The Momoir Project

Words, Truth and Tears
By Christie Baker
Part 2 of a Series on Writing, Motherhood and Healing
Published in Island Parent Magazine
September/October 2009

http://www.islandparent.ca/userimages/menubar3_4a9eb2f69c5d4_Sept-Oct09.pdf

One letter at a time. This how my healing begins.

It is late and the house is quiet when I sit down at my computer. The heavy, slate coloured, West Coast sky is obscured by darkness and the only light in the room shines from the street lamp just outside my window. The glow is soft, muted by the filter of a slow, steady rain that makes me shiver.

“Just one letter at a time,” I remind myself as I set out to write a story about my loving relationship with my daughter, Alyssa—a story that, I hope, will be a treasured memento
for the day when she, too, is a mother. My fingers traverse the keyboard. But before
I make it past the first sentence, my topic has changed and I find myself writing about Ashley, the step-daughter I loved as my own for many years and lost, with the simple
swoosh of a pen, when I signed the divorce agreement that ended my marriage to her
father almost ten years ago.

“I want to be branded with the insignia of loss,” I type. “… I want people to know what
it feels like to lose a child, any child, even if she was never yours to begin with.” I am shocked. These words are deep and raw and completely unexpected. This is not the story I had planned. I met Ashley on my second date with her father, John. When I opened the door to greet him, she was the first thing I saw. He was holding her so that she faced me, her back against his chest, his arm encircling her ribs and looping snugly around her. She
was one-and-a-half years old and wearing a purple jumper that revealed her bouncing
legs. Half kewpie-doll, half imp, she had a cheeky little grin, her father’s brooding eyes and dark, heavy eyebrows. Her toes were jelly-bean perfect and the rhythmic cooing of her newly shaped words melted my heart. “This is my daughter” John said, “This
is Ashley.”

I fell in love with her in an instant. Not with him—that came later—but with her. And I have loved her ever since. The tale of my life with Ashley reads like that of any mom. Even though she was only with us part-time, sharing her life, as we did, with her mother who lived nearby, she and I bonded as surely as any woman and child conjoined by DNA. Images of our time together, preserved like snapshots from a former life, haunt my memories. I remember pacing the hallway outside her bedroom door, her small, limp body weary from struggle against the night-time wanderings of her own subconscious. Wrapped tightly in my arms, with teary eyes and hair smelling of sweet, little girl sweat, she settled as I walked her back and forth in the quiet of the night. Finally, sadness gave way to exhaustion and she found her way back to her angel’s slumber. And I remember the first time she slipped her warm, miniature hand into mine to cross the street. With her soft, baby flesh protectively encased within my 25-year-old palm, my hands felt coarse and knowing, the hands of a mother. Glancing upwards before venturing forward, she met my gaze with a conspiratorial grin. Our connection was the most natural thing on earth and we were both in on the secret.

It has been a year since I began to write. I often find myself writing about Ashley and I am still taken by surprise. I thought I had moved on, leaving the pain of loss in the past and creating a new, charmed life for myself in which Ashley still plays a small but meaningful role. For seven years, I have been happily remarried to a wonderful, supportive man. I had my own daughter, Alyssa, twelve years ago, and she makes me smile everyday, even on days when smiles seem unlikely. And I am surrounded by friends and family who are always willing to share a laugh, a glass of wine or lend a helping hand.

Had you asked me one year ago how I felt about Ashley, I would have responded, eyes
glazed over and pleasant smile plastered in place, “I am over it. I am fine.” But through
my writing, the truth is clear. My truth was jolted from darkness and flung into the spotlight through written snippets of subconscious thought, unearthed without design or preconception.

“I have seen the abyss,” I wrote. “It is black and vast and perfectly bottomless, and it lives within me. It is the void that remains where once there was Ashley.”

With the gentle stroke of fingers over keyboard, my carefully constructed cocoon of denial has been forever ruptured. Torn away are the gossamer strands of pretence, allowing a butterfly painted with acknowledgement and acceptance to emerge. I often cry when I write, but I am not sad. Shrouded in silence as words spill forth, tears of release escape through my eyes from hidden places deep within. With each word that I write,
another tear falls and I am cleansed. Even in writing this, I have cried tears of longing
for Ashley, and of compassion for myself, and I know that I am that much closer to
letting go.

Ashley, now 18 years old, is on the precipice of womanhood. She lives in residence at a post-secondary school in Northern California where she studies engineering and dates a baseball player. After my latest visit with her I came home to my computer, intending to dash off something light-hearted and inspirational about our time together.

This is what I wrote: “When it comes to Ashley, I am bulimic. I cannot get enough. I binge on her company, on the details of her life. Who are her friends? What does she do? What does she wish for? Is she happy? I try, unsuccessfully, to fill the emptiness within by gorging on the minutiae, shoving as much of her daily existence as I possibly can into brief, stolen moments. But I am never fully satisfied. At night, I lie awake in bed, injured physically. I purge my sadness through tears, sobbing long and hard, the deep growling sobs of a mother bear who has lost her cub.” I am not yet fully healed, but with time and few a more words written down, I know I will be, someday.

I’ve finally learned to forgive myself for the first two years of my daughter’s life. They say kids don’t remember too much about their first few years. Hopefully, that’s true.

When I first brought my daughter home, I envisioned relaxing hours in bed, snuggling her warm body close to mine, wrapped in our cozy cocoon and feeling as though we were the only two people in the world. I imagined brushing her tiny wrinkled fingers against my cheek. I would count her little pink toes and give her kisses all day until there was nothing left to give. We would spend hours discovering one another–I discovering how much she looked like her father, and she slowly discovering that I was the one person who would always love her unconditionally and protect her. I imagined our days and weeks to be filled with mommy and baby yoga classes. We would spend many days at the park, where she would peacefully sleep while I relaxed with my latte and caught up on some casual reading.

But all that didn’t quite match up with my reality. The rigorous demands of running two small coffee shops and being a loving mother proved to be the most challenging task of my life. And I found it difficult to separate my new identity as a nurturing mom and my old identity as a businesswoman.
After a 42 hour labor filled with surprises and complications that led to a serious back injury, I brought my daughter home and within a few days, the blissful stage of new motherhood abruptly came to an end. I had barely mastered the difficult art of breastfeeding, or changing a poopy diaper when my cell phone alerted me to numerous messages from staff who were giving their notice. Before my daughter was born, I’d spent countless hours training new staff to ensure my absence wouldn’t be missed. Now, not even weeks later, each were giving me different reasons for why they were leaving.

I was 27 when I purchased my first business, by age 30, I had already ventured into my second one. I worked anywhere between 60 to 70 hours per week to ensure the daily operations ran smoothly. My partner, who entered into the business at year two, was my partner both in life and in business. We split the daily operations of the shops fifty-fifty, with more occasionally falling on my shoulders because I had more experience. It had always taken all our efforts to run the shops, except now we had a daughter who required a hundred percent of our attention as well.

