It's the Little Things

A loud crash, followed by a swallowed sob from the kitchen pushed me away from my book and into the room. There, standing next to the sink, was my mum. She stood there, pale and shaking, one hand on the edge of the sink and with the remains of the mug scattered around her feet in small, sharp pieces.
"Mum, you should of let me get that."
"I have to learn to do these things for myself." Her voice shook but she took my hand as I helped her away from the mini disaster and onto the chair. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you and I know how much you've been looking forward to reading that book."
"Mum, there's nothing to be sorry about, all right?" Dad was going to be upset, and not with mum. Even as I grabbed the dustpan and brush I knew that, but if I let my mum see that, it would only make matters worse. "Besides, the book will still be there later on. No big deal."
"Yes, it is."
My mum, reduced to having to relearn even the simple day to day tasks like pouring herself a cup of tea and all because of a few tiny bones inside her ear. I hadn't understood just how weird life had become for her until, only a few days after she'd come home from the hospital, she'd told me to spin myself around and around until I was dizzy. I'll admit I hadn't got it until that point, but that simple lesson had left me with a better understanding of just what she was going through.
Mum had been born partially deaf. As a child she'd had a bad case of measles and it had damaged her left ear. So I'd grown up knowing which side to stand on to talk to her. How to look her in the face when speaking to her, and had learned, without even realizing it, how to semi lip read.
No one had known, until a few months before my twelfth birthday, that things were deteriorating with my mum's ear. Even then they'd assumed it only her hearing would be affected. So, when they'd gone in to operate we'd all been prepared for her hearing in that side of her head to be reduced from thirty percent to zero.
It didn't quite work out as planned.
The small bones in her inner ear, had crumbled. The surgery hadn't taken that much longer to complete, but the results - well the broken tea cup was a prime example.
Ever spun around so much you get dizzy? Of course you have, everyone has a child. It's fun. A game. But imagine walking through life feeling like that all the time? Unable to keep your balance. Your stomach knotting and protesting. Your entire world off kilter.
Those tiny little bones hadn't just spelled a death sentence for my mum's hearing on that side of her head, but also her balance.
Imagine walking through a world where nothing felt right. Where putting your foot down on the floor to take a simple step meant your stomach rebelling on you and your mind playing tricks on you as it tried to tell you the floor was really moving?
"It will get better, love. In time I'll be able to adjust to this. I'll learn to cope with it."
"I know mum, I know." I didn't, of course. Back then I couldn't understand how a person could learn how to swim through that fog. "But will you do me a favor and let me get you the next drink, please?" The last shards of the broken cup had been cleared away and I looked into my mum's hazel eyes.
"We'll see." There it was, that stubborn glint, the set of her jaw. Those tiny signs that told me 'we'll see' really meant, 'No, I'm going to learn to do this myself'.
"Mum, what harm will it do to let me, or Stephen, or Dad get things for you?" I offered my arm out to her, knowing she'd be more comfortable in the living room.
"I'll get too used to it and I'm not going to become lazy just because of a few little bones. The more I try to do things, the easier it will become. And if that means I break a few cups along the way, then that's how it's going to be." She reached out, taking my arm without protest and together we headed back into the living room, taking each step one at a time. A slow, steady pace that would see her safe and in her chair by the fire.
"Mum, you're not lazy."
"No, but I could become that. I'm not going to. Wouldn't be right on you, or your dad." She eased back into her chair and waved her hand at the couch.
I knew that signal all too well. It was the sit down, we're going to have a talk. I glanced over at my book, tried not to sigh and sat. "We don't mind helping you."
"You don't now, but that could change."
"Mum..."
"No, hear me out." Her gaze steadied and she folded her hands into her lap, her knuckles white. "I'm not going to lie to you. I don't like how it feels when I move, or stand up, or try to do anything other than sit here. It would be easy just to spend the rest of my life sitting here, letting you fetch and carry for me. Very easy for me, unfair to you and you have a life ahead of you. It scares me when I get up and the floor moves. Or when I try to wash my hair and I end up being sick instead. Your dad has to sit with me when I take a bath because there's no way I can get out of the tub without his help. Even getting a cup of tea - well you've seen what can happen there. But I have to push past this. Not just for me. For you."
I sat there, listening to her talk about all the little things she missed being able to do. Even reading a book had become a chore, turning her head too fast to speak to someone would result in dizzy spells and it wasn't until I was a lot older, in my early thirties, that I finally realized just how frightening a world without balance, could be.
For the next year my mum struggled to re-learn how to cope with her world. She pushed a little harder, a little further every single day. There were times she cried. When the fear became too much and she saw herself becoming a burden. Times she laughed when she managed to push past her limitations and do something as simple as bending over to pick a book up from the floor.
Over time her body adapted. The human brain has a remarkable ability to re-adjust itself to situations and life became easier for mum. She still, twenty five years later, has to remember not to turn too quickly and any form of illness brings back the waves of dizziness and nausea she went through all those years ago, but as a whole her life is now pretty normal.
Yet, during those times, the days when making a cup of tea was a struggle I learned something from my mum. It's not just climbing a mountain, or rescuing a child that turns a mum into a hero, it's also the hundreds of little things she does every single day that makes her a hero.
It's the dinner on the table.
The fresh pot of tea.
Clean clothing.
Dishes washed.
Walking over to give a hug, or a shoulder of support when needed.
My mum didn't want to give those little things up. When the operation stole that from her she could have just sat back and let it happen. She didn't, and for that I am eternally grateful.