A heartwarming account of a mother's journey accompanying her daughter to Thailand for gender reassignment surgery. The author reflects on the evolving nature of their relationship, finding new meaning in the role of motherhood as she provides care and support during a challenging time.
At 65, I had become quite adept at being the mother of a 30-year-old. I'd mastered the art of infrequent phone calls, swallowing my advice unless requested, and feigning ignorance of her social media activities. My life was full - running a company, serving on boards, and even globe-trotting to music festivals. Then came Thailand. My brilliant, independent lawyer daughter needed gender reassignment surgery, a complex procedure unavailable in Australia.
Because, let's face it, overachievers develop equally overachieving medical conditions. She found a surgeon in Thailand, made the arrangements, and informed me with the casualness of someone announcing a coffee run. 'Mum, you really don't need to come,' she said, employing that tone adult children use when trying to be kind while secretly wondering if you've lost your marbles. 'I'm 30, remember? I've got this.' But mothers never truly stop being mothers - we simply become masters of disguise, transforming our hovering into casual interest. So, without a formal invitation, I flew to Thailand, accompanying her with nothing but blind faith and a mother's unwavering love. The surgery was successful, though witnessing your child being wheeled into theatre never gets easier, regardless of their age. During those initial days of recovery, as she lay in her hospital bed, memories flooded back - the fierce protectiveness, the constant vigilance, the way time seems to stand still when your child needs you. Then came the food crisis. Despite assurances of gluten-free options, the hospital proved as aware of coeliac disease as a bread factory. Suddenly, I found myself in a tiny Thai apartment with a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, channeling my inner Julia Child. Each day, I'd venture to the local market, armed with Google Translate and determination, to find ingredients that wouldn't make her violently ill. I'd point at items to bewildered vendors until I finally gathered enough to return home and somehow cobble together a meal. In those moments of feeding her over the following month, of watching her slowly heal, of listening to her dreams and fears in the quiet of her hospital room, I realised that love isn't merely an emotion - it's an action. It's showing up with homemade tom yum soup and learning to make pad Thai without soy sauce. Some actions differ from the first time around, but some remain the same - sitting there, combing her hair, just as I did 25 years ago. When we returned home four weeks later, my friends jokingly hailed me as the Kitchen Goddess, praising what they perceived as my sacrifice. I smiled and nodded, accepting the compliments. But in truth, I hadn't sacrificed anything. My daughter had gifted me 30 uninterrupted days of her time. In what universe is that not winning the lottery? They say you can't step in the same river twice, but nobody tells you that sometimes the river returns, offering a second chance to wade in its waters. For one precious month, I got to be what I'll always be at heart: her mother. When my daughter cried and told me she couldn't have done it without me, I wanted to tell her that she had it backwards. We were both receiving second chances - hers to finally live as her true self, mine to mother her in a new way. This wasn't about what she needed - it was about what we both required: a reminder that love doesn't diminish with age, it simply finds new ways to express itself. Sometimes through Thai curry made in a baby frying pan
FAMILY MOTHERHOOD ADULT CHILDREN GENDER REASSIGNMENT SUPPORT LOVE HEALTH
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