The Facebook message reads “Hey gitl come see me I hsve somthing to talk to you about.” It came through amazingly clear since Mum is legally blind. My husband had actually seen the message first since he had been up since three am and we share our Facebook account. When I get up at eight he tells me “Your mother messaged you but I was too tired to respond”, and in the same breath, “I don’t want to go see them this week, we have enough stress going on already.”  Eighteen hours later I finally reply to her message,  “Hi Mum, I just read your message,  I am going to bed now but will discuss with my husband when we can stop by, right now he is snoring. “  I didn’t mention that this was after a short argument with him, just fifteen minutes prior, concerning the inevitable fact that she, according to my husband, most likely needed to inform me of an impending health crisis that may, though likely not, end in her or my father’s passing.

These near-death experiences happened regularly with my parents and usually preceded our visitations.  For the sake of argument, he abruptly reminded me of how we had recently seen them, just two months ago. I responded rather pointedly that we used to see his mother daily and being that she had since passed on, “How would you feel if your mother had asked to see you and she died before you were able to?” This secured our weekend plans, though begrudgingly.

The following day I call Mum to solidify our visit. Dad answers the phone and promptly says, “Your Mum’s not doing good. She can hardly talk but here she is. She’ll tell you.” In a rasping voice Mum explains her recent multiple operations in a lengthy dialog without room for interruption;  how the doctor removed growths in her throat and intestines, how the biopsy results were not back yet, how they found more on her vocal cords, and how they had to schedule more operations.  She also wants to make sure we come up to get the baby’s clothes. She gives particular emphasis to the fact that my daughter hadn’t been up to visit with the new baby. Mum expresses that she is sure she won’t see them before the baby is too big to fit the clothes. I assure her we will be up the following day to get the clothes and I make a mental note to remind my daughter to visit her grandmother and bring the great-grandchildren.

The drive to my parents’ house starts in mid-morning. This ensures we will arrive well after lunch and have an excuse to leave before supper to make it home before dark.  It is a solemnly quiet ride. My husband’s face remains tight and drawn.  I earnestly try not to pick a fight with him as my resentment towards his attitude grows. Instead, I attempt to spark a conversation, which is rarely a habit of mine. I talk about how these growths are common amongst my sisters, my Mum, and even my niece; and how all of them keep getting cut up by doctors to have these growths removed from breasts, intestines, and other internal parts. Yet in the multiple operations each has had, the test results always came back benign.  I conclude; it is an awful fact concerning the medical industry in our area that the women in my family seem to be nothing more than cash cows for the dicing and take a breath.

To illustrate this more I continue to ramble in my husband’s ear that both my sisters have ended up with hysterectomies for reoccurring fibroids, always benign, and one of my sisters had six feet of her intestine removed, again, not cancerous, and my niece; who became so tired of the yearly slicing of her breasts to test the lumps… again these tests always came back benign, and she finally gave into the complete removal of both breasts.  “You know,” I say to my husband, “If the doctors ever look inside me I know they will likely find plenty of lumps, but my family has never had cancer, just growths. These growths have never caused health issues.  Why do they keep slicing and dicing when it’s just fatty growths?” … and another breath.

Finally, my inquisitive up-tone makes him break his silence.  “Well, you never know.” He replies, “You should get yourself checked out.” I go silent. This was not the response I wanted, though I can’t exactly say what response I was hoping for.  With this conversation however, his mood becomes more hospitable, maybe out of a growing concern for my health or because he figures he had better start talking to avoid another lengthy banter from me about my family’s female personal parts. By that time we finally stop at Subway for our first meal of the day and a cup of coffee which likewise improves both of our temperaments. This intercept for food will also avoid being tempted to accept any meal invites at my parents’ house. Now that our eight-year-old is awake from her nap in the back seat, we also remind her of some ground rules, primarily, no asking for food. Despite the apparently obvious inhabitations of this day, nearing my mother’s home, I begin looking forward to seeing my Mum.  I want to ask her about the family.

