21

"You believed.

You believed in moments not conceived.

You believed in me.

A passionate spirit.

uncompromised,

boundless and open.

A light in your eyes, then, immobilized.
["Wings for Marie (part 1)", Tool]

I was a child when my mother died.  Yes, I was 21.  I'm sure at the time I thought myself an adult.  At 21, who doesn't?  But looking back now on how I was then, I'm certain I was still a child.  I'm 42 now, so it's half my lifetime ago.  Not precisely half, of course.  Not to the day.  That'd land on Canada Day this year.  I'll try not to remember.  So I've been on the planet now as long without her as with her, or at least I will be as of Canada Day, if we're splitting hairs.

Last month, my brother wrote about our parents, and part of it was about having "private quiet conversation's about life, the universe and everything" with our mother.  His experience of our mother and mine were very different.  He moved away nearer the beginning of the downward spiral of her health; I was there at the end.  Her healthy years during my lifetime mostly occurred when I was young enough that I can't remember them now.  I have no real memory of her driving or walking (though I remember one of the cars vaguely, somehow).  I don't remember canes.  Life starts for me with my mother using a walker or sitting in a wheelchair.  In some sense, Martin and I had very different mothers.  For him, he is troubled by memories of her after she was ravaged by MS.  For me, that MS-ravaged woman was my mother.  And for my sisters, some strange mix of the two, I suppose.

I'm not lamenting this fact, or at least not exactly.  It's just different, that's all.  If anything, I suppose my sisters, getting a bit of both, probably 'have it the worst', but it's not exactly the sort of thing where one keeps score.  I am a little jealous of my brother, in a way.  Those conversations he speaks of were something I didn't have much opportunity for, though there were a few here and there, in the fading years when talking was a lot of effort on her part.  Not that she wouldn't extend that effort - for her children, anything.  Everything she did was for us and for our father.  I do remember a few fun and interesting conversations when I was about nineteen.  I just wish there'd been time for more.

And whether he realizes it or not, Martin should be a little jealous of me too.  That MS-ravaged woman was a force of nature.  She was a more capable person as a quadriplegic than many able-bodied people I know.  She was a beacon of hope for us as much or more than we were for her.  She was the most relentless, determined person I have ever known, even in the face of insurmountable odds, and her fearlessness throughout that downward spiral will forever be an inspiration to me.  They say you learn more about a person's character in the bad times than the good, and during the worst of times, she was indomitable.

When I was a teenage boy and she had no use of her legs, and barely any use of her arms, I would sit on the kitchen floor with the cupboards open with her in the other room.  We'd shout back and forth.  She'd ask me how much of each thing we had, and when I told her, she'd tell me what to write down on the grocery list.  She was planning the week's meals in her head, and budgeting at the same time.  When the list was complete, she'd add it up in her head and tell me how much money it would cost.  She was always within about $3.  There were probably easier ways we could have done this; no one would dare suggest it.  Right up until the day she died, she was in charge.

I was 21.  It was sunny the next day.

I look back on 21 now and feel I was a child.  By whatever standards I can conceive for what it means to be an adult, I find myself at 21 lacking.  A few years later, things were very different.  Dealing with my mother's death was the most formative thing in my maturation, with second place so distant I can't even think of what it might be.  Coming to terms with her permanent absence in my life taught me a phenomenal amount about life, about love, about family, about friendship, about the world, about truth, about justice, about right and wrong, about everything.  Her death was, in some sense, her last and greatest gift to me.  It wouldn't be right to say I'm thankful for it; I miss her still.  But I am thankful for everything her passing taught me.

I've been thinking a lot about adulthood lately, about what that word means, exactly.  There are times when I feel "all grown up", maybe even "getting old", and yet there are times, just passing moments, when I still feel like an idiot man-child.  And age is certainly not what determines adulthood.  There are plenty of idiot man-children and woo-girls at my age.

It's not about paying bills or washing your own clothes, or at least not exactly, though those are sure to be a part of it.  It's not truly about owning a car or house or apartment, though again, they'll be a part of it too.  It's not about having a job.  It's not about being able to buy for yourself the things you relied on others for before.

Being an adult is about nothing that children think it is and look forward to; it's about everything they'll fumble to figure out after they already think they've arrived.  It's about discipline more than freedom, responsibility more than rights, reality more than fairness, and it's about acceptance.  For instance, one day, you're going to die. [NSFW language]

And one day, both your parents will be dead too.

There was a time, back then, right around that age, when I got in a car with my friend Geoff for the first time with him behind the wheel.  He was still at a time in his life that he was notoriously self-destructive, and I buckled up and expected the worst.  He drove more cautiously and meticulously than anyone else I'd ridden with.  I was surprised and admitted as much.  His response was very adult.

"And this little light of mine, 

a gift you passed on to me

I'm gonna let it shine

to guide you safely on your way."

["10,000 Days (Wings for Marie, part 2)", Tool]