Maternal Deception

By the time I was thirteen, I had experienced my mother being in the hospital for surgery three times (? I think). The first one I remember was an appendectomy.  I think I was not much more than five or six.  I remember bits and pieces of that time with remarkable clarity, much of which, I am not happy to admit, dates me quite a bit.

I don't really remember her being ill, and as a mom now, I know exactly why.  Mothers are amazing liars when it comes to protecting their children.  We hide hurt, we hide pain, we grin and bear it, and despite our own good health, we are too often "fine".  This raw maternal deception never ends.

Regardless, she was ill - very ill in fact.  It would have been about 1982 I guess, and appendicitis was still a pretty big deal then - not all hospitals dealt with it.  Apparently she was ill enough to be hospitalized at our local hospital.  I remember being grocery shopping with my dad and the grocery store received a phone call from the hospital.  I remember hearing my dad being called over the store intercom.  He took the call, and we promptly left the groceries behind and rushed to the hospital.  When we got there, my mom was crying, terrified, as they were rushing her to Edmonton for immediate surgery.  She was going in an ambulance, my dad would follow with us.

I don't remember much else.  I remember a traffic jam on the way there of some sort; I remember that it was dark when we were driving.  I don't remember much else, until the next day, maybe two days later when we went to the hospital to visit.  Even then it's sketchy.  The memory is 30 years old.  I remember the pink house coat she wore, and the IV in her arm, and how when we had to leave that night, she tried to fight tears... and was unsuccessful.

That's the part I remember about every other surgery as well - the tears when visiting hours were over and we had to leave her.  My mothers tears stick with me.  Her fear sticks with me.  Her love sticks with me.

Fast forward to present day, where I am an adult, and she is still my mom, and she is still very good at protective deception.  Today, she is very ill, and has spent most of the day in an emergency room before being admitted to a hospital in Edmonton.  There were no ambulances, just a dad-ulance.  There were no emergency phone calls, just informational ones.  There is worry in my father's reassuring voice.  And I can guarantee, right about now, there are tears.  There are my tears of worry, being almost two hours away, knowing all about her tears as night falls.

Being a mom...well... sometimes, is hard, and right now (as I held my tears until my children were in bed), I am grateful for the protective deception I learned - masterfully.  I will worry enough for us all.  But this is a whole new experience - being a mother myself, knowing what she is hiding, and worrying, excruciatingly, about my mother, and trying to keep my children from worry - worry about both her, and their extraordinary compassion for me. (p.s. I have raised extraordinary children with hearts as big as the moon)

I know what she's hiding, I know her tears... and I know there's nothing I can do to change it.

Would it be odd to have gratitude for common, fixable illnesses?  My knot at the end of this rope is knowing the eventual outcome is a good one, where all of this will be but a memory a year from now.  Although the lesson in anxiety will stick with me - just like her love does, and I will chalk that up to one more similarity I have to my mother.

Love and light, prayers and faith, and of course, gratitude.