Bearing Up

Given my stereotypical Italian temperament (you say volatile, I say passionate), chances are I’ve always been destined to be a mama bear type. You know, that sweet lady that suddenly mutates, Hulk-like, into a raging beast ready to eviscerate you, at least verbally, if you appear to pose a threat to her young. (Full disclosure: there may be a school administrator or two who just possibly remember me this way.) But being the single parent of a chronically ill, neuro-diverse child has sealed my fate and brought my grizzly game to a whole new level.

While our singular journey has provided countless opportunities for this transformational phenomenon, they’ve thankfully never been as abundant as when we initially set off into uncharted waters. The sudden onslaught of disabling symptoms and the search for a diagnosis, coupled with an attempt to keep the overachieving Celtic Warrior Princess on the right track academically and extracurricularly, resulted in a marked increase in bear attacks. Among the more memorable: the phone call I received from the pediatrician one Thanksgiving eve. I assumed she was calling to check on the newly diagnosed princess and wish us a happy holiday, but learned she was calling to scold me for expressing, in writing, my dissatisfaction with the way one of her senior colleagues spoke to and about my daughter. As my son said when I got off the phone: “Dude, she did not know what hit her.”

For some reason, my brand of mama bear comes with a sudden ability to articulate (however viciously). Unable still, in the twilight of my life, to advocate for myself, I somehow become an evangelical preacher in my quest to point out and rectify injustice. My favorite sorry-not-sorry moment: making the school nurse, a harridan who’d been terrorizing middle school students for years, cry. And apologize.

As we’ve adjusted to our new normal, there’s been a decrease in the need for my maternal displays of dominance. Just as young bear cubs do eventually, the Celtic warrior princess is developing confidence and learning to advocate for herself. Instead, my ferocity and determination are now more focused on shepherding her, and myself, through the fluctuations of life with a chronic illness (one day you’re exploring the idea of a transatlantic trip; the next you’re prone on the kitchen floor because you can’t sit or stand without blacking out).

But dormant as that mama bear trait may be, it apparently can’t be eradicated. This week, when a hair design school administrator reproached my daughter and, in my presence, implied that she was malingering and/or taking advantage of a minor accommodation she’d finally requested, then threw up a roadblock to her timely graduation, the beast was awakened. And while I let the princess deal with it in the moment (and she was fabulous), the eventual attack has been prolonged and merciless.

Is the inability to let go of a principle part of the mama bear personality? Or a separate aspect of my pathology? Either way, stay tuned…

Care to share your best mama (or papa) bear moments?