My role in the businesses, besides working behind the counter 40 plus hours a week, included scheduling 18 employees, payroll, rotating and finding local artists every 8 weeks, endless office work which racked up to about 20-25 plus hours a week, hiring and training new employees, quality control, charity events, banking, cleaning and keeping up with almost daily orders with different suppliers.

About a week after my daughter was born, I spent a morning going through a stack of resumes and calling some of the best applicants. I was wearing my tattered white cotton housecoat with Sophia draped over my arm, her face slightly over my wrist, belly on my forearm–her favorite position. I sat down at my desk and wrapped my blue and yellow moon-shaped breastfeeding pillow around my bulging belly and attempted to hire some people over the phone. I placed my hand behind Sophia’s tiny head and pressed her up against my breast to feed. My first thought was how many phone calls I could get away with before she began to fuss. As I began to make some headway with the applicants, I began to feel uneasy both physically and emotionally. I realized, though not consciously that in that moment, that I’d been more concerned about the applicants on the phone than I had been with ensuring Sophia was being properly being fed. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was just the beginning of many moments of guilt and conflict.

At just a few dollars above minimum wage, my employees are not using this job as a means to a better future. Our staff is almost always transient, which means I have my hands full hiring and training every few months. So every few weeks, I found myself lugging Sophia down to the shops, strapping her into the Baby Bjorn for hours at a time while I attempted another round of training new employees.

Sometimes in the middle of my training sessions, my mind would wander and I would think about how I should be at home with my daughter rocking her in her baby swing. Or how I should be organizing all her new pictures to put into frames, and setting aside the ones I wanted for her scrapbook (which never got started).

Somewhere around six months, before Sophia was mobile, I decided to check up on some inventory at one of the shops. With her in one hand and my briefcase and over-packed diaper bag in the other, I walk into the café and set her down in her carseat on a table in the back. Before long, a huge lineup formed and the staff called me to the front for assistance. The lineup had no end in sight but Sophia’s nap did. As I began to take an order for a sandwich, I heard a piercing cry. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my gut and somehow thought if I talked louder nobody would notice her crying. I lifted my head to see at least another dozen people in line, torn about what to do. It would look totally unprofessional to bring Sophia to the front and soothe her in my arms while I worked the cash, but I also couldn’t just casually walk away from a lineup of paying customers. Thankfully, one of my staff came back from their break and relieved me from having to make such a decision. But the guilt I felt from knowing which decision I would’ve made left me feeling devastated, and I realized all my hopes and dreams of days at the parks and mommy and baby yoga were slipping further away. And even if a day like that did manage to happen, it was never truly relaxing for me. As much as I tried to focus on my daughter, the businesses were never too far from my thoughts.

My partner’s mother was the only help we had with our daughter. She worked full-time but did her best to come by on some weeknights and the odd Saturday or Sunday. It’s not uncommon for grandkids to get overly excited when they see their grandparents. The grandparents don’t have to do the reprimanding, or “mean things” like washing their hair or saying no to a treat. They just get to play and laugh and do fun things while they’re together. There were times when I would watch my daughter with her grandma and feel jealous about how much fun my daughter had with her. At times, I wouldn’t want her to babysit because I didn’t want them getting any closer.

My breaking point came shortly after Sophia turned one. I was on my way home from a long day at the shop, which always left me feeling overly anxious to see Sophia. Her grandma had been with her for at least ten hours that day. On the long drive home, I thought about how much I longed to hold her and tell her how much I missed her. When I pulled into the driveway, I was so excited to see her, I left everything in the car and raced to the door.

Usually, when I got home after a long day, she wouldn’t come running. I would tell myself, with hopes of truly believing it, that she just wasn’t an affectionate baby. Each time I opened the door, I hoped the response would be different. On this particular day, most events unraveled the same. As I walked through the door, I shouted, “Mommy’s home,” and looked over to see my daughter disinterested in my presence. Her frandma (knowing what it’s like to be a mother) picked Sophia up and attempted to bring her close to me. Sophia would take a quick look at me, and though I sensed her love, she looked hurt. She turned towards her grandma to be picked up. I thought to myself, “I want to hold you. I’ve missed you so much.” But I didn’t want the embarrassing risk of having her shun me, and remind me how the last year had truly altered our relationship. Her grandma would always appease me by saying things like, “Oh she’s just tired,” or “She just loves her grandma.”

It was time for grandma to leave, and I was counting the seconds so I could finally be alone with my daughter. As she threw on her coat and headed for the door, Sophia shouted, “Gran, Gran,” and ran towards the door as if the thought of being alone with me was something so terrible. I had to use all my strength to keep from bursting into tears. Once she left, I clasped my hands over my face and cried uncontrollably. It felt like an entire year of emotions was surging from my heart and bursting through my eyes. Even though Sophia was just a baby, she understood every time I put her needs second. She couldn’t communicate it yet, but her actions spoke plenty.

Things are better now. By the time she turned two, we had sold one of the shops. I’m still a working mom, and occasionally struggle with keeping a healthy balance. I’ve dedicated this last year to repairing our relationship. We’re finally doing the things I’d imagined we would do, just a little bit later than we both wanted. I’ve made a conscious effort to do office work once she goes to sleep, or park the truck and make my phone calls if she’s having a nap in the back. When it’s our time to do something together, I either turn my phone off or leave it a home. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve had to work hard at regaining her trust and making her feel like she always comes first, even when I’m busy.

The process of forgiveness is a long one. I still find myself having moments where I reflect on the first year of my daughter’s life and wish things had been different. I try to forgive myself for my imperfections and believe I did the best I could, with what I knew at the time.

These days when I walk through the door, my daughter willingly comes to see me. She sometimes hesitates, but always manages to squeeze in a quick, loving hug. Now, her eyes tell me how much she missed me and that no one could replace her mother’s love.

BY LORRIE MILLER

Published in The Globe and Mail
Friday, Aug 07, 2009

My 15-year-old son is addicted to speed, and it scares me stiff. His fix: black pavement, smooth like butter, with serious vertical drop and hairpin turns.

These are easy to find in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, a virtual haven for longboard enthusiasts. But if speed – as in going really fast – is my son’s passion, it’s my bane. And I am struggling with being a good parent to this high-velocity child.

How could I ever have been prepared for the moment when Wolfgang dashed into the kitchen, kissed my cheek and announced, “Mom, I cracked 100!”

“One hundred kilometres an hour?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said with such enthusiasm you’d think he was telling me he was in love, that he’d won the lotto. He was

almost as happy as when he became sponsored by a long- board company.

“God!” I said, unable to hide my fear or feign excitement. “How do you know?”

“A lady in a Porsche clocked us!”

At first, my son’s sport, longboarding, appeared to be as safe as regular skateboarding. I thought it might even be safer as the boards are quite long and they aren’t the type used for doing rails and half-pipes. But the truth was soon revealed. Now my son dresses in super-hero-like motorcycle leathers with an aerodynamic full-face helmet. His jeans are held together with unravelling threads and duct tape. His shoes are melted smooth across the soles from foot braking.