Upon arrival, we are greeted by barking, snapping, and jumping dogs. I tell my eight-year-old daughter to stay in the car. Mum comes out and yells at them, yanking on one’s leash. After a few moments and a close call with the sleeve of my coat, we slip by them. Inside it is a bit dark and as always in the midst of some form of construction, with a rotted floor here, and a missing wall there, but it has been coming along nicely, they finally got the deck door replaced. Mum picks up her dog so my husband and daughter can slip by. “You know I am signing the house over to your niece,” Mum says, “They are going to move in, in August and live with us. We have moved the pantry and all of our stuff upstairs so they can have the downstairs.” She had already told us this on our last visit so I just nod in acknowledgment. She seems content with that.  After all, the conversation about signing the house over has been an ongoing one for almost twenty years.  First, it was going to go to my eldest sister, then to my middle sister, then to my nephew, and now… we shall see.  “Can I go downstairs?” my daughter asks. The downstairs was a playroom for a little while, but now it is under construction. “No,” I say. “All the toys are put away. It is torn apart down there.” I ask Mum if we can put Disney on the t.v. for her, and my daughter seems content.

“Hey,” Mum says to my Dad, “Get that bag of clothes from upstairs so they don’t forget them when they leave.”  After Dad retrieves the bag we all sit in various chairs facing different directions in the sectioned-off living room. Dad talks with my husband whose back is to me and I sit facing Mum who is back to my dad. “It’s kinda like you have your own little office in the living room,” I say to her. As she swivels in her chair away from her computer to face a stand she has opposite of it. She nods. Then she reiterates to me the complete telephone conversation we had spoken the day before and I recite the same conversation to her that I had spoken with my husband in the car. Neither of us actually responds with any new information or elaborates more in-depth than what has already been spoken of before. She turns away from me to ask Dad to go upstairs and get the blender so she can make a smoothie. Taking this as an opportunity to change the subject, she hands me a handful of smoothie recipes she has recently written on index cards and tells me to bring them home to try for myself.  “I don’t want to take these,” I object, “you have been working hard to transcribe these for yourself.” Mum, being partially blind has to concentrate and take an exceptionally long time to write.  This part of her stand is piled high with numerous recipe cards in various sizes with varying piles of information on each stack and amongst boxes filled with stacks. “I insist.” She says.  I do not argue.

I do however take this opportunity to change the subject to what’s on my mind. “Mum, can you tell me again about the family history of my name. I am writing an essay about it for class and I can’t remember exactly who in our family I was named after. “Sure, let me write the names of the family down,” she says. As she grabs her magnifying glasses and another index card, she switches to another topic. “I just had eye surgery and they removed my cataracts which improved my vision a little.” “That’s great,” I say. “Hey,” she hollers at my Dad again, “Where is that picture of my grandmother, that has all the names on it from my father’s side.” Mom asks. “I don’t know.” He says. “Well, why don’t you go up and look for it when you go up to get the blender?” Mum continues. I hadn’t even noticed that Dad had ignored her last request to get the blender. “I don’t know where they are.” He replies and continues his conversation with my husband, none of which I have heard a word of.  “Never mind, I’ll go find it myself.”

With that, Mum ushers me upstairs to look for the picture of my Indian great-grandparents. “It’s a mess up here.” She warns me. I see pantry items everywhere and shelves piled with household items that once adorned shelves and walls have since been removed from downstairs.  She opens up bureau drawers that are filled with personal possessions instead of clothes, handing me the occasional picture she finds and asking, “Does this look like it?” she asks, and I, not really knowing what the picture is supposed to look like, describe the image instead. “Nope this is of children… nope this is a wedding photo…” She continues to filter through all of the bureau drawers to no avail. The loose piles on the dresser tops also leave us empty-handed. We do however find the blender.

