Older Persons Assessment Unit, Bay 6. Or was it 4? I’m not sure. I’m feeling slightly dazed after a difficult visit, fighting a visual migraine and trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I head back to Will, in the carpark.
I wish I was better at this.
Last weekend, my dad was admitted to hospital after taking another tumble in as many weeks. It’s been a tough but familiar few days.
Navigating the corridors to find my way out—they all look the same, they all look the same!—I feel like I'm in one of those amusement park mazes, finding dead ends at every turn and jusssst starting to feel panicky.
At the best of times, my sense of direction is so non-existent that I once got lost with my group when helping out on a school map reading excursion (both my children loved that I always insisted on “helping” on trips).
Meanwhile, nurses, porters and other visitors pass by purposefully, not looking lost at all, wondering who the crazy lady is, wearing ridiculously big sunglasses in a hospital, on a cold and overcast Monday afternoon.
That was earlier this week.
Today, Friday, my dad is back in his residential care home. We’re so grateful, of course, but it’s still not straightforward. It’s why writing over the last week has been so stop/start that Substack actually sent me an auto-generated email last night along the lines of “You recently started a draft, umm … want to finish it?”.
A question of knowing
I’d hoped to write something for Mother’s Day (we had ours in the UK back in March). And as it was also International Day Of Families this week, I thought I’d answer a question I’m almost always asked when I tell my story, or someone shares theirs with me: “How old were you when you found out that you were adopted?”.
The answer is always the same: I’ve always known.
My parents chose to tell me before it was even a conscious memory. But I can tell you that the way I came to be with my family feels as natural to me as the fact that my eyes are blue (inherited from my northern Italian side—they’re the same colour as my brother and sister’s) and my hair is super-curly no matter how much I try to persuade it otherwise.
As much a part of me as my funny-looking, sort of squared-off toes I get from my nonna (a revelation the first time I saw hers in regulation house slides), and the brown splotches on my forearms which come out in the sun and, apparently, my birth mother had. (See, too, hours misspent sunbathing in the 80s with SPF Big Fat Zero sun oil, listening to Top 40 compilation tapes).
The fact that I came home to my family by adoption is not just a part of my story, but part of me.
The father who just got home from hospital, the one I was coaxing to eat three Ginger Nut biscuits and sip some tea when he could barely lift his head from the pillow, is 100% my dad.
And the crazy Italian papa who I got to meet in my twenties, lost in my forties and only miss more, not less, is also 100% my (first) father.
Because the sacred rules of what makes us family override those of simple mathematics.
Speaking of designated days that celebrate family in all its forms, I find it striking that May, the month in which many countries mark Mother’s Day, is the one in which the Catholic church celebrates the mother of Jesus. It’s something I only recently learned about and, with it, the tradition of crowning Marian statues in churches and homes with flowers (my photographer friend Hannah, who shares pics of her Oxfordshire church on Instagram, tells me this can be done at any time during the month, or on a feast day).
Increasingly, as I mourn my first mother and experience the slow and sneaky stealth-grief that accompanies my beloved mum’s progressing memory fragmentation, I’ve found meditating on the maternal love of Mary immensely comforting.
In Italy, you’ll see what the Romans traditionally call Madonnelle, images of Mary, gazing down from small shrines on street corners.
We saw many in Florence a few weeks ago.
On back views
As I write this, I know many of you have children or know those who are either taking big exams or graduating. Sending love, strength, congratulations and tissues!
When our eldest graduated from university last summer, I wrote here about how a photo taken from behind of her walking in her gown felt very poignant.
My dad was famous in the family for his ‘back shots’ when my brother and I were growing up, and our 70s/80s family albums are filled with them. He always maintained that they said so much about a moment, or a passage of time, and I think he was right.
So, when our daughter pinged us some photos of her setting off to her end of year college ball this week, I don’t need to tell you which one was a favourite.
Pardon me while I pull myself together.
What are you reading right now?
I’m about halfway through James K. A. Smith’s You Are What You Love – The Spiritual Power of Habit, which is the one he wrote before How To Inhabit Time, which I basically highlighted from cover to cover (and wrote quite a bit about here). So far, so much more highlighting and illegible, late night scribbling in the margins.
I’ve also just started listening to the audiobook of
’s Start With Hello: And Other Simple Ways to Live as Neighbours—it’s been on my wish list for months. I love what she has to say about “just as we are” hospitality and connection. Early on, she writes about getting up each day ‘ready to care’, and I found that just beautiful.I want to dive into some fiction, too—I just bought Emma Straub’s This Time Tomorrow in hardback, but it might be a teeny bit emotional at the moment (I’ll report back—have you read it?).
Also! I’ll come back to the UK release of Tasha Jun’s gorgeous Tell Me the Dream Again: Reflections on Family, Ethnicity, and the Sacred Work of Belonging, which I wrote about last time, due to come out here in a week or so.
Sending love for the weekend, whatever you’re up to and whether you’re celebrating or supporting, holding your breath or sighing with relief, all or none of the above.
I’m the one in the ridiculously big sunglasses, asking for directions and putting one foot in front of the other alongside you,
XOXO to you in all the trials and tribulations and laughter and getting lost. You do such a great job of showing us how to squeeze every last drop of love from the hard moments.
Oh Jen, I love your thoughts on family here - "sacred rules of family override those of simple mathematics". In light of that analogy I can't help but think that you have been blessed with a multiplication of family!
I'm rigth there with you putting one foot in front of the other in this tangled, messy life with family and frailties.