It’s been more than a year since he started racing, and our home has become a warehouse of longboards, speedboards, mini-boards and wheels of every hue and finish – green, pink, black, shredded, pitted, coned and just plain burned out. I have spawned a rider, a racer. As his mother, I try to understand this compulsion to go fast, dangerously fast.

“Are you out of your mind?” my friends gasp when I tell them what he does. “Why do you let him do that?”

In all honesty, there is little letting going on. He has found a sport that keeps him fit and active. That’s a lot for a kid these days. He walks kilometre upon kilometre back up the road after each run, kind of like when I go skiing: a 20-minute chair-lift ride so I can have the pleasure of a gorgeous wintry run for all of five minutes.

After a year of fretting, patching jeans and purchasing assorted body armour to shield his knees, elbows and hands, I ventured to watch him race. Until then, I’d only seen him on YouTube. In May, our family of six ferried over to the Sunshine Coast to cheer for Wolf at the Attack of Danger Bay longboarding festival.

At the race site, a bucolic residential neighbourhood in Pender Harbour, B.C., 8:30 a.m. arrived with the shrill of an air horn. “Clear the course, the track is live,” the amplified voice of the MC announced over 1980s classic rock – tunes I knew by heart. “Riders on,” he said as the first round screamed past us and around the bend into what is known as Carnage Corner. Some made it through; others plowed into the stacked bales of hay that lined the track.

A series of pile-ups in the hay prepared me for Wolf’s first run. I watched and waited; my muscles cinched tighter around my heart with each rider that passed. Wolf came around the corner smoothly in a clean, tucked-over-one-knee style, with one hand down to take the corner, then he skidded into the hay. Before I could peek between my fingers he was up and heading down the next stretch of the track.

After the warm-up run, racers were grouped in sixes for the elimination round; only the top two of each heat would go on. The 192 racers would be cut by two-thirds in one fell swoop. Despite my fears, I hoped Wolf would get a second run in that day.

Two hours into the race Wolf was in heat 25. At the top of the run, he gave a single push to start and a radar gun set up along the track clocked him at 60 kilometres an hour. I became more at ease as each heat passed, even with the pile-ups. Riders dusted themselves off and carried on. It was surreal. I thought of the worst, looked at the parked ambulance and wiped the thought from my mind.

“The track is live – riders on,” the MC announced.

Wolf pursued the rider ahead of him, then that rider skidded into the bales. Wolf sailed into second. He’d made it to the next round.

In the second round, 10 minutes in, Wolf shot around the second corner in third spot, took the inside line, moved into second, cleared Carnage Corner and vanished down the track. When he returned he told us he’d been taken in the final stretch. His race was over.

Now that I’ve seen the action live I feel somewhat better, yet I still have mixed emotions about my son’s longboarding. Although I love him with every fibre of my being, as I do all four of my children, the risks he takes are so far from my nature I find it difficult to understand why he’s so into it.

I understand his drive and his desire for excellence, though. So his father and I have resolved to support him, to help him maintain a balance in his life, one that includes things that aren’t connected to racing. In the end, he will follow his heart, pursue his dreams. What more could we want?

I was pacing back and forth in the waiting room of the ultrasound department at Vancouver General Hospital, with a bladder ready to burst.  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, the helpful receptionist suggested I go to the bathroom to pee, just a little, to relive some of the pressure.  Apparently, she has never been pregnant. I went into the bathroom and peed not just a little, but a good satisfying, anxiety-relieving, bladder-emptyting, full-on pee. There was no other option.  And while I was in there, I began the process again, guzzling more of the stale, metallic tasting tap water in order to have a full bladder for the ultrasound that would try to find my baby.  My hormones levels had confirmed my pregnancy, but my last ultrasound, two days before, showed an empty uterus.    

When I was back to almost bursting, the ultrasound technician arrived to show me to my room.  She was friendly, but clearly time pressured and I couldn’t help feeling that no one really wanted me here.  I didn’t have an appointment, and they were asked to fit me into an over-scheduled clinic where other patients had been waiting weeks for their appointments.  As she began the procedure in the dim, oversized room, I couldn’t help but ask, “Can you see anything in my uterus?”  

“I cannot disclose any information to the patient,” she explained.  I had already read that in a notice on the wall, but I had hoped for an exception, or a hint.  But instead, she turned the monitor further away from my glance.  She did let me know what she was examining, step by step.  And then she stopped talking.  Not a word for many minutes as she poked the probe and clicked on the keyboard as she took the pictures.  Then abruptly, she was up and off. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she said.  I stared at the large clock on the wall and watched as the seconds ticked by, shivering in the thin gown.  The door opened suddenly and a woman asked me if I would like a warm blanket.  A pity blanket, I thought.  There was something wrong. The technician is feeling more compassionate.

Less than ten minutes passed and the technician was back with my results in a sealed envelope.  “Take this straight to the ER and your doctor will meet you there,” she said.  She opened a side door and I was whisked into a large hallway.  The door shut behind me before I had a chance to ask where the ER was.  I wandered hallways up and down, trying to make sense of the signs, and then escaped through an outside door thinking it would easier to navigate from the outside.  I walked briskly as the darkness was setting in and clutched the results in hand.  The abdominal pain was sharp on one side and I wondered if it was wise to be wandering around by myself to the ER.  My hands were shaking as I called my husband from my cell phone. I told him to meet me in the ER waiting room.  My mind felt numb and I was trying to ignore my urge to prepare for bad news.

Moments after arriving in the ER, the resident that had seen me in the gynaecology clinic that afternoon approached me and opened the results.  The ultrasound found my baby – in my right fallopian tube – “a three-centimetre mass,” as she called it.  “We don’t know if it has already ruptured,” she informed me.  Tears sprung immediately. She said she was sorry. Sorry in a way that didn’t mean much. Sorry in a way that said she had no idea what this left like. And then she left asking me to see the nurse for admission, my unanswered questions dangling between us. 

Kleenex appeared in my hands from a woman wearing a hospital volunteer apron, and I stood alone standing in the middle of the waiting room.  Bits and pieces of thoughts and images started going around my mind at a whirling pace as I tried to comprehend  the implications of this news: no more July due date, no more second child to complete our family, no more perfect two-and-a half year age spread. I was bleeding internally, and most distressing, my one fallopian tube that works – the one with all the pressure to make our dreams come true – was possibly gone.  

I caught a glimpse of my husband through the glass walls surrounding the waiting room, making his way to the emergency entrance. He was walking quickly, fresh from the office in his suit, still in a state of hopefulness .  We sat for the next three hours in that ER waiting room, a man with blood oozing from open wounds on one side and a loudly moaning and sobbing man on the other.  The agony is the room was excruciating and served to darkened already dim thoughts.  The blood work trolley arrived at my chair and asked to take more blood.  No private room to sit down in, but right here in the middle of the crowd.  They were checking my hemoglobin to assess the extent of the internal bleeding and blood typing me for surgery.  They didn’t know yet how urgent my situation was, and they left me there waiting and watching to see if I was going to take a turn for the worse.  My scattered thoughts continued to flash one after the other, most of them of my son at home, my son we were told that we wouldn’t conceive naturally.  Our fertility miracle.  I wanted a second miracle.  I was asking for too much.

