Tag Archives: adoption

May 13, 2013

Visitation Concluded

By t.dot

So…

I went to go see my Mom yesterday, as she commanded. It was on odd visit to say the least. It seems all she wanted to know, in a nutshell, is if I still wanted to be part of her family…

Really???

I understand that she is 87, recognizing her mortality and basically just wanting and waiting to die, (her words, not mine) but her memories of our life together have definitely been eroded by the cottony softness of age and fluffed up convenient, fresh ideas on ideal motherhood. She is now assuming to know what is best for children, has wise and sacred knowledge to pass on to my sister about how she should raise her son, as if my mother herself were the epitome of perfect parenting! I am BAFFLED to say the least. Perplexed. Outraged. Insulted. And yes, a little pissed at her presumptuousness.

When my Mom called, demanding to know when I was coming to visit her next, she was very no-nonsense about it all. Abrupt. Curt. And a little intimidating. For a whole week I felt like a kid who was waiting for Dad to come home and give me the strap for stealing change from my teachers purse to buy candy. (Yes, true story. I was a sugar thief! ) And the anxiety was acute, I assure you. I ditched and dodged and faked my way out of going too deep into the feeling, but the waiting was agonizing. You know when a lover calls you and leaves that cryptic message “We need to talk.” and then makes you stew in that information all day till you see them? Well, this was akin to that. The endless thoughts of possibility bombarded my brain and ricocheted with dizzying frequency.

Did she want to change her will? Did she want to come live with me? Was she going to tell me that in no uncertain terms was I or my siblings to enter her into a seniors home? Was she going to ask that I assist in her dying? Did she not understand that I am gay and wanted clarification? Did she want me to take a more active role in her recovery and demise? Did she want to come live with me? (Yes, that was a concern.)

When I called her back to confirm that I was indeed coming for a visit, on Mother’s Day no less, she poo-pooed the significance with sarcasm, but seemed in a lighter mood, so I asked her what the nature of this seemed emergency was. She simply said that every time I had come to visit her since she’d had her fall, I was with someone, so we hadn’t really had any private time together. Again I was floored. Private time? Me and my Mother??? What on earth would we do with private time? And the idea of being alone with her was more then a bit daunting,  especially since I had no idea what she wanted to talk to me about.

I told her that I would be arranging a ride because it was just easier then taking the Greyhound and relying on St Catharine’s transit and told her that if she needed to talk with me privately, I would ask my ride to wait for me in the car or keep themselves otherwise occupied. She then asked how my eX was and I told her he was fine. She always asks about him. She likes him a lot. Probably more then she likes me. When she told me that she wouldn’t mind if he were present and that she would love to see him, the gavel slammed down in my mind. Done! I called my eX and asked him (told him actually!) to take me.  He agreed. There is nothing he doesn’t know about me, nothing my Mother could say to shock, offend or make him uncomfortable. Turns out I was wrong (sorry M). In her usual lack-of-diplomacy-and-say-whatever-comes-into-her-head kind of way, she offended him within the first 2 minutes of seeing him.  The first thing she said to my eX was that he had changed and had gained weight.

What is it with people over 70 feeling the need to comment incessantly on people’s weight whether its the gaining or losing of it. My eX’s parents do the same! It must be a generational thing! Sooooo inappropriate and completely insensitive, but they just don’t see it that way!!! Amazing. I could tell he was properly offended as he sucked in his wine-beer-cheese-salami-loving and not-very-large-at-all belly and said that he has gained and lost and gained and lost over the past 10 years. Touche!

After giving her the beautiful, plump dozen of yellow roses, which my eX had paid for lol, I left the kitchen to pee, and was gone less then a minute. That’s all it took for my Mom to ensconce him in living room, pin him in a corner and begin her interrogation. I heard her ask him why he and I weren’t together anymore just as I entered the room and he laughed softly, looked up at me, gestured with an outstretched arm and said, “Why don’t you ask her?” If it had been anyone else I would have been mortified, but my eX knew what he was in for before arriving, so our eyes locked with mutual understanding. My mother, on the other-hand, looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar! It was quite humorous actually. I have rarely seen her looking uncomfortable or guilty. She is always so righteous about everything.

Anyhow, the conversation quickly, albeit a little awkwardly, turned to confirmation that my eX and I are the best of friends, that we are closer now then we have ever been and that he still, in his way, takes care of me – which made my Mother happy and she told him she loved him for that. And it struck me fresh again, that she has never told me she loves me. Ever. I know that was her way of saying she loved him for taking care of someone she cared about, but sometimes you  just want to hear the words, ya know?

Shortly afterward, I asked her what was so important  that she needed to see me. Her face kinda crunched up in mild agitation, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders tensed and she rubbed her palms along her thighs before throwing them out in well-remembered exasperation. “I just want to know if you still want to be part of my family!”

Asking me if I still wanted to be a part of her family was the last thing I had expected. The emphasis on her family kind of hurt, as if it were already a forgone conclusion that I had never been a part of her family. She could have said “the” or “this” family…just sayin.

I sat there on the floor barefoot and Yoga-Buddha style, momentarily stunned. My pause was perceptible but minoot. “Of course I do.” I answered incredulously. “Why would you even ask me that?”

She visibly relaxed into the couch and said, “Well, I just thought you might have some issues around it.”

Jesus! Issues??? Old woman, if you only  knew!!!

My mind raced, frantic for a moment , like a deer in the headlights I didn’t quite know how to respond! Here was my chance! I could say anything right now and justify it because it had been invited. I could tell her that she had been a terrible mother, that I never felt that she loved me, that she never showed me any kind of real affection, that I had spent my entire association with her seeking her approval, desperately wanting validation that I had worth and merit in her eyes, that I wished she hadn’t made me feel like such a disappointment. A loser. A failure. As if nothing better was or had ever been expected of me since I was after-all,  just the poor, ignorant, uneducated, adopted colored child and not of her superior academia genes.

Issues!!! Noooo Mom, I don’t have any issues. (Yes, that was sarcasm!)

So many thoughts and questions screamed for release from the shadows of black memories that have never been able to turn to light. I wanted to cry and stamp my feet like a petulant child and ask her why she even bothered to adopt me if she wasn’t capable of loving me and making me feel wanted. Why subject a child to that kind of cruel punishment? I might have been better off in the orphanage…unadopted yes, but also living without the false hope of being made whole again by a mothers love.

The conversation twisted and wound around and around. My eX’s presence kept it light for the most part but my Mom did tell me that when I first came to live with them, I was such a cold child. That I was incapable of showing or excepting emotion. She told me that when she used to come in and tuck us in to bed and kiss us goodnight, I would just lie there cold and unresponsive. I had a harder time imagining her coming into tuck us in and kiss us goodnight then I did believing I was an emotionally unresponsive 6 year old. I have absolutely no memory of her ever kissing me goodnight. More of the cottony softness of age memories, perhaps?

