Herringbone Times.

‘Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.’  Heart more likely, although the back breaking comes later.  I’m not stepping on cracks anymore. I can’t. Not since the last time when the world opened up and swallowed me.1

I don’t remember the aftermath of the quake; it was all screams, dreams and drugs. I don’t remember the time before either. Something to do with traumatic shock. What I DO remember-clearly, vividly, nightmare inducingly, is the look on my mother’s face when I first opened my eyes. If horror had a picture attached, it would be hers. I didn’t understand then, I still don’t fully know what she was thinking when she knew I’d live but be paralyzed from the neck down.2

There was no mistaking or disguising that tit-bit of news. It was lucky I was drugged otherwise I might have had the same reaction as her. Now a year later and with no more promise of improvement, it’s time to leave the rehab. I’ve made my choice. The equipment’s delivered and I’m going home. It shouldn’t be like this! My mother’s old, weary and has both heart problems and vertigo. We both know the options. Home with mum as primary carer and community support. Nursing home, and God forbid it should be that at forty-five, with a sound mind.  Lastly, a private hospital where my insurance would whittle the cost but which I still couldn’t afford to maintain. Not much of a choice. Not much of a future either. 3

I used to sell insurance and I was good at it. Damn good. I made salesperson of the month, two months running and the commissions allowed me to have luxuries and live the good life. I never thought it would end. I never thought. Now I have nurses to do everything for me wash me, feed me, wipe my bum. Every indignity is mine to deal with. Where before I’d had pride in my appearance now I have pride. Stubborn pride and a ‘God-another-day-I’m still here-better-get-on-with-it’ attitude. 4

At home my mother smothers me in a hug, the only sign of affection she shows and I glimpse blinked back tears. We’re tough, we Cords. We almost never show what’s really going on. 5

The house screams reproach for my absence, not just the time in hospital absence but for all the years I escaped. My boyfriend, my job, my life, my sexuality, all lived away from the confines of this place. All hidden from my mother’s eyes. I guess there’ll be no escape this time.6

She shows me the bedroom that I left so many eons ago. Nothing has changed. The emerald bedspread discreetly covers the high/low hospital bed and pressure mattress. The black porcelain doll with the cracked face still sits in the corner bearing mute testimony to the glorious rage that allowed me to choose and use the green instead of the limp, pastel mauve, my mother wanted. My tanty’s were spectacular, the only times I truly felt something and I grieve silently for the loss of that feeling. The walls and ceiling still reflect back images of me in the hand painted murals and glow-in-the-dark planetary system. The hoist is covered in a leaf green, patterned, curtain that was once a tent, a hideaway, a magic place where wild Indians roamed and I conquered all. Just conquering my animosity to the hoist and its innate humiliation will be my battleground now. The unmentionables, the commode, the continence products, the slings and aides are hidden out of sight. Much like my relationship with mum.7

The days fall into a pattern, not a smooth tapestry woven to create a harmonious picture, but more a herringbone with the flesh stripped away to show the bones. Or a feather and fan with all the consequent holes and gathers, creating humps and hollows where once there was the simplicity of stocking stitch. Life will never be simple or smooth for me again. The crack in the world has cut too deep. It’s taken too much away. From now on the whole of my life will be holes. Black holes. Deep holes. And absences that remind me everyday, I’m not whole. 8

‘Step on a crack. Break your mother’s back.’  Heart more likely. Her heart, mine, those who are paid to care for me, those who aren’t. Broken backs and broken hearts are all around me; I just never saw them until now.9

‘Step on a crack…step on a crack, fall in a quake and never come back…10