Overwhelmed, overcome, bowled over
I was talking on air with Scott Thompson at 900 CHML last week; we always talk about auto industry topics involving the latest, greatest hits torn from the headlines, sometimes even my own. He wraps up each segment by asking me what I’m driving that week. Last week, he didn’t call about cars.
“Why did you write the column?” he asked me.
He meant last week’s Motherlode. The one about Christopher. I paused. I’d paused before I’d written it, and now I paused again as the day was unfolding around its publication.
Because I’ve always been honest with my readers, I told him. Sure, I edit out bits and bobs and protect some of the guilty, and my kids have always had to sign off, but for 15 years, I’ve had so many faithful readers, the kind any columnist only dreams of having. If I’m going to trust them with the goofy day to day stuff, I’m going to trust them with the tough stuff. They’ve gone with me through so many other hard moments, I know where to turn when I want to share in the warmth of a collective soul, the spirit that can make a difference in anyone’s life, not just mine.
You, my collective soul, have overwhelmed my family with love and support. Letters starting pouring in Sunday, when the column went up online. They didn’t stop. You told me your stories and shared your connections and added us to prayer circles. I got notes offering up homes in cities where the surgery might happen; a friend of Christopher’s from kindergarten set up a GoFundMe to help offset the uncovered costs of his eye surgery, and I blinked, then cried, as people opened up their wallets. Some I’d never met, some were anonymous, some were close friends. I remain stunned. The kids are floored.
On Sunday when the column went up, I was slated to talk to a group about grief and loss and the upcoming holidays. It’s a weird thing to look forward to, but I walked into a room full of readers who felt like friends. They’d driven through congested parade traffic to come, to share tears and stories and probably wonder why I, of all people, had been asked to talk to them about it. What I felt was the embrace of people I’d shared with for years. As I wound up the talk, I hesitated. They would read about Christer’s brain tumour the following morning. I had to warn them. There was a group gasp, but I assured them he would be OK. I was telling them as much as myself, and realized that I live my column in real time.
I know my boy will be healthy, and we will get from here to there. I can’t see the bridge beneath our feet — there are many factors, all of which can scramble the path to recovery — but living where we do is in itself an answer to the biggest prayer of all.
I haven’t shared every rip in the family fabric over the years, but I’ve written about most of them. When Ari moved out, I told the newspaper Motherlode should probably be handed to a younger Mom. They smiled, but said your readers are on this path with you, whatever it holds. Keep going. Of course, Ari moved back, so the material kept coming.
I learned that you, too, have the same fears for your children, no matter their age. You are a parent in your heart forever. I had people tell me how they’d lost their child but would hold a special place for mine. That generosity of spirit made me ache for their loss, while having my breath taken away at the exquisite intersection of gossamer strands that suspend us all. Thank you. Scott did end up asking me what I was driving. A little normalcy is a good thing.