When my mother almost drown the summer of 1967, I felt her panic and fear. In conversation with the shaman years ago, his impression was my fear of water stemmed from an experience my mother had while pregnant with me. While researching my mother, once I accepted who she was, I was quite surprised to learn the information was at least partially correct. While swimming in the ocean off the coast of Ireland, my mother almost lost her life – I was 7 years old.
Helen, my adopted mother, at a time when I was struggling to understand what would cause me so much fear of being in the water, explained it was she who almost drown when I was very young. She told me that because of this bad experience from her past, I was not allowed to take swimming lessons, which seemed somehow upside down. Would it not be better for me to learn properly, get over the fear? Because this explanation did not make sense, it was a fear difficult to resolve, I suppose because I never felt close to Helen, was mostly afraid of her, I could find no comfort in her words. Although in my teen years, I learned to swim by going to the pool regularly with my friends and could swim the length of the pool underwater, this only made the fear which started after having children of my own, more difficult to understand. It often occurred to me as I wrote my book, how Duncan and Helen gave me information about themselves which actually mirrored events connected to my real parents. The truth often hidden in the lies.
When the shaman gave me his interpretation, I felt there was wisdom in his words, but something still did not sit well with me. I accepted the explanation readily enough, quite happy actually to have something to help me challenge the fear. Knowing the fear is not actually yours, somehow helps. At the time I was still under the impression Helen was my mother, so there was still something nagging at me, which did not find rest until I discovered the article about my birth mother several years later.
It is not easy to find truthful information about my mother as she was very careful about what she allowed reporters to say – she had great control over the press. So it is so strange sometimes to me how the pieces of my troubled past come together. This morning as I woke there was this deep need in me to connect with my mother.
This memory of her almost drowning seemed to be at the forefront of my mind, although I cannot explain why. There are many reasons I don’t often speak about her, yet I am crying for my mother this morning.
My mother faced many challenges, she was incredibly strong and brave, yet terribly kind and gentle. Unfortunately, I did not feel the same connection to her as I did my father. I suppose it was the realization she would have been the one to arrange the life I fell into. Although I know and understand she could not have done this to me on purpose, for most of my life there has surely been a part of me holding her responsible. She could not or would not save me without risk of someone discovering the truth. While I can understand this now, as a child thrown into the pit of despair, it made more sense to lock her out rather than dwell on the possibility she had the ability to help me. From that perspective Helen was an appropriate replacement, ensuring I never felt love for a mother figure. Trusting women was also quite impossible, until I journeyed to Ecuador.
What was prominent in my thought process this morning was connections. Not only did I feel my mothers fear as she struggled to live while in the cold ocean water, I also felt every bullet go into my fathers body at the time of his execution only months later. So strange to think now, during this very difficult time in my mothers life, I was being taken on a trip to the Expo in Montreal. Of course now I can see how this rather extravagant holiday would have ensured I would be distracted and prevented from seeing any news headlines about my mother which would confirm what I felt as an empath.
There is much I do not remember about the whole trip, but a few things stand out. A lightening storm as we drove across the prairies. The sound of the thunder terrifying me;
Meeting relatives in Montreal who made me quite uncomfortable;
The humidity and heat which threatened to suffocate me;
But most of all, strangely enough, I remember wanting to buy a bamboo flute at a kiosk on the Expo grounds. This memory is wound up in my thoughts this morning as I start to see the importance of joining dates together. The flute did not cost much and I was given a small amount of money to buy a memento, but Duncan refused to allow me this particular purchase. It was not until I was in Ecuador that I understood why. The sound made playing this simple flute would have been a reminder of home. The disappointment travelled with me, pulling a shadow over the previous excitement felt on this trip. But why now, are these memories stirring inside my mind. Perhaps because the anniversary of my fathers death is fast approaching. October 9, 1967 – 54 years have passed.
In the last few months specifically, I have begun to develop an understanding of how my life has followed a similar path to my parents. While in Ecuador it became clear to me, feeling rather than knowing the situations my father experienced, was terribly important for my return to self. Just as the simple flute would have kept the memories of my birth home alive, experiencing first hand the life of the people in South America has reminded me of who I am in a way which cannot be fractured for a second time.
When I first understood just a year ago, the possibility of being sent to a camp for refusing the shots was the path I must take, panic settled in my heart. As the time approaches for this inevitable conclusion I feel stronger in my faith it is what will save me.
The other day at work, I had a wonderful experience with a child only 3 years old. I had gone to the yard to help load drywall for a young family. The woman insisted on doing the work of lifting in my place, a sign of respect I felt. So I stood beside their young daughter who simply stared at me with her beautiful smile, from the moment she saw me to the time they left. This happened often in Ecuador, yet it is still kind of uncomfortable to have eyes upon me in this way. I suppose because I was so good at hiding for most of my life, being so openly admired especially by one so young is a bit unsettling. I wanted to ask her what she saw when she looked at me which could interest her so, but wasn’t ready emotionally to hear the reply. It was a reminder the children will need help when this situation turns horrible. How many will lose their parents? Who will understand how to comfort them as they witness horrors sure to come?
The day my father was to be executed, the officer in charge asked for volunteers. One young man with hate in his heart accepted the role, something I believe haunted him all of his life. It was not a quick death for my father, he was shot several times, the bullet hitting his thorax the one which ended his life, but not quickly. He died choking on his own blood. This knowledge is what ensures my belief the young soldier had a heart full of hate for a man he never knew, his mission in life never understood.
The people who have had the injections who are almost gleeful when they hear the person who just died did not have the shots, or the ones who express their desire we all die a painful death, remind me of my fathers executioner. So once more I find myself experiencing a part of my fathers story first hand. Fear was what fuelled his enemy – the people were taught to see him as a monster who would rape and pillage as he travelled through their land. They were so afraid, they were happy to give information to the Bolivian and CIA soldiers/agents in exchange for favor. They did not see the truth until my father was killed, the sorrow and love for him from all over the world wiping away the lies.
Because the Bolivian government made such a mess of the whole situation, they buried his body with his companions in a mass unmarked grave, the location not to be discovered until the summer of 1997.
The cowards who bury the truth about this pandemic are every bit as calculating and afraid as those who ruined my mothers life, and took the life of my father were. Although my situation is not really the same, the circumstances are. The same people who have controlled my life, simply because I was born, are behind this feardemic. Because of who my parents were, I have led a life cloaked in lies and half truths, the story almost impossible to tell because they did such a masterful job of ensuring my failure in finding proof. They did not count on the importance of me caring about something so small as a bamboo flute, nor did they understand the power of love and it’s ability to protect the memories from being destroyed.
No matter when or how I die, it will be with the complete satisfaction of fighting my way out of the dark pit they felt would destroy me, to stand in the light of truth and love. Whatever happens now is not important, it only matters I defeated them already. My death, just as my fathers death in particular, did not destroy who he was, will not erase who I am.