Anyhow, I told her that when I was 15 I had actually met the case worker involved with me when I first went into the Children’s Aid at the ripe old age of 2, and that prior to being adopted I had been in 27 different foster homes. I wondered if she had even been aware of that. It just surprised me that she could recount how “cold” I was as a child and never once attribute it to anything in her retelling of the story. Children are not born “cold”, Mother. She didn’t really bat an eyelash at that, but immediately went into attack mode of my biological mother – whom she couldn’t stand ( and to her credit, with reason) and said that I had to forgive my biological mother because she had never been given the tools to raise a child or be a responsible parent. That she was a damaged individual. That I couldn’t blame her and that she probably did her best with the limited tools she was given.

It was the perfect segue…

I told my Mom that I had called my biological mother a few years back, and that in that conversation I had hoped for some answers and some closure. My biological mother was an alcoholic, mentally unstable and a lesbian. But more importantly, she tried to kill me. Literally. And, if not for the intervention of one of her lovers and the grace of the almighty, she would have succeeded. I never understood, and still don’t understand how a Mother could ever hate her child so much that she would actually want to kill her with her own bare hands. Still sends chills deep inside.

That conversation had been a bust. When I tried to ask her the questions I desperately needed answers to, she simply cried foul. Asked me what I wanted from her, cried and sobbed and told me couldn’t handle the conversation. She ended up hanging up on me, but just before she did, I realized that I was never going to get the closure I was looking for. None of the answers. No earth-shattering revelation that would heal my wounds and suffering. Nope. In that moment I realized “This is as good as it’s ever going to get.“ I sighed. I released. I let go. Two years later my sister called to tell me she was dead. I mourned her passing, with deep sadness for what never had been…for about an hour. And then I sighed again. I released. And I let go. For good.

My Mother listened to my story and really didn’t have much to say. She told me the one mistake she thinks she made with me was going back to work so soon after I was adopted. She thinks now that she should have stayed home longer with me because she knew I had never been in a “family” before and needed time to get used to the situation. She told me that she had asked me set the table shortly after I had joined the family (in the hopes of us bonding in some way) and when she had asked me to set out serving spoons as well, I didn’t know what serving spoons were.  Strange, the things that stick in her memory. Apparently, I was a cold, unresponsive child who didn’t know what a serving spoon was. Great.

Then I finally asked the BIG question. The one I have wanted to ask most of my life actually. The one for whatever reason, until now I hadn’t found the courage to ask.

“So Mom, why did you choose to adopt me specifically?”

She promptly replied with a shrug of her thin shoulders, “You were available.”

Aaah, there it is. That warm and tender sensitivity we all know and love. I felt winded by the brutal dismissive. How the fuck do you argue with that? What more can one say? It was such a simple, blanket statement that really required no further explanation. But it was so…cold.

She went  on to tell me that my sister had wanted a sister, and my Mother being 38 at the time was not about to get pregnant again, so they decided to adopt. They called the Children’s Aid and the worker they spoke to on the phone, told them if they were in rush, a six year old colored girl was available. My Dad, sister and brother came to meet and take me out for a visit to Upper Canada Village, which I remember quite vividly. I’ve always wondered why I don’t have any memory of my Mother on that day and now I know it was because she didn’t come. Odd. Why wouldn’t you come to meet your perspective daughter??? I can hear her now. She was fond of calling us “you people”. She probably sent the family off,  minus one Mother figure, (thankful for some time to herself no doubt) and told them, “If you people like her then bring her home”. As if I were a puppy, or a kitten or a new couch.

There was no romance in my being adopted into a white middle-class family in the 60′s. I was simply….available.

Lucky me. Right?

So, the realization gleaned from my short and bittersweet visitation?

“This is as good as it’s ever going to get.”

My mothers are/were flawed and damaged human beings who did the best they could with the tools they were given to raise their daughters. But, the reality is, they are/were simply human and I have finally learned to accept that truth for what it is and put the pain of  feeling forsaken in a pretty blue box and stick it on my shelf of forgetting.

I sat on the floor, barefoot and Yoga-Buddha style, looking at this frail, fragile, white haired woman, once a formidable, larger then life, indomitable figure who dominated my childhood and realized that whether she has ever loved me or not, I love her. She is the only woman who willingly took on the role of my Mother, good or bad, fuzzy love or not, and through a quirky kind of osmosis, has instilled the steel in my blood that has allowed me to survive all that I have endured. And now she is old and tired and ready and wanting to die, as she told both my eX and I repeatedly, without morbidity and with complete candor, from the moment we stepped across her threshold – right after she told him he was fat :)

So, when my Mom told me she thought I might have some issues with being in her family, I smiled and looked her straight in the eye.

“No, Mom.” I said, “No issues. I’m good.”

And I meant it.

15 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Mommy Nearest

April 25, 2013

Prelude to Reflections

By t.dot

Well, it’s been an interesting few months to say the least. My depression has been chemically altered and as much as I hated (and still hate) the thought of relying on meds to keep my sanity, I’m afraid to stop taking them now. The lowest dosage possible has been prescribed. The pills don’t stop me from crying or hurting or feeling lost and sad inside, but they do keep me walking safely on the edge of the abyss.

I have wanted to write for weeks now. A strange sort of clarity is filling me from deep, inner reflections that have come unbidden and to be honest, unwanted. I was walking blindly along a path and simply stumbled into this mirroring pool and now that I’m in it, I have no choice but to see myself.

From fractured pieces of a fucked up fun-house, images of me at every age and every stage of my life loom too close for comfort and are too real to ignore. Everywhere I turn I am two, I am five, I am seven, I am eleven, I am nineteen. I am pure, and then I am not. I am light, and then I am sin. I am unblemished, and then I am scarred. I see my first breath and watch as life is choked. I am whole, and then I am broken. And the mirrors ripple with silent laughter.

I have blinded my eyes and smothered my ears, but there is no escaping the voices building like a black, oppressive choir somberly droning in the backdrop of my life. Loud and angry, soft and gentle, vulnerable and weak, strong and fearless, full of false-bravado, tired and lonely, scared and disillusioned, abused, raped and alone… all vying for recognition and attention, screaming “See me! I am YOU!” “See me! I am YOU!” “You can’t hide. WE are YOU!” And when they rise in fever-pitch-perfection of unanimous conviction, I panic and search desperately for that illusive glowing EXIT that will lead me out of this not-so-fun fun-house and into the fresh sunlight of day.

Sometimes I find it. Sometimes I don’t. Hence the medication…

Part of me is glad of this deeper reflection-ing, this new insight, this new mirroring of me, but a bigger part of me is terrified of the reveal. Of the truths that will jump up and bite me in the ass with brutal confrontation. Yup, I’ve got a few not-so-pretty demons. Hell, who doesn’t? But, I’ve been running from mine for far too long. I think it’s time to confront them and finally let them go.

