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, having been up since three a.m., and because 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.” Then, almost 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: “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 earlier, concerning the inevitable fact that she, according to my husband, most likely needed to inform me of an impending health crisis that might, 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, my husband reminded me that we had recently seen them—just two months ago. I responded rather pointedly that we used to see his mother daily, and since she had passed on, I asked, “How would you feel if your mother asked to see you and she died before you were able to?” That secured our weekend plans, though begrudgingly.

The next day I called Mum to solidify our visit. Dad answered and promptly said, “Your Mum’s not doing good. She can hardly talk, but here she is. She’ll tell you.” In a rasping voice, Mum explained her recent operations—how the doctor had removed growths in her throat and intestines, how the biopsy results were not back yet, how they found more on her vocal cords and had scheduled more surgeries. She also wanted to make sure we came up to get the baby’s clothes, emphasizing that my daughter hadn’t been up to visit with the new baby. She said she was sure she wouldn’t see them before the baby was too big to fit the clothes. I assured her we would come the following day, and I made a mental note to remind my daughter to visit her grandmother and bring the great-grandchildren.

We started the drive to my parents’ house mid-morning, ensuring we would arrive after lunch and have an excuse to leave before supper to make it home before dark. It was a solemnly quiet ride. My husband’s face remained tight and drawn. I tried not to pick a fight with him as my resentment toward his attitude grew. Instead, I attempted to start a conversation, which is rarely my habit.

I talked about how these growths were common among my sisters, Mum, and even my niece—how they all kept getting cut open by doctors to remove them from breasts, intestines, and other internal parts. Yet in every operation, the results always came back benign. I said it was an awful fact that the women in my family seemed to be nothing more than cash cows for the medical industry’s slicing and dicing.

To illustrate my point, I continued: both my sisters had hysterectomies for recurring fibroids—always benign. One sister had six feet of her intestine removed, again not cancerous. My niece, tired of the yearly surgeries on her breasts to test lumps that always came back benign, finally gave in and had them both removed. “You know,” I said to my husband, “if the doctors ever looked inside me, they’d probably find plenty of lumps, but my family has never had cancer, just growths. These growths never cause health issues. Why do they keep slicing and dicing when it’s just fatty growths?”

Finally, my inquisitive up-tone made him break his silence. “Well, you never know,” he said. “You should get yourself checked out.” I went quiet. It wasn’t the response I wanted, though I can’t say what response I was hoping for. But his mood softened after that—maybe out of concern for my health, or maybe to avoid another long discussion about my family’s female parts.

We stopped at Subway for our first meal of the day, and the food and coffee improved both our temperaments. It also gave us an excuse to decline any meal invites at my parents’ house. With our eight-year-old now awake in the back seat, we reminded her of the ground rules—no asking for food. Despite the tension surrounding this visit, nearing my mother’s home, I began to look forward to seeing her. I wanted to ask about the family.

When we arrived, we were greeted by barking, snapping, and jumping dogs. I told my daughter to stay in the car. Mum came out, yelling at them and yanking one’s leash. After a few moments and a close call with my coat sleeve, we slipped by. Inside, it was dim and in the midst of construction as usual—a rotted floor here, a missing wall there—but they had finally replaced the deck door.

Mum picked up her dog so my husband and daughter could come in. “You know, I’m signing the house over to your niece,” she said. “They’re going to move in, in August, and live with us. We moved the pantry and our stuff upstairs so they can have the downstairs.” She had told us this on our last visit, so I just nodded. She seemed content. The conversation about signing the house over had been going on for nearly twenty years—first to one sister, then another, then a nephew, and now a niece. “Can I go downstairs?” my daughter asked. “No,” I said. “All the toys are put away. It’s torn apart down there.” I asked Mum if we could put Disney on the TV for her, and she seemed content enough.

