Feature Story (June)

My Mother(s).

 I was eleven years old when my parents formally divorced. To say that my sister or I were surprised would be an overstatement.  However when my mother introduced us to her partner four years later, now that was a surprise. The fact it was a woman definitely blindsided me for a number of years. It’s now over a decade later and with a little (not too much mind) maturation on my part an appreciation for both women has developed considerably. In reflection of my boisterous teenage years, I’ve recognised that both my mother and her partner tried their absolute hardest to provide a sense of stability but most importantly a sense of family for me. My sister had already flown the nest for college and my father was predictably absent from my life. I’ve struggled to arrive at any particular interesting narrative to communicate my thoughts on these two women. In truth, despite this supposed (on my part) minor hiccup of having your middle aged mother come out to a fifteen year old boy, my teenage years were surprisingly normal. I did everything most teenagers do, eventually leaving the household three years later to attend college on the opposite side of the county. My relationship with my mother and her partner underwent a series of changes in proceeding years. I graduated from laying blame at these two women and all their perceived faults for my fictional trauma.

 

 I watched helplessly last year as my mother underwent a double mastectomy and a particularly gruelling bout of chemotherapy that landed her in hospital on two occasions – once for blood clots forming on her lungs and another time for her cell count plummeting far below expectations. In spite of this her partner was not only her rock but mine as well. Where I once swore I’d never allow this woman any access to my thoughts, she is the only person to witness me cry in over ten years. She cried in my presence as well, although that could be a result of my pathetic attempt to make inedible lasagne for dinner after one such hospital visit. I watched in admiration for some time how she singlehandedly nursed my mother back to health, forcing her on so-called ‘off’ days to put on her prosthesis and hairpiece to engage with people again. I now know she is the only person who could do it. For my mother is utterly emotive, like wildfire. Yet she is reserved, something I once mistook for coldness and harbouring hostility towards the fact I was part of a package. In some sense awareness on my part is that while I supposedly had a lot to take on as a teenager, she had a lot to take on as my mother’s partner. It’s extremely difficult to be objective about oneself but I consider our initial non-existent relationship to be mostly my fault. The door was always closed. Yet over the years a number of similar personality traits have emerged in the two of us. We’re the same, retaining a sarcastic, mocking but ultimately (deep down) loving relationship.  

      By: Anonymous.