On the morning of my daughter’s birthday, I am seeing patients. Today, they happen to be all women and, as the day unfolds, I realise that it is an unplanned window into the mother-daughter relationship.
My first patient, at 90, is gleeful that she feels nowhere as bad as her scans dictate. A dancer, she insists on exercise as being the secret of her longevity. That, and her tight relationship with her daughter who is her “walking and talking partner”. When she tells me that this daughter increases her enjoyment of an already contented life, I melt.
My elderly Italian patient apologises for her English before relieving all my concerns with one sentence: “My two daughters – one for the medicine, one for the paperwork.”
The next patient is a young professional confronting a new cancer diagnosis. My throat catches when she says “I miss my mum” because my eyes have just fallen on the part of the history that says her mother died at the same age of the same diagnosis. To sidestep this potent sentiment would be unacceptable, so I let her reminisce.
Another young patient is grateful for her “rock star” mother who cared for the grandchildren. Her mother was a beloved school principal who didn’t think twice about an early retirement if it meant relieving her daughter’s stress. The mother tells me that her daughter’s prolonged good health is the only return she seeks.
In a break between patients, I write a letter to Immigration. A young woman is nearing the end of life and would like to see her mother who lives abroad. This is the reassurance she needs that her son will be OK, and I suspect she is hanging on as a result. The mother is similarly desperate, and we all acknowledge that the pandemic has intensified the obstacles to travel. Still, it is worth a try, and I use every synonym for urgent to reunite daughter and mother.
Primed with a morning of touching relationships and no doubt subconsciously reflecting on my own, the next encounter shocks me.
I suggest to an elderly patient that, as her health deteriorates, I would like to keep her daughter abreast of developments. The usually genial woman stiffens and her eyes spit fire at me. “My daughter doesn’t exist!” My first instinct is to take this literally.
“I am sorry, she is still listed as your contact.”
“She might as well be dead to me.”
I can’t help but wonder what caused a 50-year relationship to break down so irretrievably.
As if to rub it in that mother-daughter relationships are not all they are cracked up to be, the next patient, apropos of nothing, releases a string of invective against her mother, accusing her of being a “toxin” and attributing her cancer diagnosis to the stress of their interactions.
Our consultation freezes amid this unexpected outburst but, as I relay the good news about her prognosis, she calms down.
“I bet your daughter is nice,” she says self-consciously.
When my daughter was born, I joked that now there was someone to take me to my appointments in old age.
I let her down early when I failed to suspect a serious milk allergy which led to a fussy baby who grew into an irritable toddler. Before I knew it, sandwiched between two carefree brothers, I had a perpetually annoyed little girl of whom few smiling photos exist. As much as I loved her, I appreciated her hours in childcare, which launched me into pools of maternal guilt.
But those years passed, thanks in no small part to two supportive grandmothers. And now, before my very eyes, that squally baby is a teenager, and my patient is asking if she is nice.
Well, the teenage catastrophes are real. The “massive” pimple that no one else can see. The sheer unfairness of having to make the salad again this week. The wry neck that could be easily avoided with less screen time. All unrivalled by the tragedy of the uncharged phone on the way to school. With a deep breath and a grain of salt, we get by!
I think how my own teenage years spent in the pre-internet era were a world apart. They were studious and sheltered. Having attended public schools on different continents, I cannot remember a classmate who had a learning difficulty, physical disability, or mental illness. Of course, those children were among us but were rendered invisible. Now I wonder what happened to the children who failed to thrive and how I might have helped.
Today, I watch my daughter employ the full extent of her empathy and humanity in a way I didn’t. When I recently berated her for watching dog videos late at night, she was actually helping a friend in crisis. Sometimes, I worry that she assumes challenges she is not fully equipped to handle but it is a joy to watch her grow in the process. The teacher says she has many bright students, but the real joy comes from the reliably helpful ones.
Thankfully, her loud baby lungs have made way for an articulate voice that defends principles. When the school librarian told her to put down a prize-winning fiction book “meant for older readers”, she shrugged and picked up my copy instead.
Intuitive love is a wonderful thing. On a long day, she will pluck me a flower from the garden and have a heated meal waiting. Bursting to ask me about a party invitation, she will first inquire about my day.
I talk to my mother every day and assume she knows I cherish her. But lately, I realise that of all my daughter’s gestures, the one that makes my heart brim is when, without expectation or invitation, she tells me that I am a good mother. This reward transcends all achievements and all incentives.
Watching the steadfast mother-daughter relationships of my patients through health and sickness gives me hope for mine.
Meanwhile, my patient expects a reply, so I think of something diplomatic that is not saccharine.
“We all have our moments, but yes, my daughter is alright.”
