‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, your mother is dying.’
The words that I had already spent the past three weeks trying to work through the mental gymnastics, still managed to hit me like a tonne of bricks.
My partner asked hesitantly,
‘What’s wrong?’
His dark curly locks pushed out of his face, so he could better assess my suddenly solemn demeanour.
Moments ago, we were talking about my return to work. I had just stated that I felt mentally equipped to handle it after taking the better part of three weeks off to cope with the fact that my estranged, seriously mentally ill mother who I had not spoken to for the greater part of fourteen years, was suddenly gravely ill.
I’m reminded, for a brief second, of a happy moment between my younger sister and I. A stupid video she made me watch in with Cody Ko (a gen z youtuber) reviews a horribly comical movie titled ‘Velocipastor’. In a moment of utter grief and loss, the protagonist .. a Pastor who becomes a Velociraptor, seeks comfort from a senior pastor, he simply states,
‘That’s what parents do; they die’.
I’m glad my brain, for a split second, thought of a happy memory with another family member not tainted by the years of abuse and torment we had otherwise experienced under my mother. That my brain didn’t straight away jump to one of the horrific events that have left me fighting to live time and time again. As if, my brain, in someway, finally found a good use of my chronic habit of masking my pain with humour; I’m a hit at parties until I begin to trauma dump and scare everyone away.
I throw my phone on the bed, next to my partner, and state,
“They want to euthanise her… I guess..”
He reads over the text message from my mothers sister, and takes his time. I’m nervous, wondering if perhaps I’m over-reacting, or if he’s confused because this isn’t exactly new information, but it’s also no further or closer to the end that we know is coming… after all, that’s what parents do; they die. My mother, is now dying of what they can finally confirm is Motor Neuron Disease and my head begins spinning with question after question.
I call my father, he answers chirpy,
“Now, why are you calling so late?”
It’s almost… hard to tell him. I don’t know why he was so happy to hear me calling so late, or what he possibly could have thought it was about, but all the same, it feels really shitty to be the one to tell other people bad news about someone they once loved.
He takes a deep breath and asks me if I’m ok. I tell him I am, because… in this point in time, I am. I know I won’t be, I know I’ll go through phases but at least, for the better part of the past three weeks I’ve been going through those phases in preparation for this I guess.
Three weeks ago, fresh into 2024, we received word my mother had a stroke. The information was through the grapevine, because my mother has been a recluse her whole life and unless she was dead or dying, we thought we’d probably never hear from her again. Well, turns out 2024 is that year. The message was vague, I read it while on the phone to my boss, and told her I needed to just catch my breath and figure out what it meant.
“Your mothers ex boyfriends’ now wife messaged me to say that Leanne has had a stroke. Sorry I don’t know anymore kids, but maybe you can contact her family to see if you can find out more.”
So, I tried, all day to get a hold of someone in her family, to get on to the hospitals in North Queensland, trying several of the names she could have gone by, and I get nothing. Even the ‘ex boyfriend’ isn’t aware that his wife has sent my father the above message. I try my half brother who was the last of us to free himself from her, but he frankly has nothing nice to say and I don’t blame him. He’s no doubt suffered more than any of us can imagine in the 18 odd years he stayed with her. Most of us were lucky to suffer only 14 years or so of her abuse. Some, had to deal with the repercussions of her abuse but were too young to recall any of it occurring.
I finally get through to my Aunty. She sounds as beautiful and caring as always, I can never understand how two women so vastly different, night and day, could be sisters. When I think of my mother during her ‘healthy’ moments, I am strongly reminded of the compassion that my Aunty displays in every interaction I’ve ever had with her. Guilt tugs on me that it’s been some time since we last spoke, but part of me got tired of emailing only with bad news,
“Another failed IVF attempt; another ectopic pregnancy; divorce… etc etc.” So I just removed myself from the narrative because after years of no contact with my mothers family, I didn’t want to suddenly taint this beautiful person, this beautiful friendship she offered me, with the shittiness that seemed to be the ongoing struggle I call life.
Her soft, calming voice reaches me through the phone,
“Oh darling, it’s so good to hear your voice” She says, and I already feel the tears welling up. Part of me always hears my mother in her voice, and I can make believe for just a split second the words are coming from my mothers lips.
After much confusion, the following facts are what I was able to attain from her:
1. My mother potentially had a stroke at some point in the past few weeks, as she lost complete control of her legs and was taken to hospital
2. They’re no longer able to speak on the phone, as they can no longer understand a word she is saying as speech is very slurred and she gasps for air frequently
3. She’s alone… In North QLD and has no-one.
I don’t know why, but somehow, I know this is it. I tell my siblings, at least the four that are direct relatives, as for me, that’s the family unit and always has been. I ponder telling my half brother, but I figure he knows her family better than all of us, so if he is in need of guidance or support, he’s probably better equipped. I find myself lost in a feeling of resentment, sadness and grief for a relationship I wish I had had with her.
I tell my aunty to pass on my number to her in case she wants to talk, knowing that she won’t. She’s always hated me more than I could ever fathom, and yet, I feel extreme sadness for her in the state she is in. I can’t imagine her dying alone, unable to walk, talk and struggling to breathe. I decide to do what I can, from Melbourne, more than 4000kms away. I google everything, from stroke recovery, to mandated palliative care, for assisted suicide. There are two things that I know my mother will still strongly hold true to this day, (1) Medical intervention for anything is unnecessary (2) She’d never ask for help, even with her dying breath. And yet, here I am, thinking of booking a flight to North QLD to visit her, to force my way in, to book the appointments with specialists and get her whatever help we can. Would she accept it? Fuck No. Would I actually be able to do anything to assist her? Also, most likely, a fuck no. But does that mean I don’t try?
“She’s made me and your other aunty (her brothers wife) executors and has requested to have her ashes scattered in Port Douglas”, my Aunty’s message comes through when I’m three days into my research, suffering from a lack of sleep and a growing addiction to marijuana to cope with the stress.
With that message, I know that this is it. I’m about to say goodbye to a woman who caused so much destruction in everyone I loves’ lives. The woman who caused so much fallout from years of abuse and torment, that relationships have been forever fractured and destroyed from actions resulting from the trauma. The woman, who single handedly tried to kill most of my siblings and would have succeeded if she had been given more time. I should be happy, that she is dying alone with no one, suffering in her final days. After all, that’s just one of the things she told me would happen to me on a daily basis, when I was too young to understand fully the trauma that abondonment and fear of abdondonment would cause.
But instead, I feel overwhelmingly sad and heartbroken for her, as I try to piece together who she was, who she became, and who she’ll die as. They’re three extremely distinct people, and yet all the same complicated woman who was doomed from the beginning.