I have no idea where I will end up mentally, physically and spiritually once I lay my confessional truths down, but I’m praying that the spirits who have walked with me this far, will continue to do so, for without them this journey would be impossible. I am not an island and no matter how strong I appear on the outside, a willing shiny beacon of light and hope for those less fortunate then me, I am weak and raw and bleeding out in search of a truth I’m not 100% sure I can handle.

For starters, I’ve come to realize that P is my mother.

Without a doubt.

And that horrifying, fucked up reality hit me two nights ago with a thundering, crashing, booming truth. More to come on that, next post. Big mountain. BIG mountain….

Secondly. SEX. And the twisted role it has played in my life. The truth of what sex has meant to me is hitting me like a sledge hammer square in my sternum and I am knotted up and doubled over in spasms of denial and warring truth. Much bigger mountain. BIGGER BIGGER mountain. That’s gonna be a tough one to conquer…baby steps. Breathe.

I went to see a psychic two weeks ago and he hit on some very profound things that have left me in, or perhaps, started this reflection. I don’t know. But something has been stirred in me and this coming-out-crooked-late-blooming-lesbian needs to talk about it. So, I will say now, as a precursor, that if I offend or shock anyone, it is not my intention. We all have our shit. Mine is about to be put out into the cosmos because I need to do it. If it’s too deep or too real or too hard to read, then please, move on and find lighter words. This isn’t for you. But, it is for me.

Recently, a young blogger, who I think is very brave and wonderful (and who also happened to nominate me for an award which, I deeply appreciate but have declined to accept) wrote a post in where she said she needed to change the content of her blog a bit. That she wanted to write about some things that were a little less fluff and people pleasing and more to please herself and the questions she has about… Her life. Her mind. Her thoughts. Her heart. She was basically asking for permission to do so. In response to her query post, this was my reply:

“Wagg, always remember this is your personal space on the web, in the universe for that matter and as such it’s yours to say whatever you feel you need or want to say. Express yourself as you would talking to a friend because you’re right, you do have a supportive network out here in WordPress land and we love hearing from you; happy or sad, serious or funny, sexual or questioning. This is life baby girl and whatever feels right and good to you in your heart, you should never question or seek opinion on. So…in my humble but opinionated opinion lol, write whatever the hell you want girl and enjoy the freedom it gives you! If you lose one follower, trust me, you will gain another. Everything we say and talk about here helps, guides, mimics or enhances someone else’s life, dreams, goals, fears and concerns. You’re not alone in your need to express whatever it is you want to express. So be brave and have fun! Hugz xo”

And her response to me was this:

“Thanks for your comment – it made me feel a lot better about posting stuff on here. I guess I sometimes forget that I can write whatever I want because I’m so driven to making my readers happy and enjoy my posts. I’ve never really thought about making it like I’m talking to a friend, but that is a great piece of advice and I will definitely start doing it! Thank you again, you are so kind to me. :)“

Her post and her request reminded me of the reason why I first started this blog. To work thru not only my late coming out, but to write about, well, everything. My life. My mind. My thoughts. My heart. And I was doing that, quite brilliantly I think…until P found my blog. Since then, I have shied away from spilling my guts, ranting my rage and sharing my wonder at all that my life is becoming. I have been so worried about her feelings, her reactions and responses to my writings and the drama that might ensue since we live together, that I have let them bottleneck inside of me, stifling my creativity and killing the personal freedom this gift gives me.

But, P did give one piece of advice a long, long time ago that I will willingly act upon right now and that I will openly thank her for as well… (Thank you, P). She told me that she should never be able to take away my power; that no one should. That I alone have control over whether or not I allow that to happen. And she’s right. Not writing has taken away my personal power. A power that defines who I am. Writing helps me remember where I’ve been, where I am, where I want to go and who I want to be.

So…I’m taking it back!

Whew…I gotta tell ya. This felt good :)

13 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Reflections

August 13, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 4,3,2,1

By t.dot

Letting Go…

I feel the need to sum up Mommy Nearest. Now. So I am.

Finally. And completely.

My reasons are two-fold.

Firstly, the reason I started this segment was because when my mother became lost and then found again recently – (you really do have to start this story from Mommy Nearest -Day 1o Ago to fully understand it) – an age-old internal struggle began within and I became completely, almost bitterly overwhelmed by it.

I thought I could write it all out. My usual method for purging angst. I thought I would find release in this familiar but, when it was confirmed that my mother was alive and safe and I sat at my desk, poised at my computer, ready to write…something…my fingers literally froze above the keyboard. Hovering. Trembling. Useless. Incapable of actually landing on the keys. And it struck me like a physical blow to my gut; I couldn’t write.

I felt the panic rise up in my belly. The nervous, terrifying knot of fear. I didn’t know why I couldn’t write or why I suddenly felt so scared, but I was. Undeniably, paralyzingly and inexplicably really, really scared.

I curled my fingers into fists and stretched them back out again. I resumed the position. Nothing. I did it again. And then again. And still nothing. The panic twisted sharply. I felt my heart racing, my breath quicken. I got up, walked away from the computer and dropped onto the couch.

It would be 10 days before I wrote anything again.

I closed my eyes in a weak attempt to find calm and strove to hear my inner voice. But the eternal, delicious, non-nonsensical babble that is my mind had suddenly ceased to exist. In its place was silence. An eerie kind of silence, as in the eye of a cataclysmic storm.

I was catatonic.

Everything. Just. Stopped.

And then the tsunami hit. Full fucking force. A torrential blast of past and present converged in a loud, thunderous clap and I spiraled into the whirling vortex of REWIND.

Cracked, scratchy images flickered black and white and gray across my mind, racing through it in a movie reel I was powerless to stop. Explosions of emotion I thought dealt with, buried and ineffective, burst inside me and destroyed my tenuous grip on tranquility. I was completely unprepared for this. I tried frantically to shut off the fucking projector and swim to the surface of my life. Where the air was clean and clear and the waters only rippling in slight, manageable disturbance…

But, I was strapped in. My minds eye propped wide open. There was absolutely nothing I could do but watch as the ferocious monster of my childhood crested the frothing waves, its piercing screech chanting in my ears. Loud. Louder. Loudest!

Blame. “Its your fault.” Fear. “Unworthy of love.” Abandonment. “No one wants you.” Shame. “Such a disappointment.”

Anger. Fuck you!

Guilt.

I gave my monster a name and challenged it to a duel.

Mother.

She crashed against the walls of my protection, smashing the fortress I had resurrected into splintered pieces of driftwood. She laughed at my feeble attempts to hold back her contempt and disdain. She dangled her heart high above my drowning form and watched as I reached desperately, yet hopelessly, for her love. I felt such a surge of anger. How dare she do this to me! Then a soul wrenching sadness. How dare she do this to me.

