Mother in absentia

On Thursday I had lunch with my friend Leanne. A bento box to and fro chat. We began with tales of her pre-COVID family European expedition. Her vivid depictions of unexpected transit glitches were hilarious.

She said, “Now tell me about Ross.” I showed her the edited video clips from our recent holiday at Burleigh Heads.

I spoke of a conversation I had initiated with my son. He had reluctantly acquiesced on one condition:

R: “Dear God Pauline. Ok, but find the darkened booth in the back at the Toombul Coffee Club!”

He was 14 and the topic was about relationships, respect and sexual health.

We laughed as I described our conversation. Leanne’s concluding remark, “You have done so well with him Pauline.”

I started to cry. The tears from a Mother in absentia.

On my return I received a text from Shan.

S: “Up to a swim at Sandgate? Tide’s in.”

The sea has always been a salt water, calming restorative balm.

Not today.

An uncomfortable memory emerged as I watched children playing in the sand. Uncomfortable turned to burn.

A photograph of Ross on the same beach. He was running towards the camera with glee and exhilaration.

The enchanting photograph was transforming into a jagged mind snap. 

When? 

When was this photograph taken?

Was he in Kindergarten? Was it Prep? Year 1? Year 2?

Me?

I could not account for my non-attendance. Was I working? Was I at home depressed and too anxious? Was hypomania or mania at play? Was I an inpatient at Toowong Private Hospital?

At times, I experience an urgency to sequence my memories. 

Imagine a manuscript, page numbers omitted, scattered across the yard. My task, as the wind whips and papers shift, is to peg each page in order as the clothesline moves at random from one place to another. 

There is a need for speed and I panic as I do not have the capacity to succeed.

I needed to stop the spin in an attempt to counteract my distress.

I sat down and turned on my back. 

When able I opened my eyes and began to take photos and videos of the gusty breeze in the tree above.

A more pleasing appeasement? 

The manuscript turned to leaves.

Yet the photograph and need to sequence did not dissolve.

More than displeasure, my exasperation turned into fury.

Time for music. 

I hoped a multi-modal sensory experience could calm me. 

Headphones in. I played a gentle ballad by Joni Mitchell to soothe me.

Desired effect? No!

Time for a switch to Slayer’s thrash metal.

This juxtaposition of an auditory and visual clash broke the power of the photographic mind snap. 

Once home, I tried to find the photograph.

Instead, I found the graduation letter from my son, written to me when he finished Primary School at the end of Year.

‘Dear Pauline 

Thank you.

Thank you for striving past your sickness to support me at school.

Thank you for letting me call you every night when you were in hospital, it meant a lot to me.

Thank you for helping me with my assignments and helping me become the best person I can be.

Thank you for staying strong when you were in hospital. That gave me the strength to continue striving in my school work. 

Thank you for all the help you’ve given me over the years. 

Thank you for supporting me with my sport and giving me the courage to keep going when I’m absolutely stuffed. 

Thank you for paying for my education and my amazing school.

But most of all thank you for loving me through rain and sun, snow and storm!

I love you to the moon and back.

Ross.’

****

When able I opened my eyes and began to take photos and videos of the gusty breeze in the tree above …

Pauline Fountain. © 2023. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author.