From Imaginary To Real Life Heroes (Part Four)

It took me about 10 months to sift thru the crumbling debris of my brain. To unravel a part of me that I thought I had long forgotten about. I began to see the light again and was able to come to grips with a lot of things. Having people asking me the right questions at the right times and showing an enormous amount of patience when I chose to clam up. Letting me know that it wasn't my fault. That it was okay to feel and to cry. It was time to move on and so I did. Slowly. That was in the summer of 1996.

When I was told that I would have to decide to cut the ties of some of the people in my life, I was very deliberate about that. Too the extreme so it seems. I never spoke to my mother again at least not in a normal fashion. After about a year or two, I was in a bit of a turmoil. Every year on her birthday or at Christmas I would get as far as picking up the phone, punching in her number but then hanging up before the call went thru. It became my greatest fear and I remember telling a close friend that if would probably crush me if she were to die without me ever speaking to her again. Yet every year I went thru the same pathetic routine. I don't know what was preventing me and yet I allowed it to consume me.

Then one day I received a call at work from my sister. She told me that my mother was rushed to the hospital in Montréal and things were looking bleak. I contacted the doctors and they filled me in on her condition. She had a heart attack and they also discovered that she had cancer. A heavy smoker, I remember some of the coughing fits I witnessed. My father was just as bad. I went to my boss, filled him in on the details and took off. It took me about 8 hours to get there and I went directly to the hospital. It almost killed me to see her like that.

The doctor would not be around until the next day so I sat with my mother. The nurse told me that she was in and out of consciousness and would probably recognize my voice if I spoke to her. I felt weird but I did it anyway. When I spoke, I told her who it was and distinctly remember her squeezing my hand. I was relieved. I stayed for awhile but was told that I would have to come back in the morning. I gave them my contact information and left.

The next morning, I returned to the hospital and sat with my mother hoping beyond hope that she would open her eyes. It didn't happen. Finally, the doctor came around and filled me on her condition. He told me that she was stable but that she was heavily sedated. He told me that at best she had 3 months. I quickly told him to do what needed to be done. I will take the three months. He said that there was nothing for me to do there now and that he would keep me informed as to her progress. I sat with her for awhile and just relived the few cherished moments that I had of my mother. I drove back home on the Sunday and went to work waiting for a progress report.

Just before lunch I got a call from the doctor's office. He now told me to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, that there was nothing further that he could do. I was stunned. I made a couple of quick calls and a friend picked up the ball arranging for a flight and hotel while I went home and grabbed a few things. I arrived in Montréal in the early morning hours. Dropped my stuff off at the hotel and then walked the block to the hospital. I got to her bedside around 5:30 in the morning and at exactly 6 a.m. on the morning of June 06, 2001 she was gone. My worst fear came true. I never heard my mother's voice again.

In the last 5 years of her life, I let stubborn pride take away any final relationship I could have had with my mother. Never letting her know how much I truly loved her regardless of the events of our lives. I wouldn't have cared if we lived in a dirt floor shack. I'm sure we could have made it. I know now of some of the events that could have contributed to her decision to give her children up. Mostly issues with my father. But the fact of the matter is she did give us up and turned to alcohol to numb the pain. My father, on the other hand, never took ownership for any of this. His narcissism and lack of human decency allows him to sleep at night. I can't explain it.

Heroes. That is how all of this began. To me, any mother who puts her children first, makes sacrifices and never gives up hope in order to keep her children with her, that is my definition of a hero. No mask, no costume, no fanfare. Just the unconditional love for her children.

I'm reminded of something that happened when I went back to school. I was in the grocery store standing in line with the few items that I need for my lunch. My budget was slim with little in the way to spare, but adequate. Behind me in line stood a mother with 3 or 4 of her children. In one hand, she held a fist full of coins. And in the other, about five or six packs of those noodles in a bag. Hardly nutritional, I thought but I recognized the effort. My heart cried. Amongst the items in my basket was a bag of oranges and I could see one of the little guys eyeballing them. I paid for my purchase and when the cashier was bagging my items, I told her to give the bag of oranges to the lady behind me. She just looked at me with a weird look but did it anyway.

I stopped at the counter on the way out to pick up a newspaper when I felt a tug at my shirt. It was one of the little boys. He just came to tell me that his mother wanted to say thanks. I just smiled and then my heart smiled. Heroes. God love 'em!

Just in case you are wondering, I still love my mother and miss her everyday.

I read the following quotes on a couple of different blogs;

"Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about. "

"And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."Anais Nin