The Death of Motherly Love

Judith is a blogger from Northern Ireland and we are good friends – at least in the sense that one can be good friends via the internet which is akin to how we once felt about our relationship with pen-pals. I have actually met Judith because several years ago she was on a visit here – primarily to Melbourne which I think she thought was a great deal more exciting than Auckland and anyway she had family living there, a number of stalwart women, all widows who somehow or other survived the Holocaust. Of course they may no longer be living and indeed I may never see Judith again. Not that this is in any way relevant to our relationship. Long ago those of us fond of letter writing occasionally met up with pen-pals but nonetheless such friendships always differed substantially from those we have always known in the flesh.

Judith read my latest blog post, ruminating upon the celebration of Christmas and said I sounded angry. She has always half celebrated Christmas herself under pressure from her daughters and she even thought seriously about observing Diwali at one stage. She definitely understands festivals.

I brought her up to speed with regard to the pressures of our present family situation and she said she would be angry too – and shamed and humiliated. There are times when parents need the support of grown children if they have them but that I should bear in mind that there are some whose need to feel powerful overcomes all other sentiments, certainly that of filial duty; definitely that of love or even kindness.

Later on in the still silence of the sleepless night I pondered upon the astonishing extent of the rage I felt and knew that there could never be forgiveness for one who so cheerfully engages in the ongoing torment of a sick parent. That was as unlikely as ever uncovering a new affection and fondness for an alcoholic or heroin addict whose excesses continued relentless and unabated, impervious to any chaos caused. It is liberating, cathartic even, to realise that some behaviours emerge as so astoundingly significant that they can totally release us of all maternal obligations. Imperceptibly aversion takes the place of tenderness, revulsion replaces concern and where love once lived a dark loathing festers.