And then, incredible guilt for feeling so angry and bitter towards her. My 86 year old mother had fallen and fractured her hip, was lying helpless in a hospital bed with no family close to attend her needs and I didn’t want to have to be responsible for her care.

What kind of daughter feels that way?

I’ll tell you what kind.

The kind that doesn’t want to feel like a begging orphan again, always trying to please her adoptive mother, wanting her love and never ever succeeding. The kind that doesn’t want to be reminded once again that she is a failure. A disappointment. The kind that has always felt that her existence really didn’t matter to her mother, one way or another.

I realize now that I will never ever have the type of resolution needed to heal so many years of emotional neglect and the feelings of inadequacy they inspired. I thought I had come to terms with that.

I was wrong.

I knew this the instant I heard the paled, thinner version of her once strong and commanding voice on the phone and was abruptly returned to that sad, pathetic, love starved little girl. And even though I hated that I had no control over the sickening feelings overtaking me, I went to be with her, took care of her needs. I was the dutiful daughter. I did the right thing. And within minutes of seeing her, I was made to feel inadequate, unnecessary, second-best and obscure. By the end of the visit I simply felt unappreciated.

And this, my lovelies, is the thing that I had been dreading. It wasn’t the actual taking care of her needs. No. I was, and am more then willing to do that. No. It’s having to deal with the onslaught of her meanness, her brutal insensitivity, her indifference and her oh-so-luke-warm dubious affection.  It’s the being made to feel as if “I will do” when it’s so evident  to anyone in attendance, that she would much rather have her natural son or daughter there with her, instead of me.

Even after all these years, when I know this is simply ‘just how she is’, ‘just how she is’ still has the ability to hurt me. Deeply.

And the really sad thing? She is completely unaware that she has done anything wrong, that her inability to express love to me has had such wide reaching effects. In her mind, I am quite certain, she believes she was a loving, caring mother who gave me the best start in life that she could.

Who am I to argue with that?

In many ways, my years with The Smiths were the most painful years of my life, but, in many ways, they were also the best years of my life. My father is a beloved stranger now, my brother is as well, but ironically, it is my sister whom I adore and grow closer to every time we meet. A relationship I value deeply. Funny thing, life.

So, I will let sleeping dogs lie and leave my mother with her truths. She’s an old woman now and nothing will come of digging into a past better left in shadowed, confusing memory…even if it is imprinted incorrectly. My mother deserves to die in peace when her time comes, believing whatever she needs to believe to make her passing easier. You see, regardless of how she may feel about me,  I still love her in-spite of it.

And the second reason to sum up Mommy Nearest, finally and completely?

In that crystal clear, shining instant, when my mothers voice transported me back to a bittersweet childhood, I realized I still have a whole slew of emotions to work out where she is concerned, but I know now that I never will.

Over these past two weeks, I have learned to make peace with that.

I am a good person, with a kind heart and an amazing capacity to love and because of that, I have known and still have great love in my life. I have learned that out of the many, the few can not defeat. I am whole and still defining myself and my conscience is clear. And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

7 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Mommy Nearest

August 8, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 6 Ago

By t.dot

I was a Track Star.

I was not an Academic.

I think that was the first strike against me in trying to earn my mothers affection. The second was that I am a girl. Ya. Still kinda puzzled over that one.

My mother was an English professor at Brock University. Academics were high on her list of priorities. Naturally. She is brilliant. She wanted her children to be brilliant as well. My sister is. My brother is. Must be genetics. Sigh. I was clever enough, passed all my courses with acceptable grades but, I was not then, nor have I ever been, an Academic. Or perhaps, I just didn’t stick around long enough to make the necessary commitment to my education? Didn’t “apply myself “. Either way, I failed her in that regard. Failing her expectations is probably the one thing I do well that we would both agree on…

I did try though. Desperately. I learned very early on that this was a way to please her and I wanted nothing more then for her to look upon me with love and pride, the way she did my siblings. The rare times I received praise from her was when my grades were above average. But, even then, she would always remind me in her not-so-subtle-way, that I could do better.  Inflated, then deflated, all in the same breath and I grew miserable in the trying to please her. She was a task master and mediocrity was not acceptable. Yup. She was tough. But, like every love starved child – (and even those who aren’t) – I craved my mothers love and ached for her smile. You know, that special one that’s reserved just for you? So I tried. I just wasn’t good at it. And when I did find something I was good at, she took no interest.

Still! I was an Athlete. And a damn good one! I was a Track Star. All round two years in a row and I shone in that arena! I had a strong and powerful body. If things had turned out differently, I do believe I could have been an Olympic contender. Yes, I was that good and that committed and I certainly had the heart. I’m sure my mother thought my passion for sports was a complete waste of time and would amount to “nothing important”. Guess we’ll never know now. Thankfully, my father wasn’t an Academic. He was a philanthropist.  A lover of life. It was he who encouraged me to follow my dreams. It was he who supported me; took me to competitions, watched my meets and praised me when I brought my ribbons home. He praised me, win or lose. He was my biggest fan and I loved him for it.

I will never forget the summer of 1972.

All my friends kept telling me that I was a shoo-in to win Athlete of The Year. I had won nearly every event at our local and inner city track meets. But, Eleanor Klark, reigning track queen supreme, had won the award for the past two years. She was my Nemesis. The year before she had beaten my timed events by mere seconds! I was mad with competitiveness, but I only dared to imagine that I could ever be in the same league with her! She was pretty amazing on the field. She was my hero. And a lesbian too, I’m pretty sure ;)  She was one grade ahead of me, had a permanent entourage and seriously, in my books, could do nothing wrong. I admired her greatly, from afar. And she had absolutely no idea who I was.

Until the summer of 1972.

And I’m quite certain she hasn’t forgotten who I am to this day!

It was the last day of school. Grade 5. Sports Awards Day. It was a big freakin deal in my school! We were all gathered in the gym, seated cross-legged on the floor, teachers in chairs on either end of the rows we created, and the awards were announced and given out one by one. When the boys gym teacher, Mr White, who was also my Geography and Home Room teacher, finally stood behind the microphone – (dressed in his usual shorts, tee, socks and runners, complete with stringed whistle dangling around his neck) – my friends and I held hands and breath, waiting to see whose name he would call out for Athlete of The Year.

“And this years Athlete of The Year is…Patti Smith!”