“Hey,” Mum said to my dad, “get that bag of clothes from upstairs so they don’t forget them when they leave.” After he brought it down, we all sat in various chairs facing different directions in the sectioned-off living room. Dad talked with my husband; I faced Mum. “It’s kinda like you have your own little office in the living room,” I said. She nodded, then began reiterating the same conversation we’d had the day before. I repeated what I’d told my husband in the car. Neither of us added anything new.

She turned away to ask Dad for the blender to make a smoothie, then handed me a handful of recipe cards she’d written out by hand. “Take these home,” she said. “Try them yourself.” “I don’t want to take them,” I objected. “You’ve been working hard to transcribe these.” Being partially blind, she had to write slowly, carefully. But she insisted. I didn’t argue.

“Mum,” I said, “can you tell me again about the family history of my name? I’m writing an essay about it for class.” She reached for her magnifying glasses. “Sure, let me write the names down,” she said. Then she switched topics. “I just had eye surgery—they removed my cataracts. My vision’s a little better.” “That’s great,” I said.

She hollered to my father again. “Where’s that picture of my grandmother—the one with all the names on it from my father’s side?” “I don’t know,” he said. “Why don’t you look for it when you go up for the blender?” she persisted. “I don’t know where they are,” he repeated and kept talking with my husband. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll go find it myself.”

Mum ushered me upstairs. “It’s a mess up here,” she warned. Pantry items were everywhere, shelves piled high. She opened drawers filled with photographs and keepsakes instead of clothes, handing me the occasional picture. “Does this look like it?” she’d ask. “No, this one’s children. No, that’s a wedding photo.” We searched through drawers and piles but found nothing—except the blender.

My daughter asked to come upstairs. “Okay,” I said. She came up briefly, then I sent her back down. “See, nothing up here for you. Go find your dad.” “Downstairs,” she said, and off she went.

When Mum and I moved toward the back of the room, I felt the floor dip under my feet. “Is this safe?” I asked. “It needs to be replaced,” she said flatly, then climbed a stepping stool to reach a bowed closet shelf. “Let me do that,” I offered. “Nope,” she said. “It’s just as likely to fall on you as on me.” She handed me framed pictures from a precarious pile. “Watch out,” she warned as several items fell. “You might as well take them,” she said. “You should have pictures of the family.” She squinted at each one before handing it to me. “You should have a picture of your sister,” she said. “Is she open to talking with anyone yet?” I asked. “No,” Mum said. “Here’s your great-grandmother on your dad’s side.” “It’s probably her anxiety issue,” I said, but Mum had already handed me another photo. Soon my arms were full, and I had to make a pile on the floor.

We never found the picture of her grandparents. I did, however, find a stack of photo albums and started flipping through them. “Oh look, this was when Dad was at war,” I said. “I remember sneaking these out of your bedroom closet as a child.” “Take them,” she said. “Take as many as you want. We’ll make sure the grandkids have some too.”

Then she said quietly, “You know, I’ve 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, my mother had a sick room she’d 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 nodded. She seemed content with that. Then she picked up the blender and went downstairs.

It took me four trips to bring down all the pictures and albums. Mum made herself a smoothie and insisted I have a sip. I told her it was good. I didn’t tell her I’d probably never use the smoothie recipes she’d given me, even when she reiterated that the recipe was included in the stack. She offered ice cream cones; my daughter accepted. I went through all the albums and chose several photos from each. Mum mentioned it to Dad, and he didn’t object. After we verified the names of everyone in the pictures, we left.

The ride home was quiet again. My daughter fell asleep. Finally, I told my husband what my mother had said. “I didn’t know what to say,” I admitted. “So I just nodded.” She had told us the same thing on our last visit, but this time, the matter-of-fact tone stayed with me. “Should I have hugged her? Or gotten upset?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said, and we drove on.

Now it’s one a.m. and I can’t sleep. I love my Mum. I find an old poem and post it on Facebook:

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 two a.m., I see that she’s seen it and shared it on her timeline without comment. I imagine everyone in her household asleep, like 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.