“When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be”
So the specialists have said you have months to live.
You have a rare and very aggressive form of cancer that started in your bile duct and has spread to your liver and stomach lining.
MONTHS.
Do I have months to tell you how I feel? To make you feel as loved, like the love I felt from you? How, despite everything, you are my hero, always my hero?
Mum,
When I was little, I used to pretend I was asleep so that you would pick me up in your strong arms, kiss my forehead and carry me to bed. Being held tight in your arms was the only safety I ever got.
My kindergarten teacher wanted to hold me back a year because I was shy and wasn’t socialising with the other kids. Mum, you fought them like you fought them hard! You made them understand that while I was socially awkward, I shouldn’t be held back from progressing in school because I was super smart and capable.
Every time I felt anxious in unknown settings, you always let me hide under your skirt. You never made me feel like I was a weirdo, which is what I felt inside.
You named strawberry Quick, Pink Milk so I would drink it. When I refused to eat for weeks on end, you made finger foods so that I wouldn’t get any skinnier. And every opportunity you had, you would make chicken and rice for dinner because you knew it was my absolute favourite, and the only dish I would go in for a second helping.
When I was older, my anxiety surrounding school was unbearable. I would often convince myself that I was sick just to stay home with you. I knew you didn’t really believe me but every time I faked it, you said nothing. You would bring me a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of water and loads of cuddles and kisses. I used to love being home on those days, just us two, me wrapped up in bed, reading the latest science fiction or horror novel I had borrowed from the library, listening to you bustle about—vacuuming, cleaning, making dinner.
When I was in high school, I’d race home, jump on my bike and head to the supermarket. It was Thursday, which meant you were shopping. I’d circle around the complex trying to find you, and I always did. We would go home together, me on my bike with bags on the handlebars, and you on foot.
After Dad died and you gave me his car, I would still look for you in the supermarket on Thursdays, and I’d always find you. We’d load your groceries into the car and head home. I did anything to save you from walking them home by yourself.
You are my hero, and I am your baby.
As a clumsy youth, I often fell off my bike. I’d ride home with blood dripping down my legs and you would pick me up and put me on the sink. You’d grab the special bowl used only for such occasions; the Dettol and some cotton pads and proceed to mend my wounds. It hurt like hell but in some crazy way, I looked forward to those times, those tender moments between you and me, because life outside of that was too painful and hard.
You taught me manners.
You taught me that family is sacred. So if my siblings and I fought, we had to make up because we were all we had in the world. And you know what Mum, you were right.
You gave me the gift of words. You love the English language as much as I do. When I brought creative writing stories or essays home, you’d pour over them, picking out inconsistencies, spelling or grammatical errors. You were my thesaurus. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without you.
When we all moved out, my sister and I would go to your place every week for dinner. We’d eat the delicious meal you made and then watch the X Files together. It was the best time ever, and one that I will always remember.
Then you moved to Queensland to be with my brother and his family.
I was heartbroken. My hero was leaving me to be someone else’s hero and I was devastated.
I leant on you more than anyone in this universe. I guess I still do.
Anytime time I needed a hug, money, support or just a home cooked meal, you were there.
Remember when I was a charity collector and earned very little money? I’d pop over for breakfast, lunch or tea. You never complained. There was always a plate of food for me no matter what time, and you never asked for anything in return.
Mum, you are my hero.
My go to.
But I also understood that you wanted to be close to your grandchildren in Queensland.
I missed you.
I missed the conversations we had about controversial topics. You’d listen to my point of view and I yours. We’d discuss everything under the sun. Nothing was left untouched. When you left, that disappeared and in some respects, I felt we disappeared from each other’s worlds.
There were years where I felt you and I lost connection. I guess that’s common, but it bothered me. I didn’t want to let go of what we had, even though I knew we were both changing. I wanted to keep our special connection locked away in a room, so that only we could access it.
But life isn’t like that.
As an older adult, you and I have had some challenges. We’ve disagreed on some fundamental things, and it’s been hard.
Childhood trauma has a way of creeping into the now, and it did, it has. The four of us dealt with an angry man; one that blamed everyone else for his misfortunes; one that drank heavily to deal with his own pain, and one that always took it out on his family, physically and mentally.
I wonder what life with you would have been like if Dad hadn’t been in the picture.
Now, as I learn about your prognosis, all that stuff has dissipated. I just want you back. I want us back.
I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to leave me. How am I supposed to go on without you? You’re my hero.
Things will never be the same again.
My heart is broken.
Mum, I love you.