I almost cried. A grin split my face and I raced up the staired platform and crossed the stage to accept my award. First, a beautiful ornate ribbon was pinned on my red and white track suit jacket, and then I was handed a shiny golden trophy with my name engraved on it ! I was literally giddy with delight and beaming with pride. I could not have wiped that smile off my face if I had tried. When I looked out into the crowd of smiling faces and clapping hands, she was there. Eleanor Klark. For a moment our eyes met, and she nodded her head slightly. I had been acknowledged by my hero and it felt almost as good as winning! But, when Mr White reached behind him, and with both hands, picked up the schools prized athletic trophy, which usually sat behind glass in the foyer of our school, and told me I could take it home for the summer? Well! My smile became permanently etched.

When I saw the gold plated crest on the front of that trophy with my name engraved on it, stating unequivocally that I was indeed Memorial Public Schools 1972 Athlete of The Year, no words can tell you the self-pride I felt in that moment. My name, my accomplishment, noted right along side the many others who had held the prestigious title, including the Eleanor Klark, slotted right behind mine. I know my feet left the ground. I was in Heaven. Life had never been sweeter.

I walked home slowly, savoring my win, admiring my new golden friend. When I entered my private figure eight, the few neighbors who were out and about greeted me, curious and smiling, congratulating me, old and young. It was the one time I didn’t mind being on display. I knew they were sincere in their appreciation of my accomplishment. That trophy was almost as big as I was! There was no mistaking its importance. I will never forget that victory walk. It was fucking awesome!

When I got in the house, only my mother was present. My dad was still at work. She was sitting her in usual place, a rocking chair in the living room, reading a book. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, life was good and I was beaming, bursting to share. Prouder then I had ever been of anything in my life. I placed the trophies on the dining room table, still grinning from ear to ear. My mom looked at me and smiled weakly. She rested her book on her lap and gave the huge trophy a cursory glance and said, “That’s nice, dear. Why don’t you take them up to your room?”

I was crushed.

Later, when my dad came home and I quietly told him about my award, he smacked me on my ass and told me to bring the school trophy down from my room. When he saw how big it was he laughed a hearty, rich laugh and squeezed me tight. Then that wonderful man placed that big, glorious gold trophy, front and center, on the fireplace mantle, smack dab in the middle of our living room and silently dared my mother to say a word.

That day, my dad became my hero.

A few years ago, I took a Creative Writing course and one assignment was to write a “Brag Poem”, to boast about something we were proud of. I’ve accomplished many things I am proud of since that summer, but – like the first time you kiss, or have sex, or smell your newborn child – the first time you feel that swell of self pride is something you never ever forget. And it’s worth remembering over and over and over….

This is what I wrote:

1972

I was brilliant, inexhaustible perfection
The rock star of track stars, a goddess of sport
My spirit soared, merging with the wind
Heartbeat drumming as I shot from start to end
My feet a flurry, blurred in motion, in speed
Sneakers skating over the early morning dew
On the trembling green blades
Dusted with the white chalk of the finish line
I demolished the competition with a stomp
The powdery victory plume, mine to create
I vaulted and leaped with style and flare
Smashing all the records set before my time
And best of all
And I had done the unimaginable
I had achieved the unachievable
I had defeated Eleanor Klark
The long time reigning queen supreme
A force, a winged demon, my only nemesis
It was an excellent year
My year to exalt my fabulousness
My radiance, my amazing speed and agility
I was a trophy carrying, 12 ribbon wearing
White toothed, shiny, amber skinned
Newly ordained member of sport royalty
It was 1972. I was 11 years old
And I had been crowned Athlete of The Year

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Might not have meant anything to my mother, but those years I dedicated to doing “nothing important” were the best years of my life. So… Boo-ya to my  mother and boo-ya to Eleanor Klark! I’m proud of my 15 minutes of fame!

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August 8, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 7 Ago

By t.dot

Shortly after the visit from my new family, I went home with them to live. I must have ‘begged’ prettily enough for them to chose me. I don’t remember all the ins and outs. I was seven.  But, I do remember the event that set off the all-out-war between my new sister and I. Ironically, that same memory holds one of the two most precious memories I have of my new mother showing any genuine affection towards me.

The Smiths (no, not really) lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in St.Catharine’s. A very private, secluded, tree lined figure eight paved with smooth white-gray asphalt. It contained an assortment of beautiful, stylish homes both small and grand, each lawn dotted with massive, majestic Maples that shaded us in summer. It was, and still is, one of the nicest  neighborhoods I’ve seen. Nearly all the homes had children. Shiny, squeaky clean, white children of unquestionable birth. I stood out. I was brown. I was an orphan. I was to be pitied. I didn’t belong there. And was reminded daily. Not always intentionally, but I was reminded just the same.

I will never understand what my white skinned parents were thinking when they adopted brown skinned me. I have to believe it was with the purest of intention and hope for my future…

I remember pulling into the driveway of a mottled, brown and beige stone house, one of the smaller ones in the neighborhood actually, but appearing like a castle to me in that moment. I don’t remember who showed me to my new bedroom on the second floor, to be shared with my sister, but most likely it was she. I do remember the two twin beds with their simple but pretty flowered sheets and woolen blankets folded neatly at the foot. Close enough to inspire late night whispering and girlish giggles muffled in the fluffy white pillows; if two such sisters resided in that room.

The night table between the beds had a lamp and a lime green AM radio. There was a large desk and a dresser with a huge mirror, tucked neatly into an arched alcove facing the front of the house. Pretty ruffled curtains lifted in the summer breeze and the sound of the wind in leaves of our own massive Maple would soon became a familiar and comforting lullaby to me. A second window faced the brown, flat-roofed garage at the side of the house, and a few years later would be used as an escape route for my 16 year old sister to sneak off in the dead of night and run away with an older, married man. For 48 hours anyhow.

As was normal for the kids of my generation, we were sent outside to play. So, after a quick tour of the house, a light lunch and an encouraging smile from my mother, I was shooed out the back door with my sister and brother to greet the curious and gawking eyes of the neighborhood. No doubt news of my impending arrival spread like wildfire from home to home days, if not weeks beforehand, for it wasn’t only the children waiting patiently on the street to see the new addition to the Smith family. Nope. Kids, adults and even dogs were just-happening-to-pass-by as we made our way around to front of the house.

They were polite enough, friendly enough, cordial enough – the adults I mean. And the kids? Well, kids will be kids. The novelty of the color of my skin and coarseness of my hair wore off soon enough – (this was small town Ontario in 1968 after-all) – and they resumed their regular play. The sidewalk leading to our house had two small steps near the street. I sat there and watched, for the most part. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to play. I desperately wanted to join the laughter and chasing and childish antics, but I was afraid to get too involved. To get too comfortable. And God forbid, happy. I had no idea how long I was actually going to remain with this family. It was too soon to let my guard down.

Eventually, I did get up and play. Quietly. Precociously. And when I realized the kids were actually treating me as if I were one of them, I did start to relax and have a little fun. I think I even laughed out loud once or twice.

Of course, that’s when all hell broke loose.

