Daily Archives: April 11, 2014

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?Image  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

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.