Quite the kick in the gut today. Apparently my stepdad has the Big C.

Now…thats not all that much of a surprise really. He’s been smoking since he was 16 and he’s 83 now, and I feel bad for him, sitting in a hospital bed right now hooked up to morphine. But I feel even worse for my mum.

My mum. We’ve never been close her and I. When dad came out, she was cool to the kids and she turned to the man that would be pushing that morphine button right now. Her attitude towards me while the divorce came about was definetly hands-off. I was “my father’s son,” she told me once with a hint of malice in her voice. I dont blame her for anything really. She grew up Italian Catholic in 1930s Toronto (she would tell a story of having to learn how to ring chicken’s necks – ones they kept in the dirt floor basement in their Keele and somewhere-out-there house). Her parents were total immigrant Italians: proud, hardworking, alienated by their grandchildren who didnt speak a stitch of Italian, and expected the best for their children. They were so angry when mum announced the divorce but I dont think she went as far as to explain the true reasons why. Mum is exceedingly strong. Stubborn to a fault. And prone to the drama moment as moms are wont to do.

I call the hospital and get Stepdad’s room. Mum picks up and instantly is crying before I can tell her who’s calling. Stepdad is not expected to be with us by the end of weekend. Mom is strong but you know she’s hurting and I start blubbering and cant form intelligent words. I think I said “I dont evny you right now.”

Yeah I know. I can be pretty heartless sometimes.

I remember meeting Stepdad for the first time. I was so angry and mad that this guy was coming into our house and pissed that mom could be so insensitive. You got to remember that I was raised by TV so the whole thing was playing out like Family and I was Kristie McNicols. He is a tall man, shock white hair and craggly face. Thick English accent – he flew for the RAF. Widowed and probably bonded with mum on that level. Tried real hard to be nice and won me and my sibs over, but we were adults that came attached to mum and he showed us typical English affection. God bless ‘im for not opening his mouth when mum and I fought. He makes my mum happy and that made me happy. Both of them are smoking enablers. When I think of visiting my mum with Stepdad, I think of overflowing ashtrays and crossword puzzles in a sprawling semi-bungalow outside of town. He never ever spoke up about da. The closest he got was when I announced my homosexuality to them and he said something like “good on ya!” or somesuch encouraging phrase. I know he was uncomfortable but he was accepting.

Is. Is accepting. I havent got the call yet.

So my sister is in Brockville now with mum and she is in full on control, much to the relief of the rest of the family. She works for the Calgary General and speaks the lingo. Mum on the phone: “Your sister speaks a different language! I am greatful she’s here.”

As am I.