We had an audience for our grief.  Others stared as tears dripped down my cheeks, and then looked away if I made eye contact.  Waiting another minute, spending another moment in the midst of this misery, was more and more difficult as the evening wore on.  I prayed silently to get out of here, out of this hospital, out of this situation.  I daydreamed about taking my son to a beach, a gorgeous Hawaiian beach.  I thought about him running on the sand with the water lapping at his toes.  Sheer, simple, happiness.  That is what I will do when this ends: remember joy again.

We were finally given an exam room where we spent the next shift of waiting.  This time, I got a bed to lie in and another thin, oversized gown, and no blankets.  The fluorescent lighting felt harsh and cold as we became more and more tired.  My husband leaned against the wall and paced back and forth, trying to find a comfortable place to be without a chair to sit on.  

There was much silence as we waited. The recent distance between us filled the room.  Not really concerning distance, but new parents with busy lives that have not made each other a priority kind of distance.  I was aching for more time together, and here we were, minutes and hours together, no interruptions and nothing to say.  Now, we had more to discuss than ever before, but somehow we knew our words would not change the outcome. 

The resident came in and out several times with various updates and more questions.  And, finally, near midnight, the preparations for my surgery stopped.  After much consideration, they believed the fallopian tube had not ruptured, and because they knew we wanted another child, they changed to a more conservative treatment approach.  They would inject me with a chemotherapy drug, Methotrexate, and then release me.  The drug stops rapidly dividing cells, and would end my pregnancy.  The surgery would likely have meant the loss of my fallopian tube.  This way, the future of our ability to conceive would rest on the extent of the damage the pregnancy caused to the fallopian tube. 

Sitting in my husband’s car as we drove home that night was a reminder of the old days, the childless days. I drive the family SUV, and I am in my husband’s car so rarely I had forgotten how to adjust the seat warmers.  His car felt so empty without Cheerios or Arrowroots littering the floors and seats, without a car seat in the back.  Even with the heat on high, I couldn’t get warm.  The sting of the two injection sites was keeping my focus on the drug circulating through my bloodstream that would end my pregnancy.  The hours without food or water, the hours of waiting, the constant blood taking, the physical pain and the emotional rollercoaster had exhausted me.  I now knew that my swollen belly was from the blood pooling in my abdomen.  A cruel irony.  I did not cry on our drive home. I didn’t feel anything but sheer fatigue. 

The tears didn’t start until days later.  The medical issues helped cloud the reality of losing a baby.  But now my tears visit frequently – any moment alone and every reminder of a new baby. The swollen tummies of so many of our friends are especially painful.  Today, I am still uncomfortable.  The pain in my abdomen comes and goes as a constant reminder, but it is lessening.  The swell in my tummy is just beginning to disappear.  “I am very lucky,” I explain to others as I describe the ordeal. “They found it before it ruptured. We avoided surgery.”   Even today, in many countries around the world, women die every day from ectopic pregnancies.   But, I don’t feel lucky.  I just feel empty. 

Today, I received a phone call from the hospital telling me my last blood test has confirmed my pregnancy is over.  I do not know how deeply to grieve.  We have lost a baby, and perhaps our opportunity to have more.  For now, my uterus will remain empty. I am ashamed I once thought that maybe we were enough without another baby, that maybe we couldn’t handle anymore.  Now, I know with all of my being, I wanted this baby.  I still fear that our lives are too full already, but I am holding a space in the midst of our chaos for another chance. 

Published in May by Exceptional Parent Magazine

 www.eparent.com

“I’ve never seen anything like this before” were the first words I remember a doctor stating the moment my son was born, as I listened to the donkey-like sound my son made. From where I was lying on the delivery table, it looked like his ribs were made of rubber and folded in half with each noisy inhalation. With every breath he took, his ribcage would collapse. Of course the doctor had never experienced this. We learned, five long, agonizing days later that it was because both of Jacob’s vocal cords were paralyzed, something so rare that the specialists at Sick Kids Hospital had not seen in over 15 years.

Until then, my only experience with doctors had been for routine check-ups and the occasional sore throat. Doctors had the answers; they diagnosed the problem and prescribed the remedy. And it usually worked. Not this time.

It wasn’t until 10 months after I heard those frightening words that Jacob was diagnosed with Pelizaeus-Merzbacher disease (PMD), a rare, neurodegenerative disease. I was at home playing with my son when the telephone rang. The doctor informed me that one of the many tests Jacob took came back positive. He had PMD. I had never heard of this disease and did not know what it meant. When I started asking questions, I was informed that there is no cure and no treatment available. According to the medical professional, our only option was to treat each new symptom as it appeared. I would not accept that this was the only option. My role as a mother was to keep my son happy, healthy, and safe. I would not sit back and wait for the disease to destroy Jacob’s body.

I lived my first year of motherhood as if I were in a bubble. While other new moms were taking their babies to music classes and various “mom and tot” programs, I was at home, isolated from the rest of the world. Because of his weak immune system, a simple cold was life-threatening for Jacob. I was not willing to risk infection by inviting other children into our home for visits or taking him for a walk in the nearby mall.

Instead, as I held him for two hours at a time for his feeding, his tiny head would get so hot it soaked through the layers of blankets that were between us. Without stopping, I was uttering the same two syllables in slow motion: Jaaaacobbbbb, Jaaaacobbbbb for hours. My biceps were burning from holding his little body as still as possible as any movement might cause him to vomit. This process was repeated every three hours. My clothes were drenched and stank from partially digested breast milk that was painfully pumped for 20 minutes, seven times a day, month after month.

Being a mother took on a new meaning for me. Yes, I held my son like any new mother, but it was different. Very different. Nothing like I thought it would be. I had to make sure I did not dislodge any of the tubes that helped him live. Yes, I fed my son like any new mother, but it was different. Instead of holding him to my breast or placing a bottle in his mouth, I had to connect him to a feeding system that dripped pumped breast milk into a tube that was inserted into his stomach, bypassing his mouth. And yes, eventually I was allowed to take him for walks in his stroller, but it was different. We walked in the halls of the hospital, stopping occasionally so I could place a suction tube in his mouth to help him breathe.

This was not the way I visualized motherhood. Seeing a healthy child was so painful for me, I felt like I would collapse in tears. When I saw a baby that was the same age as Jacob, I had to look away. I couldn’t help thinking my son should be sitting like that by now; he should be able to smile, too. When I listened to a mother complain about her child needing glasses, I wanted to scream at her and tell her to be thankful for having a child who could walk and talk.

