Surrender

My mother has survived viral encephalitis. But it’s not really my mother who has survived. It’s my m/other. It’s someone else. It’s the person left behind in the wake of trauma. A month ago my mother was able to walk, speak, socialize, laugh, eat, restfully sleep, dream. In the last weeks, she has alternated between various states of living, or perhaps it’s best to say being alive. She can no longer walk. Her speech has been impacted. Her vision has been impacted. One of her eyes may remain permanently closed. She has lost sense of taste and smell. A stabbing pain pierces her head. She experiences three to four headaches each day. Every one of these headaches lasts two to three hours. Nothing seems to relieve the pain.

What do you surrender when there is almost nothing left to give? Nothing. Everything.

In fact, the question should really be to whom do you surrender?

You surrender to whatever is. To the present. To sadness and grief. To so much anger, so much fury. To thoughts never shared with her and that you would never share with anyone else. You surrender to the sound of birds singing and water dripping from the gutters as you drink your tea outside in an attempt to escape the noise swirling around inside.

What else? You surrender enough to survive, just like she did. But maybe more. Because you’re still hoping your mother is still somewhere in your m/other.