Dear
Mum,
When
you were 52, you told me you still felt like you were 21.
At
the time, I thought you meant aging was surprising, that your mirror image was
disturbingly different from the picture you carried of yourself. That, boy, was
life unfair.
It
was the 70’s. I was 10. You were 36. The Middle East was on fire. In Toronto, Daddy’s
disease held us hostage. Up and down our downtown apartment corridor as Gaza
Strip we would run, my brother and I, away from your warring factions. Daddy—trapped
inside his alcoholic prison, and you—on the front line, battling back, refusing
to be terrorized by a disease Daddy simply couldn’t free himself from. Your
inner warrior emerged—tall, blond, outwardly fearless, drawing forth your
strongest weapon—your maternal instinct—and you smuggled us out of a war zone 6
stories high with a view of High Park.
Dead
at 38, Daddy lost the war. We survived. You kept us safe.
And
you never dropped the ball. Suddenly single, you worked full-time, at work and
home, building us back up from the singeing rubble of his death. You refused to
rest until new soil was turned—a Viking farmer with a plough tied to her back—sacrificing
all but the grip on our hands. You never let go. We, too, knew of drinking powdered
milk, sparing portions of generic cheese and garden furniture as décor in our
living room—not unlike the post WW 2 period you endured as a child. But you
painted and puttied and persisted, taking us from rations to riches. And
through thin wisps of black smoke emerged a beautiful home—a sanctuary—where
every day 3 little words were said over and over and over as mantra.
“I
love you.”
I
felt safe.
When
I was 13, I lost my kidneys. When I was 19, you gave me one of yours.
You
say you never thought about it. You had to save your child’s life.
Over
those years of illness, you wove me a tapestry of love, thick threads of
compassion and concern sewn together with hands so elegant and strong. I love your
hands. They could stitch the finest embroidery and still rip out a pair of
spark plugs. Hands that stroked my throbbing head and clutched mine ever tight
throughout procedure and pain.
That
day when you were 52, you were readying to move back to Denmark, where you were
born and raised—you could no longer play the role of “Mum”. Under the
florescent lights of your Joe-Job, you were wilting, fried from sadness and
stress. A working actress, I was moving to Los Angeles with my husband, Kevin.
Your parting gift was the tapestry you’d woven for all of my 26 years.
What
happened to us?
Separated
by miles of ocean, my tapestry became worn and threadbare, gnawed through with
gaping holes of resentment. I remained a child, demanding to hear from my
Mummy. Demands get lost in the roar of the ocean.
And
the continents divided us.
Had
it become my job to love you differently? I could stand on a stage, memorize
someone else’s lines, but had I not understood, that it was now time to assume
the role of adult, and although still your child, no longer act like one? I
missed you. We would talk, but I would forget my part, improvise things I would
instantly regret. And you disappeared into the wings.
I
became sick, rejecting your kidney. I missed your hands. Dying, I reached for
your tapestry, pulling its ragged remains around me, but found no comfort. And
so I reached for something else. Down the path of addiction I wandered, running
wild with fear, getting so lost I nearly joined Daddy on the other side.
But
I’m still here. And after 6 years apart, so are you.
Maybe
when you gave me your kidney, you gave me the best of you. In those silent
years between us, was I meant to hear your muffled cries, an agonized regret
that your gift of life that was failing me? And after Daddy, was it all just too
much?
I
get it now. You lost your husband. You lost your Kevin.
Now
I have Kevin’s kidney inside of me. They tell us never to refer to it as his.
“The kid” is mine, my child. My responsibility. I have finally grown up.
When
you were 52, you told me you still felt like you were 21. Now I know you meant we
never feel completely comfortable in our skins. And no, life sure isn’t fair. But
wrapped inside the tapestry you wove, I always felt comfortable, safe.
Now
it’s my turn to make you feel safe.
I
love you, Mum.
Henriette
.