As we were given the freedom to venture farther away from his room, I started gaining confidence in my ability to feed him by myself and was beginning to overcome my revulsion at threading a tube up his nose and down his throat for the deep suctioning he sometimes required. I was terrified. I can still feel my inexperienced hands trembling as I snaked the tube in his nose until it reached the point where it would turn, move down his throat and clear the thick mucous that was impeding his airway. I was not enjoying this part of motherhood. Not one bit.

Then, all of a sudden, I realized that I had changed. Somehow along the way, in the midst of all the feedings, appointments, and isolation, I seemed to have stopped saying that I couldn’t handle it. I stopped feeling like I was going to scream every time we were told that there was nothing anyone could do. I stopped shaking every time I had to suction Jacob, and I stopped apologizing to strangers in waiting rooms for Jacob’s screaming.

Eventually I stopped saying “I can’t handle it.” I don’t know exactly when, but at some point, I realized that I can, and I had to.

It is well known that mother-bears will stop at nothing to defend their cubs. And that was me, I realized. Perhaps my child had disabilities, but still, I was a mother-bear. I had found strength and courage from reserves located somewhere deep, deep inside me. I started to question the medical professionals. I began to realize they did not have answers, and even though many were reluctant to admit it, I learned they knew little about how to help Jacob. But as time passed, as I became more comfortable with the tiny fighter who is my son, I realized that I could not depend on the doctors for the answers. Jacob is my son. I know him better than a doctor who examines him for 10 minutes, despite the plethora of degrees hanging on his office wall.

The doctors were doing their best, but I was the expert. During one of our many hospital visits, a doctor told me that he wanted to surgically remove a piece of Jacob’s skin for analysis. I asked why. I wanted to know if the results would lead to a treatment or if it was simply to add more details to Jacob’s voluminous medical file. At another appointment, a specialist suggested a second MRI. I weighed the potential benefits against the risk of not being able to remove the breathing tube required for the anesthetic. As my confidence grew, so did my voice. I decided that any medical test or procedure that Jacob would undergo must have the potential benefit of bringing us closer to a treatment. I would not let him suffer for the sake of gathering additional information that would be useful only in the context of academic publications about rare disorders.

Some of the professionals I’ve encountered have labeled me a demanding parent; others call me difficult because I don’t blindly accept what they say. I know what I am. I am a mother-bear who will stop at nothing to protect her cub. I will stop at nothing to make sure Jacob has the happiest, healthiest, and safest life possible. Because frankly, that’s my job.

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     Here it was, my first whole day off in nine months. The baby would be fine, I reassured myself. She would deal. My husband would come home after work and take over, and both kids would be okay. I kissed the baby reassuringly, smiled at the babysitter and turned on my heel. Mom was waiting patiently in the car, checking her purse. My husband called less than ten minutes into our trip, asking if we had checked the weather forecast, had water and maps. “We’re only going to Whistler!” I reassured him. “For the day!” He laughed and let me go, nervous about rockslides and roadwork and whatnot.

     The drive to Whistler is amazing. They call it the Sea to Sky Highway for a reason; it is truly a drive with jaw dropping views. Here people drive too fast, forgetful of the danger. They wrap their cars around each other, veer off over the edge and down to their demise. We hear about the really nasty ones, but not all the near misses.

     “Look, land shark!” I say, pointing to a sign with a pointy fin and rocks rolling after it.

Mom laughs. We both fall silent, thinking. I am thinking about what happens when a rock slides down the mountain, unnoticed. It is silent under the din of the radio, stealthy gaining speed until it picks up some friends, and as you turn your head to say something about the view, they pelt your car and cause you to yell and swerve into oncoming traffic. Mom is inspecting her fingernails.

    I also think about the two boys from my hometown who willfully threw a rock off an overpass. The driver, a father of three, was killed instantly. The police photograph and the jagged hole in the windshield is scarred in my memory. One moment you are driving, the next you don’t exist. That could be me, I think. Worse, that could happen to my kids. A senseless end no god can justify.

    We enjoyed our day, a slice of beauty. On the way home we were slowed by police, a lane marked off by cones and lights. A sedan had inexplicably t-boned another car in the next lane. The passengers all seemed unhurt, speaking to the police by the side of the highway. Mom and I looked at each other. “How did that happen?” she said. I shrugged.

     Death didn’t faze me, before I had children. It had made itself familiar to me, like an unwanted houseguest, taking grandparents, parents, friends. But the thought of my kids dying is impossible. Before them, I could even envision my own death. The “oh shit” moment of recognition: this is it, the final flight, the ascent from earthly trappings. With it, random bits of memory will fly out, the most recent and inane first, like taking out the garbage. You file through the rolodex of countless memories, feeling them leave you like little invisible sighs.

    I used to find this idea peaceful. I’d get to remember all the things I loved, all the tiniest bits about what made up my life. Then I’d be off and flying with the vast group of souls that circles the planet just outside the stratosphere, waiting for their recall date.

     Now I am terrified of dying. Leave my children? At the tender age of three and a half and nine months? I would fight death, clawing my way back into my body no matter how broken or messy it was. I’d need more time to help them form their lives on little barely acknowledgeable moments. Mortality takes on a whole new meaning when you face facts, and children are smiling, screaming, ir-replaceable facts.

     My husband and I discuss the unwritten will periodically, kick back and forth who would get the kids if we both bite it. The papers sit on the top of the fridge collecting dust. We don’t know where to send our kids for an awkward, seventeen-year overnighter.

     One morning I take my son on the back of the bike, aware of the danger on some of the side streets. I leave the baby at home with capable Daddy to enjoy some of the lost first-born time. The air is cold and breathing hard leaves little needles in my throat. He is yelling with uproarious joy; it makes the passers-by stop and smile. I bought him the safest and most ridiculously huge helmet possible, one that makes him appear alien. Perhaps this is why they are smiling.

     We make it to the beach in one piece. I am sweating profusely and he is exhilarated, as co-pilot he has bade me to ring the bell at least fifteen times on the way here. We have scared the dog walkers, birds, and pram pushers and he is feeling powerful. Dismounting for a quick chase, we stow our gear and run for the dunes. We find shells, rocks, and logs hollow and wide enough to crawl through. We spy a huge metal sculpture and pretend it is a prehistoric snake, ducking and weaving underneath its hulking presence. We see the pier and leisurely make our way to it, spotting clouds in the shapes of monkeys, boats, a piece of toast.

     He runs ahead and I yell, wait, wait for Mommy, and ten steps in, he does. Flashes of him tripping and falling into the icy water are pushed aside as I take his hand, firmly. We inspect the rivets on logs, point out the bird poo that needs avoiding. At the end of the pier trappers are throwing out lines. We’ve just missed them throwing in the crab traps, I tell him, and at the end of each of those strings is a cage meant to lure them. He thinks about this for a while, as he likes crabs. He knows people eat them but he is terribly fond of finding them under rocks by the beach near our house. “Cool,” he decides, giving me a smile. We make our way back to the bike, stopping to empty the sand from our shoes.

