Her Voice

Her voice welcomed me into the world in soft, tired tones and it has been there ever since. My mother is a private person, so I won't tell you much about her life other that it has been too hard for such a soft, kind woman. She's tough, my mum, but raw; she feels everything so deeply, cares so intensely that I sometimes wonder why she was burdened with a daughter like me. We are chalk and cheese. I am often hard and unsentimental to the point of callousness, level headed in a crisis but not good at being open or soft day to day. I feel, but do not speak while she showers those around her with love and care in abundance.

She deserved an easier life, is what I'm saying, a softer life. She deserves ease and comfort and softness; she's earned it. But what we deserve and what we get rarely coincide in life.

Her warmth centres in her voice. She speaks carefully and quietly, is never stingy with words of praise, but is slow to judge or snap at others. She uses her voice like a blanket, wraps people in it and makes them feel seen and loved and important.

My mothers voice is an embodiement of her soul... and now it's on a timer. The Big C, the boogeyman; not a bad prognosis, they say, meaning its very likely she will survive and for that I am immensely grateful.

But they're going to take her voice.... and I feel like a child for grieving this when there's so much to be grateful for.

Let's be clear, I will take my mother mute, or deaf, or blind as long as she is present and happy. They could cut and dig away at her body until she is unrecognizable and she will still be my mother and therefore one half of me.... but I am weeping for her voice on the inside in my own mute, carefully guarded way fearful of the simple fact that I am strong but brittle and if I crack now I may break.

I can see the sand running through the glass.

I know there will come a day when I can't remember what it sounded like, or how she used to laugh and I ask myself - is this grief? Am I allowed to grieve something so insubstantial and unimportant as my memory of her voice when there is so much to be thankful for?

All I know is the tech they're going to use to create a new voice for her will not have her warmth. It won't make her laughter bubble like water from a spring, it won't crackle or dip when she feels something deep down in her soul. It won't say my name in the way only a mother can.

They are going to take her voice, to trade it for her life and by anyone's standards this is a once in a lifetime bargain... but I wish I had known before it faded to a crackly whisper. I wish some angel had touched my shoulder the last day I heard her real voice, strong and clear, and whispered in my ear to listen close, to take a video, to record a conversation. To cherish it while I could... and now the time is gone.

The time has gone, slipped by like water in a river and the current is too strong for any of us to go back. I wish I could give her mine; she would make better use of it than I can. She would use it to be kind.

So I will have to find a way to do it for her.

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If someone you love has been diagnosed with cancer, MacMillan offers support lines for family and friends of those fighting cancer. Being strong for those we love can be tough in moments like these; you are not alone.