (My sister must have given her a copy)

      “Good.”

      “Are you at home or at the hospital?”

      “I guess that part didn’t get explained very well. I’m at home.”

      “Sob, sob.”

      I was really glad I was in New Zealand and not able to see her cry. I told her the story from the beginning but I left out the fact that I had nosebleeds and infections before I left for America. I don’t know why. I guess I was still trying to prove to my mother that I was a capable adult (even at my advanced age) and not finding out that I had leukemia until December seemed, well, rather stupid. She read my thoughts.

      “Did you know you were sick when you stayed with me and you didn’t tell me?”

No matter how sick you are, there is always room for a little guilt.

      “No. I knew there was something up. I was short of breath. But I thought it was my lungs or my heart.”

      “Sob, sob.”

      “I promise to keep in touch, Mom. I will ring you after each monthly doctor’s appointment.”

      Meanwhile the love came pouring in. Within two weeks of that initial phone conversation I received two Hallmark cards and a small brown teddy bear. The bear held a heart-shaped cushion that said “I love you”. My mother and I normally spoke only a couple of times a year, on birthdays and major holidays, so this sudden rush of attention was a little unnerving. I referred to it sharply as “forced love” a term my mother would be appalled to hear. Charlotte hit the mark:

      “I guess the good thing to know is that it’s been inside of her all this time. She just didn’t say it.”

      She was right. Tragedy was the key to opening the vault to those closely guarded emotions. At least for my mother, it was not too little too late. That was the good thing about dying slowly. There was time to make up for a lack of communication. But it was a little strange. The stranger part was how easily I accepted the love. From my initial skepticism I reverted to my former existence as a small child. It was like she was suddenly embracing me like I always wanted her to. Since the day I met Alex he was always questioning why I cared what my mother thought. Why, after all these years, I still sought her approval. I guess it was because I never got it. I don’t ever remember my mother saying to my face: “I’m proud of you” or “you are beautiful”, things I tell my own daughters all the time. I would hear by word of mouth that she sang my praises to other people, but somehow she could never quite say it while I was in the room. I only remember a childhood full of anger, raised voices and disapproval. One of my most vivid memories is when she broke her middle finger. She tried to hit me and I ducked out of the way. Her hand collided with a side table. I also remember standing at the top of the stairs at the age of fifteen and yelling: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” and really meaning it. I moved away from home as soon as I could.

      But now I needed to know she was on my side. I wanted the love and attention she was suddenly providing. I checked the mailbox every day and slept with the teddy bear under my pillow.

      This renewed connection with my mother went deeper then letter-writing. Because I had given up my job, I was at home full-time, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry and worrying about my children. I was a fifties housewife. I was becoming her.