It has been a year since her mother Auali’itia Su’a Levaopolo Martha Schwalger-Blakely died. Actress and writer Teuila Blakely reflects on the pain of the loss and the enduring power of love.
Mama,
Last year, about 2am on January 13, my phone rang. I always put my phone on silent at night, so I was surprised that this time I’d forgotten. Being my birthday, I wanted to get enough rest for my party that day. It was totally odd.
Seeing it was my parents’ landline, I immediately felt uneasy. My mum had been ill for some time with heart issues and had noticeably gone downhill over the busy festive season. Dad was on the phone saying he’d tried to call an ambulance to take Mum into hospital but there were none available.
I jumped in the shower and made my way over to Mum’s in minutes. (I must note that I showered because one of the many things my mum instilled in me is to never, ever leave the house without showering first. She would want people to know that I did.)
When I walked in, Mum was sitting in a chair. She turned and smiled at me and said, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” I wanted to cry right there and then. There was a foreboding sense of dread that I was trying to ignore.
“In the end, there was nothing but unconditional love between us.”
The ambulance service explained the only way to get my mum to the hospital anytime soon was to take her in myself. I was able to help get Mum into the car and we headed to Auckland Hospital.
As we drove up the mostly empty northwestern motorway, we were both silently praying for the same things: a safe passage to the hospital and that this wasn’t going to be the last ride we would take together. I’d taken her during past scares, but she always recovered and we’d get her home again. Surely, Mum was going to be okay again.
In the emergency department, as night became morning, I sat by Mum’s side, holding her hand and resting my head on her bed. She’d look over and smile at me as the nurses and doctors would come and assess her. Finally, about midday, a bed became available and we took Mum to the ward. Mum was exhausted and said for me to go and celebrate my birthday while she rested.
With no sleep, my friends and family arrived, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness. I wasn’t ready if Mum wasn’t going to be okay. Encouraged by my friends and family to remain positive, I enjoyed my birthday, reassuring myself this wasn’t going to be the end.
My mum was a fierce woman, brutal in honesty, act and discipline. To have survived the harshness of my upbringing was no easy feat and I am still a work in progress.
My mum holding her 21st key, alongside her sister.
Over time, and with age and experience, I grew, as my mum softened somewhat. Having inherited so many of her traits, physically and personality-wise, Mum and I always had a deep understanding of each other, even when we disagreed. What I’m able to talk about now is how close Mum and I have been, especially in these later years.
Growing up, I had envied girls who had softer, more demonstratively loving relationships with their mothers. But I knew my mum was a product of her own harsh upbringing in Samoa and being a migrant in a foreign land. Life had not been easy for my mother either.
I gradually came to understand that every aspect of how I was raised by Mum was an enormous blessing. As a woman and a mother myself, it became easier to see my mother as a woman in her own right. It’s easy to forget our parents are just people too.
It soon became apparent Mum wouldn’t be coming home from the hospital. I spent the next nine days by her bedside. We were able to have our last conversation while she was still lucid. As I sat there day and night, there was nothing more to say to my mum other than “thank you” and “I love you”.
Mama with my uncles Sonnie, Malo and Siva Afi at our Schwalger homestead in Malie.
On her final night, she opened her eyes one last time. I told her again that I loved her, that I was there. Hours later, the first heartbeat I had ever heard while I was in my mother’s womb stopped beating. I was holding her as it did.
As the nurses rushed in, I sat there in tears. Mum’s spirit was the underlying force of my whole life. Now she was gone. No one was prouder of me than my mum and although she rarely told me so, I always knew. I thought of everything she did and everything she lived through over those last few days. I thought of everything we’d been through. All of it. And in the end, there was nothing but unconditional love between us.
I’m so grateful for the time we got to spend together, especially towards the end. I was able to understand how much my mum has always loved me. I was able to show Mum how much I loved her too and make her feel proud. That’s a great feeling as a daughter.
I miss my mum every single day and as it comes up to a year since her passing, I’m becoming more at peace with it – but that ache never goes away. Perhaps it just gets quieter. Make the most of every day you get with your loved ones, especially our mums. We only ever get one.
