11 квітня 2021
“Hi, can I get a cappuccino please? Aaand one of these falafel wraps. Are they good?”
NZ cafes surprised us at first when we arrived in February 2016. We were used to being seated at an available table, handed a menu. We were used to waiting for the waiter or waitress to come by in a couple of minutes to ask if we were ready to order. We were used to saying “No, sorry, we need a couple more minutes.”. And then asking for a bill, maybe ordering something more, counting out the tips, leaving them or not leaving them making it 10% or making it 5%. Here we had to order by the counter and pay straight away and oftentimes wait for the order and then take it to a table that’s available.
I left my son with my husband and went for a cup of coffee with a friend. It’s a kiwi in his late 50s, a PhD in ecology, a co-founder and board member of an organisation, who works as a construction worker most of his days and also looks after his horses.
We sat at a table with not the most comfortable chairs, especially for my short legs – they were long and had no support for the back – but it had sockets nearby and we were there to talk business. We sat down and got straight to it – we were planning a really exciting project. I had my broken MacBook and a notebook and as always a couple of pens. We were planning what Russ could do in Ukraine when he goes there in a couple of months – who he could meet, what he could discuss, what could come out of it – purposefully and additionally but not less meaningfully.
When my phone rang and I realized it was 7 am in Kyiv, I knew something was wrong. It was my aunt, my mum’s sister and she had news. Bad news. News that changed my life. All of our lives. Forever. She said mum was sick. I said – Brain cancer? She said – Presumably yet, but probably and not certainly. I flew to Ukraine the next morning. First flight, just enough time to pack my bag. To grab the things I could assume I needed for the time period I couldn’t predict. My things and my son’s. We flew through Singapore. There was a garden of butterflies and a sky train. I did my best to enjoy it. I didn’t know anything for sure, but I did know that it was going to be hard. Life will be hard. For an uncertain period of time, uncertainly very certainly hard. So I took selfies and filmed videos. I made my son laugh and I laughed myself. I was sad, I was tired, I was scared, but I tried to enjoy the trip to the best possible extent.
I don’t remember who picked me up at the airport or where I went afterwards. I don’t remember a lot about what happened next. But I do remember when I came to her flat. I think I came with dad. My aunt met us there because, according to her “It is better if I am there when you meet, as she is best near me at the moment, she listens to me best, she believes me”. I remember how much that hurt. My mum. My person. My world. And I can’t see her without someone else there? Absurd, nonsense, offence! But I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t know what I would see, I was so scared, I was so lost, that I didn’t even think about arguing that over. I gave in and I am grateful I did.
I don’t remember who was in the room. I don’t remember what they were doing, what they were saying, what was going on around us. I remember mum. She was so fragile, helpless, different, happy, far. I think I made tea, or someone made tea, we spoke a little, then I probably left. I don’t remember when I saw her next. But I remember that from then on for me it was just meetings, discussions, searching, surfing, researching, looking, listening, thinking, waiting, hoping and hoping again. But also it was loving, caring, giving, helping, trying, making mistakes.