Every day is Mother’s Day.  No special date is going to negate the fact that dishes need to be washed, meals need to be cooked and people and dogs  need to be nagged.

I feel very lucky that this Mother’s Day I was forced to get out of bed to make scones – it’s part of being a mother that I adore – feeding my family with high carbohydrate meals that my son will ignore, my dog will scoff and my husband and I will complain about because we’ve eaten too much. And I feel lucky that on Mother’s Day I get to cook for my own mother and my mother-in-law. Interestingly there is not a tad of irony in that sentence. I really do feel lucky that I have my mother and mother-in-law as part of my life. And I feel even luckier that I am a mother to the most beautiful child in the world and the most magnificent dog.

But today I am not focusing on my mother, or my mother-in-law, or even the child I brought into this world 12 years ago, today I am writing as the mother of a dog. My dog , Henry, who is sick and refusing to eat, my dog who has been sick since Wednesday and two visits to the vet, countless drugs and he’s not getting any better. I am beside myself with worry.

I cried at the vet when they told me he needed to have an anaesthetic tomorrow so they can take a look inside and see what is causing him to be so sick.  I cried with worry for him and with the great intensity of love that I feel for him. I also nearly cried because the vet is about the same age as my son….

The weekend that we bought Henry home I was going to look for a new shirt – I had a job interview scheduled for the next week and I wanted to wear something new. – possibly because I had been at home with my son for 5 years j eans and a t-shirt weren’t going to cut it for an interview.  We came home with a beautiful pink shirt which was too small for me and the smallest, cutest, most beautiful puppy in the whole world. Not even sure how that happened but I know that my husband falls in love hard and he’s very impulsive.

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Now Henry is seven and he is the most beautiful member of our family. Literally.  He is the salve our family needs when we are irritable, the stress relief we cling to when things aren’t easy, he’s the faithful companion when we need someone there, he’s the best play mate when we’re feeling energetic, he’s the most loyal and loving being I know.

I know I sound positively nutty to be talking about him like this on Mother’s Day but I am his mother and I’m finding it so hard. I am the kind of mother that explains things – that tells stories, that prepares and dissects, I am an explainer and a comforter.  And I can’t explain to him that tomorrow I am leaving him alone at the vet for his own good.  In a cage!

It’s moments like this that I actually appreciate the constant questioning from the child that speaks…

I’m the kind of person, and I bet you are too, that makes up stories at restaurants and cafes, while waiting in a queue at the bank or in Medicare, while stopped at a red light or waiting for a train.

Every morning as I walk through the streets of my neighbourhood in the early hours with my dog I look into the homes of the people that live around me – not in a peeping Tom, arrest me for being a stalker kind of way  – more a wistful, storyteller kind of way.  I imagine a family behind the walls and conjure up stories about what their lives could be like. It’s always amazing to me that behind such small walls live such big stories even if they’re just the stories I’ve made up.

It’s a humbling experience this, to see the stories in every stranger. To realise that even though the introduction and the conclusion may be different there is a story for every person we see.  We are really not that different from the stranger sitting opposite us.

Today I have been spending a lot of time sitting around the hospital as my mother undergoes surgery. The houses that the stories occupy are even smaller now – just beds with a curtains around them

There’s a young man dirty and alone that has just had his dose of methadone (administered by the nursing staff).  His shoes and his shirt are covered in blood and he slumps on a chair. He hasn’t opened his eyes – not even when he drank down his fix.  It wasn’t hard to feel repulsed by his blood soaked shirt and shoes but I just feel sad for him.  Drug addiction is hard.  This was never his choice when he started.

There is the young couple with the 20 month-old-baby who is still dressed in her pajamas. She’s accompanied her mum to the hospital early in the morning. It probably felt like an adventure when she started out. Now she’s tired and her father is stressed – he’s taking her for an ice cream while her mum is having surgery. His mind is not on the ice cream.

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There’s a woman I actually know, her husband is really ill. He’s got cancer but right now it’s jaundice that is bringing him here. He’s in pain and cannot walk – his wife feels old, scared, vulnerable – trying to keep it together because it’s always awkward when you see someone you know and you are having your worst moment.

But there are so many people here whose stories I cannot tell.  They are just waiting. Waiting in the waiting rooms, on their beds, behind their curtains. Waiting for the doctors to say they can go home or need to go to the ward. Alone. No one holding their hands or anticipating the outcomes of their test results.

And there’s me typing all my thoughts into a computer too scared to ask why my mother has taken such a long time to come out of recovery. Just relieved for her and for me that her story is shared by more than one person.  It’s the people sitting here alone whose stories I wont be able to get out of my head even though I have no idea what they are.