2000-11-05 - 11:29:10
Once Upon A Time, There Was Another Mother

Once Upon A Time, There Was Another Mother

You were 26, much older than the typical unwed mother in 1965. A high school librarian, a committed socialist, an avid reader. An unwell woman: severe diabetes since you were 8, frequent hospitalizations. Depressed, under the thumb of your alcoholic mother: an only child. The apple of your father's eye.

Your dream? To become a writer.

You met him on the campaign trail. He, a local union leader, 39, a writer of articulate socialist complaint in the local paper. A husband, a father of two adopted children; a sexless marriage to a manic depressive wife. His words seduced you before ever you laid eyes on him.

That spring election campaign, you and he were thrust into a door-knocking, leaflet-distributing, politically-conscious dyad of gathering intensity. It was only a matter of time. He explained his sad home life, his wife's long-ago advice to "seek that kind of love elsewhere".

He thinks the first time was in the backseat of his car. He thought, since you didn't raise the issue, that you were on the pill. No "safe" in sight. Fucking out under the stars a few times.

Is this why I have such an al fresco fetish?

He told me you only "did it" maybe three or four times in a torrid one-week period. Before you felt guilty. Before you stopped putting out. You couldn't get past his marriage, no matter his wife's quoted permissiveness.

After the (unsuccessful) campaign, you disappeared on him.

A few months later, my presence announced itself to you. I was a catastrophe. Diabetic women were not supposed to get pregnant; in those days, it was too dangerous.

You quit your job, moved out of town. You broke the news to your parents--my father's identity remaining your secret--at a campground one day. Your mother flipped out, probably got drunk. She was half-pissed when she told me this story, so I couldn't get it straight: did your father--her beloved, belated husband--try to kill himself right there and then, or did he merely threaten to do so?

"She broke her daddy's heart," Granny says repeatedly, bitterly.

Thus shamed, you fled. Hitched a ride several provinces away, hid out with friends.

I--wee killer fetus--wreaked havoc. Your sad body began its capitulation. Swollen and gravely ill, you were admitted to hospital in late September. As I grew in you, that disease--which had circumscribed your life for eighteen years--attacked you with a vengeance.

Your pituitary gland bore the brunt; your vision began to spot.

In view of what appears to be a progressive diabetic retinopathy, which is so advanced at this time, the chances of her having a live baby are practically 0. If her pregnancy is allowed to continue there is little doubt she is going to have a marked permanent loss of vision.

In view of the above, I would have no hesitation in stating that the pregnancy should be interrupted as soon as possible. -Dr. Murray, November 5, 1965

...she is likely to lose useful vision in the next 5 years, just as her life expectancy is not much greater than 10 years. The question arises as to whether pregnancy should be terminated now, the assumption being that her vision will deteriorate rapidly and irrevocably over the next ten weeks. -Dr. Ewing, November 15, 1965

At the risk of your sight. At the risk of your life. You refused.

Obstinate, obstinate love.

Instead, three days before Christmas, brain surgery. (Your parents came to town, a life-or-death reconciliation of sorts.) That wrecked pituitary gland yanked right out of your skull. The operation nearly killed you. You began discussions with the Unmarried Mothers Division of Social Services, preliminary arrangements for my adoption.

Your health severely declining, I was yanked out of you--a Caesarean section--on January 24, 1966. A 6 pound baby boy you fought for the right to see. The social worker's case management reports do not record whether your efforts were successful. Birth mothers were not supposed to view their output.

I went into foster homes until I was placed with Mom and Dad in April. You remained in hospital until the end of February, received home care before returning to your home province. Your friend told me you were hell-bent on becoming a writer.

A year and a half later, you married a professor. Two kids adopted. A suburban housewife, you read a lot and helped your husband, editing his many books. When your health permitted, you worked outside the home. Did a wee bit of writing for the local paper.

You never really recovered; blood sugar instability often landed you in hospital for extended periods. Failing vision. Circulation problems: gangrene in your left leg. They chopped it off below the knee in 1977. You coped amazingly well, learned how to drive and returned to work. A decade later, gangrene in the other leg. Again, chop-chop.

Your spirits began to fail. Doubly prosthetized, you continued to walk, continued to drive. But depression set in. You began to drink, at home, alone. Just like your hated mother.

Just like me.

In '89, a stroke. You never got out of hospital. Soon you were unable to speak. You died on December 1, 1990, aged 50.

The occasional, healing dream aside, we've never met. In '93 I met your adopted son and daughter, your mother, your husband, your friends. This haunting creation story began to take shape. By '98, successfully employing the historical detective skills I inherited from you, I tracked down the man who'd spurted into you. No one in your life knew his identity. He didn't know of my existence.

I hope you can forgive me for uncovering your secrets.

Your adopted son Ryan gave me your mirror, framed in dark Danish wood. It sits on my dresser. I used to look into it often, searching for your refraction. I realize I've been avoiding your eyes there lately.

At the risk of seeing much else, you envisioned me. May I reflect some of your brightest bits back out into the world.

It's the least I can do.

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