    The trip home is uphill, and I am slow going, partly due to lack of muscle and partially to eke out as much time as I can with him, my wonderful little boy.

     My husband senses he’s missed something as I relay our adventures. A pang of want crosses his eyes as he too wishes he’d had this perfect moment.

      So later that day, we all return. It’s warmer now, the sun burning off the morning frostiness. This time Evan runs down the pier. He wants a closer look at the crab traps, wants to see how they work. I am yelling at him to slow down and wait for me, but he doesn’t this time, he runs all the way to the end. I can see him asking one of the fishermen to show him, as he reaches over to pull the line. The fisherman makes a grabbing motion and all I see next is his coat, his feet, he is gone. I am running as fast as I can, not thinking, blind in my panic. I dive over the end of the pier not knowing where he is or what happened to him. The water hits me like a frozen fist and I gasp. I can see his coat bobbing up in the water, Thank God! There he is! I reach out to pull him to me and he slips out of his coat. I forgot to zip it. Frantically, I wave in the water looking for flesh to grab and come up empty, and then I am screaming, screaming for help and screaming in salt water.

    My husband pats me as I jolt awake, inhaling sharply. “Shhh. Shhh. Just bad thoughts,” he tells me soothingly. “Only thoughts.” I shudder and whimper slightly, unable to tell him the horror that has raced through my body. I get up, walk downstairs to the kitchen and pour myself a drink of water. I stand there in the dark, praying to anyone who will listen. Let him live, let us all live.

I sat on a plastic child-sized chair in a corner of the day surgery ward. My son, Ben, stood in front of me in his hospital gown and slippers while he played with a broken down Fisher Price gas station. My eyes lapped up my three-year-old son’s innocence as I watched his little hands pulling levers and opening latches, rolling a mismatched car and driver figure up to the gas pump that had no hose. Wanting to appear calm to him, I only leaned slightly on the edge of the little chair, not quite wrapping my arms around him despite desperately wanting to clutch his little body close to me. One of my hands rested on his shoulder and my other hand tinkered at the bells and buttons on the toy so he might think I played along with him.

Stretching my neck out and turning toward my son, I peered into his big, sea-blue eyes. Just the idea that he was about to have them both pierced by a scalpel was enough to send stabbing pains through my chest. At three-years-old he couldn’t possibly understand what was about to happen to him, but he had always been able to read my emotions. If he could sense my panic, he did not let on.

Then an older woman on a gurney right next to our tiny play area began to moan. Ben and I both turned to look at her and when I scoured the bright recovery room/pre-surgery room I realized there were no curtains or dividers to place between us. I had hoped to shield my son from the sight of this woman in pain. She strained to raise her arm and then ran it over the hospital blanket that covered her mountainous belly. She groaned louder and spoke in a gruff, dry-throated voice. The nurse came to her and I turned my attention to the tattered play set in hopes that my son would swivel around too. Instead, he stared wide-eyed at the woman in pain. I pulled him close to me and hugged him to hide his eyes. Then we enjoyed a fleeting moment of respite before the anesthesiologist approached us.

A quick review with the physician about our family history regarding anesthetic briefly stole me from my son. Before I knew it, before I was ready to let him go, my son said, “Bye Mommy.” I must have responded, but I have no memory of this. Mesmerized, I watched him walk off with this stranger, hand in hand. Turning his head, his red-blond hair swishing slightly, my son chattered on easily. They left me sitting there beside this woman moaning in pain. I could not go further. I was not allowed to. My boy would have to climb up onto the operating table and lay down, without me. He had more courage than I did. More strength. I had so little – it seemed.

I stumbled out to join my husband, my mother and my aunt in the waiting room and almost immediately broke down in tears, sobbing. Exhausted, I waited, and nursed a longed for strawberry smoothie just out of sight of the other patients — a large one — because when Ben could not eat or drink before surgery, none of us would either. We waited. We noticed the assembly line of young children, each somewhere between the age of two and twelve, or so we figured. Oddly, all the children waiting for surgery that day were boys, waiting in gowns and slippers to be called in one by one. And with each child, one shaky adult was allowed to tag along.

Finally, a voice called out my son’s name. I dropped my smoothie cup and purse and jumped up to go to the recovery room to be with my son. A nurse sat in a rocking chair cradling him. My heart beat faster as I bolted to the chair to take that nurse’s place and hold him myself.

As I made my way en route to the recovery room, I fretted that my bladder was full, and that I should have used the washroom when I’d had the time. But, I realize looking back that I did not think of my body’s needs for the next three hours. The nurse helped me get settled in the rocking chair where I held him the entire time. I cried when Ben’s swollen eyes peeped open to see me. Placing a cold, wet washcloth over his eyes I talked softly to him as I rocked in the chair and tried to soothe him. His tears distressed me especially because I didn’t want him to cry and further irritate his incisions. We sat and rocked and clung to each other.

I had nothing to do but think as I held my three and a half year old “baby” cradled to me. The strength I thought I didn’t possess had come from that place in me; the same place I harbor the scars from that day. But I also carry with me the images of my son, so young, in such pain. Each image is like a frame in a movie, images I wish I could delete.

“Mom!  I feel awful.  What have I done?  What have I done?  I HATE him!”

My reverie vaporized.  I’d been leaning back on my car headrest, eyes closed, roof open, a miraculously less-than-Arctic breeze blowing daydreams around on this sunny, February afternoon when my almost-13-year-old son, Charlie, hurled himself into the passenger seat.  He held his hands to the sides of his head as if trying to keep it from exploding.  Sobbing, liquid dripping from every orifice in his head, he breathed out fear, and I knew by the look in his eyes, so like my own, that it was as much fear of himself as it was of something outside.

“What have I done?  What have I DONE?” he wailed.

Accustomed to my son’s overdeveloped dramatic gene, also like my own, I remained outwardly cool.  “I don’t know, Charlie.  What HAVE you done?”

“Mom, I PUNCHED COLTON IN THE FACE AND NOW THERE’S BLOOD POURING OUT OF HIS NOSE!”

“Is he all right?  Is he crying?”

“No, Mom.  He just turned and walked away, but there was blood!”

“Well, why did you punch him?  You KNOW better than to do that.”

“I just couldn’t take it anymore, Mom,” Charlie explained.  “He called you FAT!  You’re not fat.”

I sat up taller, leaner.  “That’s true, I am definitely not fat.”

“I told him, ‘Colton, I’m going to give you the chance to walk away, but if you don’t, I’m warning you: there WILL be consequences.’  He just smiled and said, ‘I’m not going anywhere so bring it!’ And then, I punched him, Mom. I had to follow through.”

I felt the burden of righteous parenting pushing down on my suddenly brittle shoulders.  “Just calm down and we’ll go to the principal’s office and report this situation before it reports you.”

