A couple of hours ago, my Brother sent me a photograph.
This photo was taken in the room where the rest of the family is assembled with my dying mother. It was a strange thing to do, perhaps they thought I would like to share in the moment.
It may be equally strange to write about it, but my relationship with my family, and in particular my Parents has played a huge part in shaping the way I feel about myself and my journey and as such it has a place in my blog.
If you think you may be disturbed by the description of a dying woman and her family maybe stop here….
At face value the photograph shows a moment that appears remarkably tranquil.
My father is sleeping heavily in a large chair, leaning in slightly towards the bed where my barely recognisable Mother lays, her head propped up on several large pillows. Their hands are lightly touching, resting on top of the multi coloured bed coverings. My fathers left arm is lying awkwardly on his stomach, an unnatural position, perhaps giving just a hint of what is really going on in the room.
My mothers right hand is clutching tightly onto something, although the photograph reveals little of what it is, I suspect it could be a cross, or possibly a small soft toy.
There is also what appears to be a book on the bed, perhaps a photo album or scrapbook of family memories that my Brothers and Sister have been leafing through with my Father to occupy and engage him.
A close look at my Mothers face, tells a story about the ravages of her condition, there is little remaining of the woman I knew. Her face appears drawn and tense, eyes heavily sunken and lips tightly closed.
I have never understood the relationship my parents endured. Over forty years I have witnessed first hand hatred, bitterness, violence, constant verbal abuse, and on odd occasions it seemed murder was a very real possibility.
It is impossible for me to know how much either of them was suffering at the moment when the photograph was taken. But I hope they both find some peace, and I believe there may be a slither of hope, that they may just do that.
Here in this photograph, I see at last, after so many years, a real connection between two people who seemed unable to live together, yet completely unable to function independently.
Its fucking hard, but for all those moments when your hands were around my throat, your fists were in my face, your vile words in my ears, and your spite and bile was eating away at my aspirations, I forgive you. Now I am going to try and move on and become the person you told me I wasn’t.
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