My daughter asks to come upstairs. “OK,” I say. She comes up for a moment but then I usher her back downstairs. “See nothing up here for you. Where is your Dad?” “Down in the downstairs.” She says. “Then go down there, you wanted to anyway, you can see how it has changed.” And off she goes.  When Mum and I move towards the back of the room, I worry for a moment as I feel a dipping sensation and realize it is the sagging spongy floor.  “Is this safe?” I ask. “It needs to be replaced.” She responds flatly and then grabs a stepping stool to reach the top of the closet shelf. The shelf is bowed and bent. “Why don’t you let me get up there instead.” I offer. “Nope.” She says, “It is just as likely to break and fall on you as it is to fall on me.” she starts handing me pictures in frames from a precariously stacked bunch on the shelf. “Watch out.”  She warns as several items fall to the floor.  “I have been asking your dad to put these back up on a wall for a while now but he won’t so you might well take them. You should have pictures of the family.” She picks each one up, squints, and turns each in a semi-circle to see if she is looking at it upside down or right side up before handing it to me. One is of my sister. “You should have a picture of your sister,” Mum says as she puts it in my hands. “Is she open to talking with anyone yet?” I ask. “No, I don’t believe she is,” Mum responds. “Here is a picture of your great-grandmother on your dad’s side.” She continues. “It’s probably her anxiety issue,” I say, trying to keep hold of the prior subject. Mum just hands me another picture, “Here is your aunt and Uncle.” My arms are filled so quickly that I have to create a pile on the floor.

We never find the picture of my mother’s grandparents, on her father’s side. I do however see a large stack of photo albums and start flipping through the pages. “Oh look, this was when Dad was at war.” I point out. “I remember getting these out of your bedroom closet to look at them as a child.” “Why don’t you take them downstairs and go through them.” Mum insists. “Take as many as you want, though we should ask your father if he minds if you have ones of him, I have been meaning to go through them for the other grandkids too. I want to make sure all the kids have pictures of the family.” I don’t argue.

“You know,” She suddenly says to me, I have been having a hard time lately. The other night I had a nightmare. I was cussing and flailing my arms. When your dad asked why, I told him to leave me alone. I haven’t told your sisters. Things have been coming back to me. When I was sick, you know my mother had a sick room that she would send us to. She sent my brother in with a cup of soup and he raped me. That’s what the dream was about.” I nod.  She seems content with that. She picks up the blender and goes downstairs.

 It takes me four trips to bring down all the pictures and picture albums.  Mum makes herself a smoothie and insists I have a sip. I tell her it is good. I don’t tell her I will likely never use the smoothie recipes she has given me on the index cards even when she reiterates that the recipe she used to make it is included in the stack she gave me. Mum asks if we all want an ice cream cone, Seraphia does and we don’t argue.  I do go through all of the albums; I am not shy in choosing several selections from each collection, after all, I did want more information about my family. I don’t bother asking Dad if it’s ok. Mum mentions to him I am taking some pictures and he doesn’t argue. After we verify the names of the people in each picture I had chosen, we leave.

The ride home is solemnly quiet. My daughter goes back to sleep for the ride home. Finally, I tell my husband of my mother’s conversation. “I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded.” She had told both me and my husband this very same bit of information on our last visit as well, but this time she said it with such a matter-of-fact tone, it seemed to embed itself deeper in my memory than before.  My husband remains silent. “Should I have hugged her, or gotten upset?” I ask.  “I don’t know.” He says and we drive home.

Now it is 1 am in the morning and I can’t sleep. I love my Mum. I find an old poem and make a post on Facebook.  In it I write: “I wrote this when I was 13 years old. It is still true today.

Mum :
So young and so beautiful with a heart of gold.

You’ve lived your life in agony and slowly you’ve grown old.
All forces have been against you since the dawning of your days
and yet you’ve taken the time to guide us through this maze.
Through this maze of life, you’ve guided us and sheltered us in the storm.
You have always protected us. On the coldest nights, you’ve kept us warm.
For this, we’ll never forget you. We’ll love you always.
You’ll always be young and beautiful past the ending of your days.”

At 2 am I see that she sees it and she shares it on her timeline without any additional comment. I imagine everyone in her household is asleep like they are here. I imagine her sitting alone at her computer, free to be herself.  I wish I could hug her now and tell her to her face, that I love her. I wonder if she is crying or smiling. I don’t remember ever seeing her cry. I wish she would cry with me, face to face, so I could cry with her. I imagine hugging her… Now I can go to sleep.