I’m not sure how it came about exactly, but during some nonsensical conversation with the kids, I said something that sounded like the word “shit”. I swear to this day that I didn’t actually say the word ‘shit’, but it’s quite possible that I did. The youth I had been exposed to up to that point in my life were, shall we say, of questionable character. Rough and tumble, hardened and lost, I had met many children with mouths in need of soap and a vocabulary that would shock a nun. Not all of them, but most of them. I may have picked up a slang or two along the way.

Either way, my sister threw out her arm and pointed her finger in my face. “You swore!” she gasped, eyes as round as saucers. “I’m. Telling. My. Mother!”

“I did not!” I defended.

“Yes you did! I heard you!” Accusing  green eyes narrowed into slits. A smug smile curled her lips. She turned and headed quickly towards the back of the house.

“I did not!” I yelled even louder, stumbling behind her. I was terrified. It was over before it had even begun. They were going to throw me away.

“Mom! Mom! Patti swore!” she cried out, yanking on the screen door and letting it slam in my face.

I started crying. Loud, heart wrenching, body wracking sobs that I couldn’t control. I was devastated. I just stood there, tears running down my face, snotty nosed and defeated.

My mother opened the screen door and took my hand. She led me up the few stairs and into the kitchen and sat me down in a chair at the table. Quietly, she knelt down in front of me, eye level with my down-turned, crumpled face. I just couldn’t stop crying. My shoulders shook, my heart actually hurt. I was inconsolable.

My sister wasn’t letting it go. She stamped her foot and yelled her accusation again. “She swore! She said the “s” word! I heard her!”

“Ronnie, go back outside. I will handle this.”

“Well, she did.” my sister protested.

“I did not!” I wailed at the floor.

“Yes you did!”

“Outside. Now Ronnie.” My mother’s tone brooked no argument. With a loud ‘huff’ my sister begrudgingly went back outside.

My mother reached out and lifted my chin. Her eyes were soft and brown and her smile was gentle.

“Why are you so upset?”  She pulled out the ever-ready-tissue all mothers seem to have on hand and began wiping my face.

“Because I know you won’t believe me!” I cried even harder. I was nearly hysterical.

“Well, Patti. Did you swear?”

“No I didn’t!” I looked her in the eye and with as much conviction as my 7 year old self could muster I said, “But I know you’ll believe her and not me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she is yours and I’m not.” I said quietly and dropped my head again.

In retrospect, I can only imagine the anguish she must have felt when I declared my truth. It would have broken my heart if I had been the adult. But my mother has always been as cool as a cucumber and without missing a beat, she tilted my chin, and eye to eye she told me, “Patti, you are my daughter as well. And if you tell me you didn’t swear, then I will believe you. Okay?”

I blinked back my tears and waited for her to say more. But she didn’t. She didn’t need too. It was over.

Hallelujah! Choirs of angels rejoiced! Rays of sunshine beamed through the window and a brilliant halo encircled her head. Her smile was mother and all I wanted was to bask in what felt like love and stay there forever. It was quite possibly the most genuine moment of compassion I have ever experienced in my life. And in that moment I loved that Mrs Smith woman; the nearest thing to a mother I had ever known. And I think, in that moment, that she loved me too.

Armed with a peck on the cheek and a Popsicle in hand, she sent me back out to play. I sat on the front steps at the end of our sidewalk, watched the children play, licked my frozen purple treat and held fast to the wonderfully warm feeling of being wanted. Which was really, really difficult when I caught my sisters eye and without saying a word, she told me just how much she hated me.

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August 7, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 8 Ago

By t.dot

Back in the days of “free love”, Martin Luther King and JFK, when everyone was fighting for civil rights and the abolishment of racism, prejudice and war, there was an equally innocent and alarmingly growing population of people who were left undefended. Invisible for all intents and purposes. Uncared for, unwanted and unloved. Without a voice and without rights they were born into this world not by choice, but by the careless whisper of seduction and the accidental meeting of ova and seed.

Orphans. The Forgotten Children.

I know because I am one.

We were housed in homes that neglected us, abused us and only took us in for the government cheque issued once a month for our care. And if no home could be found for us, we were placed in government run, impersonal, dehumanizing, inhumane orphanages. I have experienced both and the memories are not kind.

The 60′s were not enlightened, protective times for abandoned children. Like a strange breed of cattle, we were cloistered, tagged, and herded behind dark and angry walls. Dressed in ill fitting clothes, fed three squares of slop a day, and left to sleep on questionably clean, threadbare cots made of metal coils and cold steel frames. Crushed up side by side in neat little rows, we led anything but neat little lives.

I think the worst days for me were the ‘begging’ days. The days when a comb was run through our hair; our shirts, pants and skirts straightened; spittle and thumbs used to wipe that smudge of dirt off our cheeks, and then forced to smile as we were put on display. Paraded in front of any and all perspective ‘parents’ who, with a cursory glance, had the power to own us or leave us to our fate; their biological brats sitting pretty and clean and pious, eying us and despising us for even thinking we had a right to their life.

On one such occasion, my new family was in attendance. A tall, dark haired man with kind, laughing eyes would soon become my ‘dad’. A small, quiet boy, 3 years younger than I, with a shock of blonde hair and big blue eyes would soon become my ‘obnoxious little brother’. A plain looking girl, 3 years older than I, with curly brown hair and sly green eyes would soon become my ‘sister’. I sensed she was going to be trouble. I was right. And the woman I was soon to call ‘mother’ seemed to look right through me. Strange that I have no clearer memory of her in that moment. It’s just sort of…blank.

They had come to take me out for the day and the staff had warned me to be on my “best behavior”. This could lead to me being chosen if I “played my cards right”. They told me to smile. More. I tried. But my face felt stiff and my heart rock heavy. I had been through this all before. Many times.

I smiled anyhow. Big and bright and wide. It never touched my eyes. Once brown and sweet and trusting, they had turned black and cold and angry. I tried not to look bitter.

I always had a hard time smiling on ‘begging’ days. On any day for that matter. I think my smile disappeared just around the time I discovered it. There hadn’t been time to fill the proverbial halls with my innocent laughter. No time to revel in the joys of becoming a carefree child. By the time I was 4 years old, I understood what it felt like to whore myself and my child withered up and died.

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August 6, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 9 Ago

By t.dot

The nights are unsettling. Nightmares plague my sleep. This is usually the case when the darker waters of my psyche get disturbed. My mother is definitely a mossy, slimy boulder stuck in the dense mud of my fathomless ocean. On the outside I was slightly pleased with myself for finding her so quickly, relieving all of us from the burden of unnecessary worry but, on the inside the old familiar feelings of dread, anxiety and fear were at war with that small sense of relief.

