You and I

Dear Mum,

You’ve just asked me when I am going to write a “nice blog about you”. That’s fair. I suppose it is about time isn’t it? Lately things have been up and down between us, so I suppose now is the time to write this. Not only write something, but also explore in the best way I am able – words – this fragile relationship of a bond that began in the womb, here in Wellington, 22 years ago.

Breaker Bay, 1991

“Congratulations” is commonly said to people that decide to get engaged to be married. We both think this is a little strange don’t we? Congratulating someone for deciding to be the lifelong partner of another when it’s such a personal decision. However, I do believe “congratulations” is a fitting word for successfully raising two children on your own, and this is most certainly a great, if not the greatest, achievement in life. It overwhelms me sometimes to think of this journey we have been on together since we last lived in Wellington in that little dark flat by the crashing, cold waves of Breaker bay.

You did everything for us. Gave everything for us. Sure, you didn’t hug us much, but you showed us the joy of a stormy day at the beach, the thrill of biking down a long country road, the warmth of the fire of a hut on the mountain as a storm rages outside, and always, always the value of health. You provided and fostered a love for delicious healthy food and relishing the outdoors, and you consistently led by example. We were always the ‘healthy’ ones of all our mates – there was no other way; it made sense. We treated our bodies and minds with the respect you taught us they deserved.

And now you have to sit in your car and watch a family of young children saunter across the road in front of you with bright blue sugary, caffeinated drinks, and think “I would never give that to my kids”…and yet your kid has cancer. “Unexplained” cancer. It’s not fair, is it?

It must be so much harder for you than it is for me. You told me at that restaurant in Seattle with a tear in your eye (yes, one!) that you would take it from me upon yourself in an instant. That you did everything you could to protect us and it didn’t work. Of course, I scoffed at that, saying that it’s my challenge and I can do this, I’ll take it on for myself thank you very much…

… But you know, having the cancer is the easy part. The hard part is having to watch your daughter; the daughter that you fed from your breast, took for a first haircut, and watched almost drown with horror as you sat bleeding on a jagged rock thinking only of her, sit in a cancer day ward smile to cover the grimace as the needle pierces her hand. The hardest part is to know that all you did and gave wasn’t quite enough to protect your precious daughter. It’s to hear her tell you when you wake that she was up in the night vomiting alone, refusing to tell anyone, and know that her staunchness comes from you. It’s easy for me, in a way. I just have to go for the ride. The only guilt I must battle is the one of the burden I now put upon those I love.

I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you to come to understand that there is another person in the world (apart from dad) that loves me as much as you do. How could that be? You are the one who raised me; you are the one who has been there the whole time! But mum, at some point I hope and plead that you will come to appreciate the family I have now chosen.

James is my inspiration, my partner and buddy in everything. He is the one that makes me smile and laugh every evening. He is the one I dream with and make plans with, and it is a future with him that I am living for. His dedication to me is overwhelming and his love for me carries me through. He lifts me up when I need it, and vice versa. You must understand this. I admire and am inspired by his goodness, his ability to take on challenges and his drive to succeed while helping others. I know you see your differences, which of course there are, but it breaks my heart that you are not able to see and be excited for the utter joy and love we have. You both want the best for me and it’s quite obvious, but sometimes it’s okay for people to have different views of what is best. Aside from having a different, more scientific educational background, love also drives him and he also only wants the best for me. I am privileged to call James my family and I think you should be too.

We will always have a special bond, and you will always understand me in ways that no one else does – for this is the bond of a mother and daughter. It won’t and can’t come under jeopardy, as it is based on not only a lifetime of formative experience but also an actual, physical bond that nothing can ever take away. I’m delighted for you that you have found a man that compliments you perfectly and is endearingly supportive, fun and kind. It matters so much to me that you are happy, so much. I can’t help but care and it’s always been that way with us, hasn’t it? Even when I would sit in the bathroom with you and chat with you about how your boyfriend at the time wasn’t great for you, I cared. When I would come up for breakfast in the morning and share with you what I had learnt from my various philosophy books the night before, I cared. Please, don’t forget that. Please, let us remember that each other’s happiness is paramount and although your little girl has grown up and gone in search of her own happiness, she will always be your girl. No matter if she goes off into the world and loves and is loved deeply by another, she will always be able to read your facial expressions and understand why you get the giggles. She will always be beside you sharing private jokes and common understanding, because that is what we have.

I love you.