More photos from Regent’s Park. Always makes me think of my mum
Monthly Archives: April 2014
Spring Flowers in Regent’s Park, London, April 2014
Some of mum’s favourite flowers in the park she loved
This is a Blog tells the story of my feelings about losing my mother very suddenly to an unexpected death in January 2014. I don’t know if my thoughts and feelings will resonate with anyone, but they are mine. I don’t want the blog to be too sad and gloomy. Mum was full of life and vivacity and was always smiling. She loved life and loved people. I want those sentiments to shine through. But I hope you’ll understand that I miss her dreadfully and so sometimes it will be sad, but stick with it. There will be smiles. Speaking of smile, that was one of her favourite songs.
Mum’s legacy and leaving gifts.
Did I mention that mum left me an amazing gift, and one I haven’t had the strength to unwrap yet?
My older sister found it in one of mum’s drawers. Some time ago – well, a couple years ago, my son suggested that we buy mum a small digital recorder for her to speak into and tell stories, or whatever she wanted to tell us about her life/memories of her parents, or indeed anything, when she had moments alone and felt like chatting. She kept telling me she couldn’t get the hang of it, although I never quite believed someone as savvy as my mother would find this machine too much of a challenge. After all, we’re talking here about a 92-year old who did online banking, shopping, emails, web searches and Skype video calls. I’ve also discovered that she did double-entry bookkeeping for all her accounts.
I digress, as usual. What my sister found was an exercise book in which mum had written – I know not what – but they are messages and stories for me. There is also some recording on the little digi gadget she ‘couldn’t get the hang of’. I’m saving these for when I feel strong. I think the day is coming shortly. Actually, it is mum’s birthday on April 25. She would have been 93, and we were planning a little reunion of all my sisters (3) coming to London to be with her. You see, I’m the only one of the four of us living in the UK. So, maybe that will be the day to open mum’s present to me. Coincidentally, it is also the publication date of my winning short story. I entered it shortly before mum died. I’m so pleased she knew I’d won, but sad she won’t see it published. So, that settles that issue. April 25 is D Day. Mum day.
Some may find this all a bit morbid, but actually, it makes me feel closer to my mum. She didn’t mean to go. Indeed she bloody left without permission. Just flipping Went! But I forgive her, even though I can’t, never ever, forget. I have to say, as her Executor, she did a brilliant job at tidying everything for me. Leaving all her papers neatly filed. Once everything is sorted, I’ll be reluctant to throw all her papers away. I’ve decided to create a memory box, in which I’ll put some treasured documents, cards and other memorabilia – as I find and decide. I heard a young boy, Harry, on the radio the other day, talking about keeping a memory box for his grandparents, who’d upped and moved abroad. He has a Blog on WordPress. Well in a way, mum has moved. Only thing is her ‘abroad’ is pretty final. But I want generations to come to know who she was.
Apart from my notebook that I haven’t yet read, she also left pages of interview notes about her early childhood and memories of her parents and grandparents. Some extraordinary stories, some I’ve never heard before, but are astonishing pieces of oral history spanning more than a century and a half and lived in many countries. One day I shall write about some of these stories. I haven’t decided quite what, nor how. But they can’t just stay in the folder. I’ve also decided to write a memoir about my relationship with my mother. This will be my next big writing project. I’ve started sketching it out, but still thinking about structure. In a way it doesn’t matter if it never gets published, but is very important for me to write.
Above is a photo of mum before I was born – about 3 weeks before I was born, to be precise. I’ve always loved this photo.
Grief – The constant mugger
In Toronto for her grandson’s wedding
Just when you think you’re on top of it, grief creeps up like a mugger in the dark. You’re calmly walking along your road – looking to the left and right – then this cruel and cowardly ‘me-jacker’ creeps up from behind, knocks you to the ground, and attacks you from behind. They tell me all this is normal. Is it normal to suddenly burst into tears when you look at your online bank and realise you have to remove your mum’s name as a payee? Or, see her handwriting on a note of something she was planning. My mother liked making notes and records of things. Maybe that’s where I’ve got it from.
The most bizarre case of this grief-jacker was when I started crying over a pot of rice pudding I took out of the fridge, shortly after she died. My son was astonished that rice pudding could set me off. Poor guy, what he didn’t know was I had bought some little pots of readymade rice pudding for mum, when she wasn’t feeling like eating much. I knew she might enjoy a tiny little amount of the creamy confection. I guess I could have made it myself, but it wasn’t the same as almost bite-sized little bits. I guess I have to expect these sudden tears for some time to come.
Now the weather is getting warmer and the sun’s shining, I think how much mum would have enjoyed going up the road to see all the Spring flowers in Regent’s Park. She always liked going there. So, I’ll have to go on my own and write it in my journal. Maybe I’ll take some pretty photos and post them here. We used to sometimes go to the restaurant in the park for tea, or lunch when the weather was good. Not a bad idea, Susan – off to the park with your notebook and camera.
Whilst I’m on the subject of grief – when won’t I be, I hear some say. It’s taken this to happen for me to really understand the weird taboo that is anything to do with death or grief. People just don’t know what to say, or how to be. So, on the whole, they pretend it’s not there, hasn’t happened. Or worse, they avoid you. I know I’ve been a bit guilty of this myself in the past, when dealing with someone else’s loss. You kind of don’t want to say anything that you think will upset the grieving person, but the truth is: They Are Upset. So, showing that you feel for them, acknowledge the loss and allow them to be sad is a good thing. There are neighbours who knew my mother well, liked her, know me, but whose eyes side-slide me. I know they are embarrassed, and I want to say, it’s okay, you can say the unmentionable. My mother died.