To say that I have a love-hate relationship with my mother would be inaccurate. We have never fought, argued or even had harsh words. No, it has always been the words that were not spoken that have hurt me the most. No “I’m proud of you.”  No “What a great job, dear!” No “You really have a talent.” No “You’re beautiful. Inside and out.” No “I really like the person you’ve become.” No “I’m so glad you’re my daughter.” Nothing. No nurturing, no encouraging, no hugs – unless I initiated and even then that was as an adult – no warmth, no messy displays of affection. The only real emotion evident was her displeasure, her disappointment and her disdain. She always called us “You people.” as if she were outside the realm of family she cooked for, cleaned up after, and lived with every day.

My mother has never told me she loves me.

When I told P what had happened, she offered to drive me to St. Catharine’s – when I was ready. She was on holidays the following week and had the time, so I accepted. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of seeing my mother alone, but had no idea that P would be the thing that kept me grounded. That she would be my rock. She has rarely played that role in our relationship. She did this time and I am eternally grateful. But, I knew she would start asking questions, again. Her curiosity is normal. I get it. I know how much of a mystery I must seem to her at times. I am the epitome of “still waters run deep”. I just wasn’t sure I was up to answering the same, deeply personal and you-have-no-idea-how-much-these-questions-affect-me kind of questions, in more detail then I had before.

I haven’t shared – I mean really shared – a lot of my past with P. I’ve skimmed over the details with the cliff noted version of my life, enough to let her know where I come from. Teenage parents, abandoned, orphanages, 27 foster homes, runaway teen, incest, violent abuse, rape, prostitution, drugs, all the “usual suspects” that comprised my life before I had even turned 20. Ya, it’s been fun. It may not seem as if my story is unique, but make no mistake. I am.

I haven’t let the past destroy me. I have chosen not to live there. I haven’t lamented on the pain, the anguish, the fear, the rejection, the sense of abandonment, the hurt, the insecurities, the belief that I wasn’t wanted or loved by the woman I’ve called mother for the last 44 years. I haven’t talked in depth about my low self-esteem, my self doubt, my loneliness or the fact that beneath this brilliant smile and seemingly sunny disposition lies a frightened little girl desperate for love and attention. P doesn’t realize how hard it has been for me to pull myself out of the gutter, to wake up smiling and push through the thickness of gloom and depression, to hang on to the edge of my sanity with broken-nailed bloody fingertips, and on oooh so many many occasions, how difficult it was to simply get out of bed and live out another day. It would have been so easy to simply let go. But I didn’t.

The reason for not sharing is two-fold. P loves to analyze. Dig deep into a persons psyche, dredge up all their shit, so that she can figure out what makes them tick. I learned that pretty early on about her and was never truly comfortable with it. But, she openly and honestly left herself, often, in such vulnerable places with me, raw and exposed, hurting and showing me her pain, that I was prompted to share if only to show her that I too had suffered. That I understood. That I empathized with her pain. That she was not alone. Problem is, some things should be left buried and in the dark. Old scars and wounds don’t need to be dug up in order to know another person. The other reason? I have learned that she doesn’t have the type of gentle and nurturing nature required to ‘handle‘ the delicate, fragile threads of my life.

In the early days when she would pick at me under the guise of “wanting to know me better”,  I would tell her she should tread softly. She had no idea what she was tampering with. Neither did I for that matter. I warned her that I could very well be the ultimate Pandora’s Box and that she could end up unearthing much more then she ever bargained for. I wasn’t a game. My emotions were not to be wrenched out of me, displayed and picked over, analyzed then trivialized; my experiences lined up, wet and bloody for her to scrutinize, dissect and pull apart to see what I was made of. But, she continued relentlessly until my damaged person lay splattered on the floor, guts spilling out, skin ripped open exposing an irregular beating heart, and I felt broken, afraid and naked.

I’m not sure why she did that to me. And she most assuredly got more then she bargained for. Hence the tumultuous of our relationship. You can’t pry open a damaged human being, peel them inside out, play clumsily with their tightly wound heart strings, and not expect some sort of repercussions. I did try and warn her that the music might not be as pretty as the packaging. She didn’t listen. When I realized that she couldn’t handle the fury of emotions she had unleashed, I reigned them in as best as I could. Stuffed my guts back in, covered up my irregular beating heart and wiped myself up off the floor. I quieted the storm. And I will stay strong and not be that weak and vulnerable again. She wasn’t ready for me. Isn’t ready for me. May never be ready for me. She may never admit to this, but I know the truth.

And the most painful part for me is that in all her pushing and prodding and asking and analyzing and demanding to know, that tightly closed and protective seal has been broken. Demons have been released. And I am left with more confusion, new angers and frustrations, a deeper sense of not belonging anywhere and have more unresolved emotions then ever before.

I don’t appreciate her for that, I must confess.

I was happier in the not feeling…this.

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August 5, 2012

Mommy Nearest – Day 10 Ago

By t.dot

Well, I haven’t found my zen moment yet, but I am feeling the need to get some things off my chest. Desperately. Urgently. And with no tact what-so-ever. I’m going to call the next 10 posts: Mommy Nearest-Day 1 through to Day 10 Ago; Mommy Nearest-Day 1 being the last of the parts to this particular story…or at least, it will bring us to the present. Ranting, venting, deciding, choosing, verbally vomiting my torment – but then that’s kinda what this blog is for, yes? I’m just feeling so…. unresolved :(

Ten days ago, when I wrote my last post called Intimate Perceptions Part #2 and promised I would next write Part #3 and give closure to my thoughts on the subject of lesbian role playing and identity, etc., I had to end the post incomplete because I had a Dr’s appointment. Later, that very same day, things took an unexpected turn, which has lead me to where I am in this exact moment.

My mother went missing.

Now to tell this story accurately, I need to go back…way way back. To the 60′s. To a time when my life began, ended, re-birthed and then died a thousand times over. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but in essence, it is the truth. I have lived many lives in this one lifetime and eventually, when I am up to it, I will write my story and share. But for now, I will skim over parts, the I’m-not-ready-to-talk-about-parts, and simply give you a glimpse inside so you can understand my state of mind today.

And maybe, if I’m really lucky, it will help me to find some sort of resolution to this angst, frustration, rejection and bitter bile that’s choking me now and reeking havoc with my emotions. Jesus. Sometimes you think shit is buried, and then “hello!” you find out that it’s not!

So here goes…starting 10 days ago.

My doctor stared quietly at her computer screen, clicking here, clicking there, reading slowly through the notes that once would have filled a beige manilla file folder and finally, when she’d read my prognosis, looked at me and smiled.

“Looks like you’ve been paying attention. I’m glad to say that your cholesterol is down and you’ve lost 12 pounds! We won’t need that dietician after-all. Good for you.”

