My dad was sure that he was immortal. Some fathers may use this word flippantly, as they dive off the top diving board or freewheel down a very steep hill on their bike but my Dad, who would never have done either of those things, meant it literally, believing he would never die (he died in 2009). I grew up with the reality of Dad's immortality and easily believed that it was true, even into my twenties. We were embedded in a religious community which used this sort of existential language, and Dad's bearing was always so convincing that I knew that he was correct. I also knew that Dad was special in that way. I was not immortal, and neither was anyone else in my house, at church or at school. Being immortal was a Jesus-level attribute.
My mum is obsessed with her mortality and the perceived fragility of her human body and experience. From my earliest memories I have been aware of mum's illnesses, physical anomalies and exploratory appointments with professionals. She has been the most enlivened when discussing the sickness and disease of her own or other's bodies. To this day (in fact, today) mum sends emails to me and my sisters which outline her current health issues, what appointments are scheduled and the names of procedures she will undergo or medications she will swallow. She is equally welcoming to an early death or the Second Coming - whichever mercy comes first.
In some ways Dad's immortality and Mum's mortality dominated our home and, I can see in the cold light of adult day, are signifiers of their absorption in their own existences. In a house where the importance of others' survival is highly-ranked how can children learn the value of their own new existence, the joy of their opportunity to live a life, the marvel of their bodies and the miracle of recovery from illness?
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