There has been absolutely nothing physical that happened to
make today remarkable, but I made a startling realisation: I am beginning to
forget what my mother was like when she was ‘well’. I
guess it got me thinking about anyone who has ever watched someone die from a
long, drawn out illness. On a day to day basis, you forget that there was ever anything
other than this constant rota of care plans and thinking one-step ahead at all
times, because you don’t have time to think about what you have lost. But on
quieter days, perhaps when it’s just you and your relative in a big bed,
drinking cups of tea in a companionable silence, you blink and rack your brains
for what you did before you were needed for company. Before that person had no
choice but to seek you out for help and assistance.
Today, the utter reversal of roles was made glaringly
obvious. Prior to my realisation, I was looking through old photographs. Many
of me as a baby, dressed up in silly hats and sunglasses, playing with my toys,
new friends, my first holidays. And then
the more mundane ones; me in the bath, me sporting an unintentional chocolate
moustache (Impressive, even if I do say so myself), me in the process of
creating an artistic masterpiece. Although perhaps no more than a stray finger
brushing back an errant strand of hair, or a guiding hand keeping the
paintbrush on the paper and not on her wallpaper, my faceless advisor, teacher
and - above all – carer, was my lovely mam.
I closed my eyes then and attempted to remember feeling that
vulnerable, and as the series of pictures progressed and I watched myself find
independence in the photographs (Standing on my own two feet, starting school,
eventually hopelessly encouraging my sister in our misdemeanours,) I tried to imagine
what it would be like to lose it all over again. You see now, as I watch her completely undone
some days by simply finding the effort to brush her teeth, I find it
increasingly hard to remember that this woman once had the gumption to stick up
for her friend who got bullied at playtime or – ironically - that this woman’s
day to day job was to help those with disabilities. This woman fell in love, carried, gave birth
to and raised 2 children and made a house a home. Just like the disease eats her body, it
appears to eat away at my memories of her. I guess my point is that we must
make ourselves remember, because for me, if I was in her shoes, I think the most insulting thing would be
that people only remembered me for what I couldn’t beat, rather than all the
things I had accomplished.
My mother has never been a rocket scientist. She has never
made a medical discovery that will save mankind. She hasn’t even been to
America. But for me, she taught me some invaluable life lessons; most
importantly, how to love myself, flaws and all.
And even now, at 20 years-of-age, if I am in doubt on any matter, the
final word from Mam can always swing my decision. Because, although perhaps I
don’t remember everything I should, I will always know how much of an
inspiration to me she is. Everyday, I
see her fight and struggle just to be around for us, to keep things as normal
as she possibly can. Before all this, I
thought true strength and bravery came from people rescuing others from burning
buildings, siblings jumping into rivers to save other siblings. Although these events
are by no means cowardly, I have come to respect that sometimes true bravery
can also come from less grandiose circumstances. It is the courage to tell two
scared daughters that everything will be okay and that life will go on, even
when you don’t 100% believe it yourself. It is the quiet but resilient strength
that comes from knowing your body is changing every day, and not for the
better, but the decision to fight it anyway.
Sometimes, it’s something as little as a hand squeeze in the dark when
you have no words for each other that will make the situation any brighter.
So I guess this is for anyone who’s ever lost anyone to
anything, as vague as that may sound. Sometimes, we must look to the people we
are attempting to support in order to support ourselves.
Thank you Mam, for everything you do, every day.
