I’m not sure I can remember the last time I hugged my mum, but I remember clearly the last time I didn’t hug her. We met in the street: out in the open and at a distance from each other. She’d driven over with wee jammy cakes for me and the boys and we staged an odd pantomime of a handover. She stepped forward and I stepped back. She put the tupperware on the ground and withdrew. There was an odd and fleeting moment of connection as I picked up the box she’d been holding until moments before. An inadequate, hollow connection.
When mum was ill, I reached for her hand and stroked it. With an oxygen mask and hooked up to machines, I couldn’t hug her then either. I could sit with her though, next to her. Her hand was heavy and slightly limp. As I traced the veins on the back of her hand, I realised how familiar it was to me. I knew those hands. I know them; their strength and their skill.
When I was wee, mum would stroke the bridge of my nose if I was ill or couldn’t sleep. The warm pressure of her hand meant I knew I wasn’t alone. In a busy household, this was time devoted purely to me and I loved it. I felt important and I felt cherished. Held. Letting someone know that you’re there is a simple but precious gift. I was given it freely and now pass it on.
After the operation, I moved in to help care for her. An odd part of me looked forward to offering her some of the comfort that she had shared with me and others for years. Mum was always the first to offer practical and emotional support and I readied myself to step successfully into that role for her. Yet she cried as I directed the shower spray at her altered body. It had to be done, but she flinched at my touch. Exhausted and disorientated from the lingering anaesthesia, she recoiled and shouted for my dad. It felt awful that my touch wasn’t a comfort, that I was causing her pain and distress.
Her hands have always been busy and full, never still. Everything mum tackles, she does so with enthusiasm and zeal. She makes things; paints, sews, crochets, weaves. When we were wee, she made playsuits for me and my sister. I remember being allowed to choose the material, giggling as her arms circled me with a cold tape that made me squeal as it brushed against my wee belly.
Standing two metres apart on an empty pavement, there was a moment when we looked at each other and I felt the warmth from her. Not a hug, not yet.