EPISODE DESCRIPTION: Some things aren't bound by time, space, or physical constraints. Today, I bear witness to one of those things. Join me for our first week's final episode about a moment that changed me forever.

Episode theme song ‘Our Story So Far’ by Jakub Pietras

TRANSCRIPT

Hey, you! Welcome back to MIND CHALK.  

As we round out the first week together, I want to end on something affecting, yet quite beautiful. 

You’ve endured a sad little story from my 8-year-old self. You listened to me spin a web about thought. You survived the flogging I gave everyone about that tiny but super necessary one-letter word. And you hopefully didn’t abandon this pod altogether after yesterday’s spotlight on how much we make up our reality through story. 

Today, I’m going to read something I wrote a few years ago about a beautiful yet very haunting connection many of us in the world share. 

So, sit back and listen to something the grown-up Née Née [that’s me] penned. Wrote. Scribbled out.   

This is the story of a moment that will stay with me for as long as my senses are intact. I will remember the drama, pathos, stunning sounds, and visuals, but more than that, I will remember the feeling of something deep within my DNA resonating with an echo rippling through ages past. 

With St. Patrick's Day less than a week away, and as I take part in a lengthy group text thread planning our family's annual parade float design graces my iPhone, I am reminded that this will be the very first celebration of my Irish heritage without my precious grandmother perched atop our float (in physical form, anyway).

Because I’ve lived away from home since I was 18 and entering college, holidays spark a homesick surge of sentimentality and bring scattered memories of my wonderful life and family to mind. As I participate in discussions of green beer, children dressed as leprechauns, and remember the year the Rellihan float was escorted off the parade route due to our ignoring the "no alcohol en route" rule, another particular family memory creeps into my mind with a beautiful vengeance.

Our traditional Thanksgiving dinner this year is at my Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Domenic's home. As the smell of turkey, stuffing, and fresh-baked rolls waft through the air, the combined sounds of adult chatter and children's laughter round out a celebratory scene—until a loud thud echoes frighteningly through the merriment.

The thud is loud, but the strange and momentary silence that follows is even more striking. Then comes the shrill shriek of an innocent and terrified baby girl, who, seconds later, we will discover, is covered in blood as red as her velvet dress.

My not quite yet 2-year-old niece, Madeline, has fallen forward onto a glass coffee table, and despite the table's round, beveled edges, the skin on her forehead has split from the weight of her tiny body. What transpired just before every relative within earshot sprinting to my niece's aid as we witness her blood-covered face was something I will never forget.

The thud of a blonde-haired child's head on the heavy glass, the silence that follows hanging in disturbing pause, the guttural scream of a tiny girl’s voice booming like thunder. And then, that same small voice cries out, desperate, terrified, and  beckoning: "MOM!" 

My niece holds the single vowel for what seems longer than her little lungs can manage.

As she arrives to see her baby girl blood-stained, my sister Julie screams with the same desperation in her voice, "Oh my God, Mo-o-o-o-o-o-m!"   
 
Our mother runs into the room and calls for her own mother,  "Mom!  Oh, my God!  MO-O-O-OM!"

My grandmother enters the room, and three generations of mothers encircle Madeline to calm her and take the necessary steps to get her help.

My heart rate is stammering, and tears fill my eyes as I witness the fear in my little niece's eyes.  In this moment, I am overcome by the lingering echo of four generations calling out for their mothers. As if I need yet another reminder of the strength of our family connection.

 I bear witness to four generations of women tied together through DNA and, more importantly, the unrelenting love they have for one another.

Whether crying out for our mothers in times of pain and fear is a result of shock, feeling helpless like a small child, and reverting back to the love and nurturing our mothers provided us when we were young. Or due to some maternal connection that science actually can’t explain (whether mother and child share the same DNA or not), witnessing the reverberating cry for "Mom" between multiple generations in the same room left me changed. 

It reminded me that being a mother, and having a beautifully strong connection to one's mother, has to be one of the most amazing phenomenons in the entire world.

As my niece is carried to the car to be rushed to the hospital, I stand in awe of the moment we have all just witnessed. There will be other split head injuries, and worse, to which our family will attend, yet this one will forever stand out to me.

Today, I smile when I think of this horrible incident or when I see the faint scar on my gorgeous grown niece's forehead because it reminds me of my connection with four of the most amazing women in my life, their connection with each other as mother/s/ and daughters, and how that connection transcends time, space, and physical constraint.

Thanks for being here with me this week. I really appreciate you. 

I’ll see you Monday—which happens to be the day after my birthday. 

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The podcast is hosted, produced, and edited by Jenée Arthur.
Cover art by Jenée Arthur
The songs used in the individual episodes have been licensed for use.