I turned 30. A few days later Mum turned 60. 30 years ago I was born. It was a Tuesday. The doctors fucked up her C-section so she spent her 30th in the hospital; sick as a dog. Dad visited with my brothers and sister. They brought a sponge cake. It wasn’t the grandest of birthdays. Once they realised they’d left clamps inside her they opened her up again, got them out, and she recovered.
I turned 30 on a Thursday. No fanfare. No spongecake but I had my health. Over the years I’ve grown to the idea that we share a birthday together. A handful of days is all that separates them, but between us a lifetime of experience. At 30, Mum was married with 4 children of which I forever remain the youngest. When I turned 30 I was (and am) single. No kids and painfully alone.
It’s a fight. A struggle. 30 years ago though Mum was fighting in a war. She wanted out of the marriage I know, and it’d be a few more years yet until she gathered the strength for that offensive.
10 years ago I would have seen a multitude of differences between us. Not at all able of connecting the dots to see how we are alike. Today, I see a plethora of similarities that truly connect us.
In the 30 years since I was born Mum has found new purpose. Indomitable strength and vision. My first 30 years have been a muddle of soul-searching, struggles and discovering who I am. We’ve walked different paths that lead to the same destination. Thanks for being that guiding light Mum. Happy birthday to us.