But, as I kept my eyes stern in a scolding stare, I noticed something strange.  I, the pacifist, the purveyor of “use-your-words-not-your-fists” platitudes, was actually proud that my son had finally clocked the sneaky brat who had emotionally bullied him for the past six years.  And, I wondered what kind of mother would feel glad that her child had physically hurt another.

As a mom, I already knew that it was my job to enforce a clear, uncomplicated understanding of right and wrong for Charlie, but at that instant, it hurt to not simply hug him and tell him that his mother was, well,  proud as punch.

Two hours later, my son was suspended from school for a day because there was a possibility that Colton had suffered a broken nose or a slight concussion.  As it turned out, he had neither. Charlie was punished because he drew blood. Colton’s emotional bullying was unseen and therefore, if not exactly condoned, then accepted because of its invisibility. While I felt this outcome to be unfair, I fully recognized that physical violence cannot be tolerated at school, period.

I partially blamed my husband and myself for Charlie’s suspension. Naïve, irresponsible parents, we’d never thought to teach our son to punch below the neck where the damage isn’t immediately obvious.  Instead, we’d merely taught him to never use physical violence at all and to talk things through. I realized that we hadn’t prepared Charlie for real life at all, just for the idealistic version that did not include a freckle-faced Lucifer masquerading as a victim.

Charlie first encountered Colton in grade two, and it was mutual dislike at first sight.  Colton had been moved from a school at which he was, according to his mother, supremely bored; so bored, in fact, that the only way he could stimulate his gifted brain was by shoving other six year-old heads down the toilet in the boy’s washroom. Colton derived immense pleasure from Charlie’s reactions to his pencil pokes and verbal insults.  With sick serendipity, they also attended the same camp that summer and were placed in the same cabin where Colton continued his attacks. I tried to teach my son that in life, we are always going to encounter people who we don’t particularly like, but that if we don’t react, they will eventually leave us alone.  I left out the part about, “that is, once they’ve been incarcerated.” I felt like a bit of a liar back then.

When I was eleven, I did my grade seven year at a tough high school. The teachers were suspicious and nasty, and I had my own Colton. Her name was Eleanor Griffin. Eleanor was a Goth, done up solely black and white, who smoked and swore. Eleanor bullied me every single day.  In the morning, I’d arrive to find her standing in front and slightly to the right of her locker, blocking my access to my own. I would politely say, “Excuse me.”  She wouldn’t budge, and a silent shoving match would ensue.  With thirty pounds on me, Eleanor always won, and my bruises were more than skin deep.

When Eleanor wasn’t body-slamming me into the next hallway, she was insulting my goody-two-shoes appearance, always with an audience, of course. She stuck a finger in my face and told me that if I ever complained about her to anyone over the age of thirteen, she and her zombie friends would wait for me after school and kick me into another time-zone. I paraphrase, of course.

No one was happier than me when Grade Seven ended. I was finally able to stop feeling afraid every day, and even more importantly, to stop feeling ashamed of my cowardice.   That whole year, I had conjured elaborate revenge scenarios. I would discover an old world Sensei, miraculously living in the house next to ours, and just like in The Karate Kid, he would teach me all his secret moves and the next time Eleanor tried to send me flying across the hall, I would chop her into a heap on the dirty floor to the cheers of fellow students.

The only problem with my revenge fantasies was that I couldn’t see past the consequences.  I would be sent to the principal’s office for disciplinary action.  I could be suspended or even expelled, bringing disgrace upon my loving, hard-working parents. My academic record would be permanently tainted and I would never find a job or true love.

Early on, I could see that Charlie wasn’t a coward. Perhaps, I had redeemed myself a little bit with this next generation.  He was confident, respectful of himself and others.  If Eleanor had any offspring, Charlie could take them, I knew.

Colton and Charlie didn’t come into close contact again until grade six when the administration felt their new maturity might have changed their dynamic, but everything was the same except that they were both bigger. The incidents escalated. They spent time with the principal on several occasions. Always, on their way there, Colton would hiss at Charlie, “I don’t mind how much you ever hurt me physically . . . as long as it gets you in trouble.”

In grade seven, Charlie and Colton entered a new school, two unknown, little fish in a huge tank.  I worried aloud but was told by this principal that probably one day, the boys would become best friends.  I smiled and nodded, all the while imagining Eleanor and I exchanging birthday cards.

As I predicted, the fall was fraught with several incidents: Colton spat at Charlie during the Terry Fox Run and made inappropriate sexual innuendoes about Charlie’s ten and eight-year-old cousins.  There were more scuffles, more visits to the principal’s office.  Charlie always took the higher road, accepted Colton’s forced apologies and often assumed half of the responsibility for their fights.  When Charlie finally blew, it was horrible but not unexpected.

The day of his suspension, my son wrote a heartfelt essay on why punching is wrong.  He did all his homework and cleaned out the drawers in his room. After I read his essay, we discussed how he could not afford any more “Clint Eastwood” moments.  He knows he will have to exercise more self-control and turn to our principal for help should Colton strike again.  If he falters, he will be expelled.

After our discussion, I saw how willing Charlie was to own his behavior and I realized that I am not such a bad mother for taking pride in his inclination to fight back. Charlie has the guts I lacked at his age. He stood up for himself and his family and those are the things of which I’m proud.

I wanted to celebrate my kid.  But at the same time, I feared that if I told him how I really felt he might see it as a sanction for his actions, and I knew that message could do him a disservice. So, I looked around, that afternoon, for a way to give Charlie a gift of my appreciation without anyone knowing it except for me. 

I bellowed for Charlie to come down to the kitchen and tried to keep the serious expression on my face, the one that means business.

“What’s wrong, Mom?  Why’d you call me back down?” my son asked.  “Did school call?  Is Colton dead?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” I said wryly.  “I just wanted to tell you that if you’re finished all your work, it’s okay with me if you want to wail on the piano for a couple of hours.”

My son’s face lit from within, and I could see by his instant smile that I was giving him the perfect gift.  For both Charlie and I, playing music is a way to work through feelings and problems. Now, he banged away on my old electric piano for a long while, repeating the strains of “When the Saints go Marching In” hundreds of times.  Normally, this repetition would have driven me to either a very early cocktail or the Tylenol bottle, but on this day, the sounds just reminded me that I’d found a way to give my son exactly what he needed.   

The first time I lost my son was in a dream.  Gathered on tiered benches in a natural amphitheatre of sorts where the tall bodies of many cedars cast slow shadows over our eyes, the women around me wear pleated cotton skirts and shapeless blouses. Their shoulders are draped in bright, woven fabrics with wild patterns that caused vertigo, and their faces are quiet and kind. They are the faces, I’m sure, of a place in the south I had traveled many years before.

I rest with these women, my eyes closed, absorbing the intonation of a language I had long forgotten, while my son sleeps in my arms. Their attention shifts, surprisingly to me, and I repose under the caress of their soft hands on my shoulders and my hair. They uncover my sleeping baby’s face and I swell like a flower bud in spring.

