Veronica — Remembering My Mum
As black women, many of us learn from an early age that our health may not be of concern to others. That our health issues may be seen as a simple cry for unwarranted attention or an imaginary psychological condition. Our voices and concerns, invalid or doubted. Far be it from us to draw attention or demand care. This has been ingrained historically when it comes to anything involving blood conditions, mental health and a range of other issues or situations affecting our well-being. We learn to try not to make ourselves more vulnerable. Even when we know we are warriors, each health conscious act can be a struggle or a triumph — a political one.
My mother, Veronica, passed away on September 7, 2014.
It’s been almost a year since I fully accepted that she was increasingly unwell.
She lived a full life, busy with her work and her community. But she had been ill for a long time. For years in fact. In my mother’s case, she did have good care. Despite this fact, she kept putting the doctor off. She was fiercely independent with a strong dose of suspicion. It was her choice, even though she was a nurse. I respected her decision, but would still encourage her to have a potentially life saving operation. It would be years before she chose the option.
I've marked the date of my mother’s passing on my calendar, and on the genealogy chart that I was preparing to show her one day. We would talk on the phone, as I live in the UK and she was in Canada. We didn't always see eye to eye, sometimes agreeing to disagree. When I developed fibroids and had a difficult menopause, I asked about her experience of menopause. She didn't recall going through that period of her life. And she told me that, if she had, she wouldn’t discuss it as it just wasn’t done. This was difficult for me to understand at first, but it helped me to get to know my mother better — and to more understand myself. Instead we would talk about the stories she would like me to record, to write down. I was hoping that she would share more of her stories about our family history. Then she died after the last battle with the illness that she’d secreted away, defiant and dignified to the end, certain that she would be back on her feet.
My early memories of my mum are of a beautiful, young elegant dark skinned woman, who laughed easily. She was a gentle soul with a soft sing song voice in that remembering. I got my love of makeup and music, and a sense of glamour from her.
To my child eyes, we lived in a green secluded community in Kingston, Jamaica. It was a love-filled quiet place, with verandas surrounded by feathery ferns, a sunbaked garden that contained a large healing cactus, a towering coconut and ackee trees. When I was 5, our family left for a life in Goderich, Ontario, Canada, where we lived together for what became a tumultuous 5 years.
I was 9 when my mother left us in a fight for her life, when there were very few women’s shelters. Although I didn't grow up with my mother, due to my father’s violence, I recall a woman strong in her faith and calm in her belief who quietly stood her ground. Our relationship was somewhat distant over the years, as we were raised by my father. I wasn’t able to properly spend much time with her again until I was an adult. One of the effects of domestic violence at the time was that she lost custody of us for leaving the family home even though her life was at risk.
Veronica was complicated — a strong, spirited and independent woman, she had survived a turbulent marriage at great personal risk, been a single parent to my youngest sibling at a time when this type of parenting was much less accepted, and navigated her way through life on her terms. She worked hard, as a nurse and as a nursing instructor, in Toronto, Ontario, Canada for over 40 years.
I am writing this piece about my Mum as a way of making sense of the surreal feeling I have following her death. She didn't want to be a bother so she didn't share the whole story of what was ailing her at the time. I was sometimes frustrated with her, but had to accept that she was living life the way she wished. I had to guess the illness and when I did she didn’t deny it to me, but would deny it to others. She said that she didn’t tell any of us when she went for an operation to try to stop the cancer, mainly because she didn't want us to see her fear. My heart went out to her when she told me. Sometimes it‘s simply easier to share our pain or fear with strangers than with those closest to us.
Remembering her, I see her as more than a survivor. She loved to dance and sing, teaching me the limbo as a child and introducing me to Ska, Mento, Reggae, Rocksteady. She took trips over the years to see family and friends in Jamaica and to visit Montego Bay, helping people in Jamaica and returning with the sweetest mangoes. She helped family members that she neglected to tell me and my siblings about prior to her death. She stayed in touch with old friends that I’ve still never met. She would go to funerals of slain black youth who she didn’t know, just to show support to the families. She would help her nursing students find jobs whenever possible.
She was also a risk taker who enjoyed going to horse races, had a penchant for gambling, often winning. Yet, she could be pragmatic and a realist, evidenced by the fact that she saved the money she earned until she could no longer work because of the illness, investing what she did have into buying a home rather than rent, and had prepared a clearly written will about a month before she died — a fact unknown to most of the family.
I wish she had felt, during her illness, that she could have had the kind of dignified support she offered to others. But these were areas she would avoid at all cost, and to press her, even though she knew you cared, was almost an assault on her sense of dignity. And in a society that continually dis-empowers the aged, youth, women, and black people, I can understand my mother’s reasons for not sharing more about her illness. She was brave and strong in her choices.
Grieving is a process. I do not know the directions it will take. But this piece is a way through for me. So, I will be adding to this at future times. I may add pieces of prose or poems and quotes from others.
I wrote this poem before my mother passed away, when I accepted that she was dying. With all the ups and downs, broken promises and realised dreams, I’m grateful that her richest legacy is found in the fabric of her life experience, stories told and more yet to be heard.
Mother dear
Thank you for nurturing me into this world
No matter how troubled
I am grateful for the chance to be
Mother dear
Thank you for showing your joy
No matter that I didn't always understand
I am grateful for the memory of you
taking those bus trips to find
sales across the border (she loved her sales in Buffalo)
Mother dear
Thank you for sharing your sadness
No matter that I was blind to the courage
I am grateful for the lesson in rising above adversity
Mother dear
Thank you for maintaining your dignity
No matter the misunderstanding
I am grateful for you are glorious
Mother dear
Thank you for sharing life with me
No matter the changes
I am grateful for the lessons
Mother dear
Thank you
You matter
I am grateful
Black Women’s Health Resources — will add to this useful list as I go along.
Today we have so many more resources available.
http://www.nhs.uk/livewell/blackhealth/Pages/Blackhealthhub.aspx
http://facebook.com/donotblameyourself/