On the other hand there are others who could not be more supportive. Some of these are people I don’t know well. Alternatively, others are my very close friends and those who have also had a parent who has died. An example of the first is the regular postman. Yesterday he stopped me in the street and said how shocked and sorry he was to hear that mum had died. It was the first time I’d seen him since. He reminded me that he was there when the ambulance came to take us to A&E the day before she died. Such a kind and thoughtful man, who really only knew my mother – and me – from delivering our post. It made my eyes prickle with tears, but also made me smile with love. So, it’s not a bad thing to do.
Someone who is a very close and dear friend of several decades warned me of this reluctance to acknowledge your loss – as if it were catching. He also said that 32 months after his mother died, he can still see something that makes him want to cry. Then another close friend whose mother died over a year ago, rings me constantly to check, and knew that Mother’s Day would be an issue. They say the ‘firsts’ are the most difficult. But alongside the grief and pain, I have happy memories, treasured thoughts and knowledge of the power of my mother’s love. Not just for her children and family, but for so many others. But those stories are for another post. Below is a photo of mum in 2012 when she was 91 and she and I travelled together to Toronto for the wedding of one of her grandsons. She looks so radiant. I was afraid of her making yet another transatlantic journey at her age and tried to stop her. I’m so glad she would hear none of it! ‘Over my dead body will anyone stop me from seeing my grandson get married.’ Those were her words to me.
This is a Blog tells the story of my feelings about losing my mother very suddenly to an unexpected death in January 2014. I don’t know if my thoughts and feelings will resonate with anyone, but they are mine. I don’t want the blog to be too sad and gloomy. Mum was full of life and vivacity and was always smiling. She loved life and loved people. I want those sentiments to shine through. But I hope you’ll understand that I miss her dreadfully and so sometimes it will be sad, but stick with it. There will be smiles. Speaking of smile, that was one of her favourite songs.
Life after mum – learning to cope
It’s now two months and 6 days since mum suddenly upped and died. I don’t know which stage of the five-step grief process I’m in, but I suspect it is going to last for a long time. I think my mind has done a bit of a loop. First was total shock, then numbness as I organised the funeral, then overwhelming sadness and sense of loss. But now I’m back to shock and disbelief.
I suppose for anyone stumbling across this Blog, I need to fill you in with a few details. I don’t mean this to be a morbid blog, nor one that reduces people to tears. But I suppose it is about losing my mum, so it’s going to have sadness. But I also want to have some light and smiles. After all, that was the kind of person she was – always smiling, as the photo shows. I haven’t mentioned this Blog idea to any of my 3 siblings. Maybe they will have an issue – we’re a kind of ‘keep-things-private-family’, but they are my feelings, and my memories. Maybe there will be some catharsis for me in writing them. I also hope that anyone else who is going through/gone though a similar grief will find some comfort and maybe want to share some of their own feelings on these pages.
But here is what happened. Okay, I know mum was old, she was 92 when she died on January 31, and would have been 93 on April 25 2014, BUT, she was so full of life and nobody would ever have known this was her age. Mum lived with me for the past 8 years, so I saw her on a daily basis. She was planning to visit my sister in Luxembourg in the second week of February.
She’d been having a lot of pain in her spine and hip recently and we thought the pain was related to her osteoporosis or the old injury from when she fell a couple years ago and shattered her femur (but had a successful hip replacement). She’d been on a lot of pain medication, and increasingly since beginning of January. On Thursday, 30 January 2014 she was in so much pain that the physiotherapist thought she should be admitted to hospital for scans and pain management. They called an ambulance and Mum and I spent the day in A&E that day. She was admitted to the acute medical ward that evening. The following morning, I went to see her;she didn’t look great, was feeling sick, and still in pain. She was also dehydrated and on a drip. The doctors spoke to me about altering her pain medication and probably transferring her to a different ward after the weekend, where she could have some rehab and physio before being discharged – probably at the end of that week. But in the meantime, they would do some CT scans that afternoon. The hospital pharmacist came to see me to ask me to get her local pharmacist to call him to discuss the changed medication.
So despite her looking ill and seeming agitated, which were unusual, I assumed there was nothing life-threatening. I told mum that I’d pop home to make her some soup to bring back later. Lunch had looked disgusting and she said it was tasteless. So, I though I’d make one of her favourites – split pea and ham soup . Furthermore, my sister was due from Luxembourg to visit that afternoon and was going straight to the hospital from the airport. So I thought they could have a few moments alone together.
Before I could finish making the soup, I got a call from the hospital telling me to come immediately as my mother was gravely ill. I knew that could only mean one thing – she was dying. For a moment, I was frozen on the spot, then started screaming. Nothing made sense. They’d taken her for CT scans, returned to the ward and she vomited. How could someone die from that?
I rushed back to see her. It was pouring with rain; couldn’t get a taxi immediately, but luckily my husband arrived back from a meeting and drove me there. Only ten minutes away. But ten minutes too late. I rushed to her bed to find my sister, but not mum. At least not the mum I’d left a few hours earlier. She’d died a few minutes before I got there. Her body was lying on the bed, as if sleeping, but she had left it behind. She’d gone where I couldn’t follow. She’d gone where no words could reach her. No more wondrous stories or megawatt smiles from her.
I couldn’t even say goodbye. Little did I know that my farewell to her, was me saying: “I’ll see you later.” However I have the comfort of the memory of mum cradling my head between her hands, then kissing my fingers before she blew me a kiss as I left. If I’d known, I would have caught that kiss and zipped it in my pocket forever, instead of letting it brush me casually. It was if she’d left in the middle of a conversation. I wanted to scream, “We haven’t finished!” But that was not my call.
Losing my mum to death 