I hardly notice as they lift him from my arms and pass him from breast to breast, benevolent eyes gazing down at him, braided heads nodding in approval. Soon, the warmth or their hands abandon me and I realize my son is missing. I rise on the bench, searching the crowds for the bundle of blankets that is my child and the faces of the women look up at me, still kind and smiling, nodding and talking.

When I hear my son’s cry, my mouth opens to call his name, but instead unfurls a scream that turns the shadows black.

I woke then, breath scouring my throat and sheets wet with sweat and breast milk. My son sleeps beside me, round belly exposed, and tender lips pursed.

When Makalo was two, we lived in seaside village where the highway snaked along the coast like a crack in the sidewalk. The summer market was bursting with tourists licking melted ice cream from between their salty fingers and filling bags full of cherries.

Fresh fruit lines the rough cedar shelves and Makalo chases rolling onions along the dark floor boards. I browse the produce for cobs of sweet corn and new potatoes. Peeling back the papery sheath I untangle silky threads to peek at the bright kernels and forget about my son.

Pleased with my selections, I carry my basket to the till, calling, “Makalo!” The store seems oddly deserted and I call his name again as I pass the bulk bins and again as I reach the till. My blood rises into my cheeks and I tell the dreadlock cashier I will be right back.

I comb the aisles searching for the silver blond head of my son, footsteps now frantic as I circle the parameter, asking the clerks if they have seen my boy, “He’s two, blond, purple t-shirt. Gumboots…?“

I stalk the rooms’ diameter towards the market door, heart in throat and fear flourishing with each flick of my flip flop. Standing on the porch, the wind blows the tail of my long skirt between my legs, tangling around my ankles and I squint my eyes against the glare of the sun and shade my face with the visor of my palm, searching for a bobbing blond head and the sound of tiny gumboots on the deck or the mad chaos of an accident scene.

The stream of traffic noise from the highway drowns the laughter of families picnicking on an island of grass and the parking lot is full.  A figure emerges from between two parked cars, she is sheltered from the sun under the wide brim of her hat and she holds my son’s hand in hers. I leap off the porch and across the parking lot to press my son against my throbbing heart.

I turn to greet the stranger’s puckered gaze to offer my thanks and she begins to lecture about children needing constant supervision and I feel the blister of rage rupture. Tremors tour the length of my body and lodge inside my throat before they blaze. I pivot and stalk the cement back into the market where I purchase my groceries with a smile, trying not to choke.

On the way home I pull the car into a quiet spot off the highway and yield to the tremors and tears. I don’t try to explain myself to Makalo. Even I can’t understand why her words devoured my gratitude or the quantum of fear for this child’s being I have yet to acknowledge.

These days I feel I’m losing my son in a different way, a way that exposes a new trepidation that is slow and far reaching. Each time he tends his own wounds, ducks a hug, or rebuffs my outstretched hand, I fear this is the day he will no longer need me.

Mom without wheels
My daughter’s friend asks why I don’t drive. How do you explain phobias and anxiety to a five-year-old?

By Bonnie Goldberg
As published in The Globe and Mail
May 5, 2009

Another day, another parking lot. I watch other mothers wave to each other with cellphones and key chains dangling from their hands, blissfully free of groceries and purses that are safely stowed in their behemoth vehicles.
They don’t realize how lucky they are, hopping into and out of the steel machines. To them it’s second nature. Not for me.
I stand in the schoolyard weighted down with shopping bags and a briefcase. For a few seconds each afternoon, I feel the pricks of hot shame rise above my collar. I have to shake it off and get the kids, careful not to reveal my embarrassment. It’s not just that I don’t have a car. I am the only mother who doesn’t drive.
I am the only mother who will walk her kids home today, not just willingly but out of necessity.
I watch with envy as the kids pile into other moms’ cars for play dates and lessons. I can’t reciprocate.
Technically, I can drive, but I choose not to. Long ago, I decided that my sanity and public safety trump the convenience of four wheels and a carpool.
And yet, at the dinner table the other night, my five-year-old daughter’s friend tries to ferret out the meaning of what she has overhead: “My mom says you don’t drive. Why?”
How can I explain phobias and anxiety to a five-year-old? I smile cheerily, say, “Because I don’t,” and pass the French fries.
The undeniable fact is that my five-year-old and her nine-year-old sister often question my “choice.” For their sake, I prefer to call it a choice rather than a fear.
But I think they sense the fabrication. How can I possibly encourage them to try to skate, learn to dive, taste a new food, when I won’t try to conquer my own fear?
It wasn’t always this way. I had the best of intentions. I tried driving school when I was young but the instructor yelled at me. Even back then my inability to remember which one was the brake and which one was the gas presented a serious impediment to my progress.
In my outspoken feminist phase during law school, I tried a women’s-only driving school, certain that my fears were somehow related to male dominance and gendered politics. This course got me my licence, but my unwillingness to make left turns soon meant it became just another piece of unused plastic in my wallet, alongside dozens of out-of-date loyalty cards.
I tried again when my first child was born. The idea of driving my infant daughter around town — without a care in the world, free to roam Costco and the grocery store alone and uninhibited — initially appealed to me. That is, until I got into the car and turned on the ignition. The fear would envelop me and I would scurry back into the house, ashamed and shaking. So now I am simply a mother who doesn’t drive.
On the hot asphalt of the school parking lot, one of the moms asks if her daughter can come home with us today.
I dread this moment. “Sure, if she wants to walk. I don’t have a car.”
The mom appears not to comprehend me, so I spell it out for her.
“You’re kidding! I have never heard of a mom who doesn’t drive,” she says. She regards me quizzically as if confronted by a mom with two heads. “That is so weird. How do you manage?”
I want to say with great difficulty, a husband who loves me for my brain, not my road skills, tons of help from grandparents and friends, and a heaping daily dose of stress. But I don’t. I grit my teeth and say, “Oh, you know, we manage.”
But I know this isn’t true. While mothers around the world can’t afford cars, and we live in a city blessed with great public transportation, the sad reality of an urban, middle-class existence with two active and athletic children practically demands access to a car.
“Can your daughter come over on Saturday?”
My response: “Only if you can pick her up and drive her back home, as my husband is at a conference.”
“Can your daughter do gymnastics with mine on Thursdays?”
I reply, “Only if it is walking distance since I don’t drive.”
Unlike other phobics, the hodophobic mother must state and confront her fear every day, several times a day.
But perhaps there is a message in all this that I can impart to my girls. I pause as I tell my younger daughter not to complain about her suspected lactose intolerance. I patiently explain this is just one more attribute that makes her unique.
As I look into her warm chestnut eyes and then meet the intense blue eyes of her older sister, I too am reminded that it’s our differences that make us special. One daughter’s blond hair, the other’s curly ringlets; one daughter’s great voice, the other’s ability to skate — this makes them who they are.
So I take a moment to remind them that I too am special. I’m their raven-haired, brown-eyed, voracious-reader, law-school-educated, non-driving mom.

Written for The Momoir Project Toronto Writing Class