“I’m working on it.” I said quietly, averting my eyes from her bold stare. We both knew that as a former wellness coach and natural health consultant, I should never have found myself weighing in at 224 pounds. Ever. My frame can carry it. My muscles are still strong and evident from years of track, sports, dancing endlessly for pleasure and oodles of fitness training and people are always blown away if I tell them the truth, but my body is screaming at me for the past 4 years of neglect.

And I’m not happy about it either. It’s been a rough time. Ending a marriage, coming out at 47, losing my job – (unrelated) – followed by nearly two years of unemployment – well, stress can do devastating things to a person. Bad habits set it. Treating my body like a temple was no longer a priority. No excuses. Just is.

I mentally patted myself on the back, thanked her for the encouragement, set a follow up appointment, and walked out into the sunshine feeling strong, positive and super optimistic. Once again, I had overcome some personal demons, conquered a few more of those bastard hurdles that seem ever present in my life and was heading in the right direction. Life was good. Well, for the walk home anyhow.

About an hour after I got in, my Iphone lit up and I saw that a message from my sister had arrived in my Inbox. I touched in my password, opened my email and clicked on her name. She had addressed the email to both myself and my brother Andy, who lives in Australia. My sister lives in Ottawa. I live in Toronto. My mom lives in St.Catharine’s. My Dad lives in Georgia. We’re a little estranged from one another. Have been for years. It’s complicated.

“Hey Trish, Andy, I got a letter from Mum dated 19 July saying she broke her wrist but had a cast and was getting better. I called her yesterday and today (26,27 July) but no answer – do either of you know that she’s ok ? please let me know asap, thanks, Raun.”

Odd. I too had received a letter from our mother dated July 19th, but that was in response to a long over due letter written to her about two weeks prior. Within minutes a dialogue through email ensued and I realized very quickly that my mom was actually missing.

To explain further, my sister and my mother haven’t really spoken in about 10 years. I haven’t spoken to my mother in nearly four, but my brother, who is the favorite, is in pretty close contact with her, but not necessarily with us…his sisters…but to be fair, he is a man of little words and does much much better in person.

According to her letters, my mother had fallen and broken her wrist just two weeks earlier and in her letter to my sister, had stated she was house-bound. Hence my sisters concern. My mother had not bothered to mention that little fact to me.

As is my nature, I began to think of ways to track down the old girl. Where the hell could she have gotten too? I wasn’t panicked. I’m not one for instant panic. That usually has a life of it’s own and sets in unbidden when I least expect it. But, I was more then a little concerned.

I had grown up in St. Catharine’s and still had a friend there, so I contacted her through Facebook – (my reliance on social media and technology is a little frightening at times) – since I didn’t actually have her new phone number, and explained that there was concern for my mother. She replied within about 2 minutes – (gotta love FB addicts!) – and told me she was at her trailer but would be home the following day and would certainly check in on her and report back to me. I thanked her profusely and we exchanged phone numbers.

While I was thinking of what to do next, my eX texted and I told him what was happening. He called and offered to phone a buddy cop of his with the Niagara Regional Police to see if he could send a car over and check on her. I gave him my mother’s address and phone number. Within about 20 minutes my eX called back and gave me the number to dispatch in Niagara and said I needed to request a “Wellness Check”. Who knew? I certainly didn’t. But, there you have it.

I called the dispatch, spoke to a very warm and kind woman officer, explained the situation and sunk further and further into a shamed embarrassment with each question she asked.

“How old is your mother, dear?”

I didn’t know. “83 I think.” She’s 86.

“When is her birthday?”

I wasn’t sure. “January 26 or 28th.” It’s Feb 12.

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“It’s been almost four years.” I cringed.

“Who was the last person to speak to your mother, dear?”

I felt heat creep under my skin. “I’m not sure to be honest. My sister and I both received letters dated July 19th but, neither of us has actually spoken to her since then. My brother is in regular contact I’m fairly certain, but he lives in Australia, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“How did her letter sound? Was there any mention of suicide, or any indication she may have had suicidal thoughts?”

At last! A question I could answer emphatically, without any question, with a resounding: “No! My mother would never take her own life.”

I proceeded to answer a few more questions, while steeped in an orange kind of guilt, green kind of shame and a purple hint of regret. My mother didn’t love well and that made loving her even more difficult. Children shouldn’t have to carry the burden of their parents inability to show affection, but all too often they do and that damage scars their DNA at a level much deeper then any chromosome. And once imprinted, it’s for life.

The officer was wonderfully generous in her compassion, saying she understood and was certainly not judging. “Every family has its stuff. I could tell you stories about my own, believe you me!” she laughed. I smiled weakly into the phone. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Alright, well I have all I need right now. We’ll check the hospitals first, and if she hasn’t been admitted, we’ll send a car over to her apartment. Either way, we’ll get back to you the minute we know anything.”

I placed a call to my sister, deciding that it was time to actually talk and not email this important turn of events. We had only been connected for a few minutes when another call beeped in on my line. The caller ID was BLOCKED. I told my sister to hang on. It was the police. My mother had been found.

“So. Mom’s in hospital. They didn’t give me any details. Just the phone number and her room extension.”

“Alright. Do you want to call or shall I?” she asked. I told her I would. My sister has just finished radiation treatments for Colon cancer and is still decidedly weak and mentally exhausted. If there was bad news to be told, I would rather it was me that was doing the telling. Besides, by this point I needed personal confirmation that Mom was okay. That panic I mentioned earlier was curling into a sour knot in my stomach.

“Then call me back if it’s urgent, otherwise email me with her info and I will call her in the morning.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too, sis.”

I hung up, took a deep breath and then dialed the number. After thirty or so agonizing seconds of listening to a long winded recorded message meant to instill in the public the necessity of regular hand washing – UGH! – I punched “O” on my phone then entered her room extension.

Within seconds I heard the scratchy tones of my mothers voice and was reassured that she was indeed alive. And was instantly transported to a place of awkward discomfort… and somewhere in my brain, it registered once again that there was a reason why we hadn’t spoken in so long. Amazing what simply hearing a particular persons voice can do to you.

She had difficulty hearing me – (later I was to find that the batteries for her hearing aid needed to be replaced) – and so it took a ridiculous and almost comical amount of repetitions of my name before she finally understood it was me calling! She asked how I found her. I told her the story. She seemed amazed that one of her children was calling. And was probably disappointed that it was only me and not her favorite golden child, Andy. But, in that moment, I took what I could get.

She told me she had fallen and broken her hip. She has a very dark and witty sense of humor I have always respected, feared and appreciated and we shared a laugh or two.When she told me that she would be transferring to another hospital in a day or two for months of rehabilitation, I told her I would find out when that was happening and come to be with her for the transition. She seemed pleased about that. But, she is an enigma.

I have never known if she has ever actually been happy about my presence in her life. I’m not sure that I ever will. It’s been an unanswered question for me since I was 7 years old.

From the day that I was first adopted.

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