Last February, I wrote about how I
felt one month after my Mum had died. This week it will be a year since she
left us and feelings are still surprising, still whirring away inside like
computer programmes that cannot be closed down. This is what I wrote after a
month followed by some remarks now that a year has gone by.
18th February 2018
Today marks
the first monthiversary of my Mum’s
death and it has been the longest month of my life. I guess I’m lucky to have
reached the grand old age of 60 before getting my first close-up taste of grief
and receiving the unwanted title of Chief Mourner, along with my brother. Our Dad died from cancer 26 years ago at the age of
59 which in itself was tragic and yes, I mourned – I can remember locking
myself in my bedroom for three days and crying - but life with a husband, a business and three primary school-aged children went
hurtling on and my spare energies were directed at my Mum in her greater grief
so my ‘lesser grief’ took a back seat. This time it was right in my face.
Maybe there
is something more visceral about losing one’s mother? Or maybe it’s the loss of
the second parent, leaving one orphaned and moving up in the pecking order that
hits hardest? For me and my brother, this time death also means the clearing
and sale of the family home of 50 years along with executor duties.
At first we
were busy with a round of meetings where we repeated the same information over
and again – the date she died, her birth date, the dates of her two marriages
and details about ourselves, furnishing it with ID, hastily found in old files.
We sat like lost children in front of cool customer-servers who treated us as
ordinary everyday punters and not the extraordinary people we felt ourselves to
be in our bubble of grief and bewilderment. And we sat with kinder people, like
the funeral director and the vicar, who treated us with gentle respect and
showed interest in photos of my Mum that I showed them on my phone.
I was
surprised to find myself dry-eyed, loud and decisive; over-playing my big
sister role in a blunt, no-nonsense sort of way. Abandoning my Piscean
diffidence for swift decision-making I chose the coffin, ‘Rosewood. Look around
you, all her furniture is dark wood’, the flowers, ‘She loved white lilies and
her favourite colour was red so we’ll have red roses… oh, and Lily of the
Valley because she carried some down the aisle to marry my Dad.’ And music
‘Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini because she wanted it to walk
into the register office when she re-married and they played the wrong track
and she was fuming, so we’ll get it right for her.’ I even found myself being assertive in restaurants,
loudly getting my order in first when the waiter arrived at the table instead
of politely hanging back or dithering over my choices.
I faced off
the registrar who offered us no pleasantries or condolences when we turned up
for our appointment to register the death of our beloved mother. She was a
young woman who treated us like small children with her opening gambit of ‘Have
you brought the documents?’ ‘What documents?’ we replied. ‘The documents’, she
replied as if talking to half-wits. We hadn’t because we were new to this and nobody
had told us we were meant to bring Mum’s birth certificate to register her
death. ‘So that you don’t give us wrong information because it will cost you a
lot of money to change anything later’, she barked like a narky headmistress. Then
gave us a lecture about our mother having had the temerity to be known by her
middle name and woe betide us if she’d ever reversed her two forenames on any
paperwork and scolded me for having a surname she had never heard of! I was
livid and went into Ice Queen mode to cope with her for the rest of the meeting
then stalked out to demand a feedback form from a bemused receptionist, where I
suggested further training was required.
Am I wrong
in thinking that professionals whose job it is to deal with the bereaved should
have a better bedside manner? For whatever reason, grief had propelled me into a blunt, assertive mood and I, as an actor and former
teacher, am used to dealing with people. But what if I’d been a timid type in tears?
There was a
variety of responses to the phone calls I had to make … from the private health
clinic, where Mum regularly saw three consultants, who just asked for her name and
DOB, confirmed she had no pending appointments and bid me farewell - to the chiropodist who responded to my
voicemail by calling back to tell me how sorry they were and that Mum had been
‘quite a character’ and made them laugh.
Of course
kindness can jolt us to tears and that is a good thing but, more often, I found
myself irritated. By the acquaintance I bumped into the day she had commented
on my grief-stricken Facebook status and asked me ‘How’s life been treating
you?’ before retreating into ‘Well, apart from … you know?’ By the well-meaning
Christian who told me my Mum’s death was ‘God’s will’. By the hairdressing
apprentice, who knew the situation, and asked me if I’d done anything nice that
week and when I gently reminded her that my Mum had died that week, followed it
up with ‘Are you doing anything nice this weekend?’ (Yes, I know they just have
stock questions?). By the friend who gushed and commiserated and asked me to
call round for a cuppa, then was out when I did. By the church-goer who offered me a
coffee date and forgot to confirm a time. By the people who commiserated by
narrating their own remembered grief or current unrelated problems; by people
offering advice and telling me what to do and not to do. I know it’s hard. I’ve never
known what to say to bereaved people in the past and I’m not sure I’m any
better equipped now because one person’s comfort is another’s irritation. In
the end just being there, even silently, can be enough. Certainly better than
being ignored like I was by one relative, who told me, ‘I was just giving you
space.’
I would stop
myself crying in public places so as not to look like a nutter or while driving
on the motorway so as not to cause a multiple pile-up, then, when I finally got
the house to myself, I couldn’t cry. It was perverse and emotionally
constipated and (TMI) I was also actually
constipated in the first two weeks with stomach pains like childbirth. I
certainly hadn’t expected that. Neither had I expected anger in the way I
experienced it. Yes, I had read that anger was part of the grieving process,
but I thought it would be anger at God, the Universe or the Deceased for
leaving. Not that it could be aimed at anyone – my husband for not knowing
telepathically exactly how I felt and what to say and do to make it all better,
friends for posting about their lives on Facebook as if my world had not tilted
on its axis. It’s true what they say ‘life goes on.’
Today
Now that I
face the first anniversary of my mother’s death, several months after the
estate has been wound up, the family home sold and all the paperwork filed
away, I can reflect on how it was and how it still is. I remember that I became totally absorbed in my own little bubble of grief, not knowing what’s
going on in the world. And yet excursions into normality, such as getting new
headshots done, offered welcome respite.
I found that
talking helped. And also that it didn’t. It was tiring explaining it all, going
through it again and again; to my friends and acquaintances and to the bemused
friends of my mother who hadn’t realised she was quite that ill. And I couldn’t
always articulate what I felt. I just FELT it in my body and that was that. No
rhyme or reason.
I found my comforts,
the obvious one being food, and I released the brakes on my normal eating
habits, allowing cheesecake and huge bags of kettle chips. I now have an extra 14 pounds
to shift! I sought refuge in TV, watching boxed sets and even whole drama and
comedy seasons I had already seen. I became obsessed with The Chase, which my mum had watched every day while I had mildly
disapproved of daytime TV. Even now, if I am home at 5pm, I curl up on the sofa
to watch it, though I now forego the Bombay Mix and prosecco I used to snack on
while I murmured (or yelled) my answers at the TV.
I burrowed
in extra blankets and sometimes had more sleep than usual, sometimes much less.
I distracted myself with friends, walking, acting jobs, massages and
grandchildren who are full of joy and energy and leave no headspace for moping.
I felt guilty
for coping and guilty for not coping. Guilty for not having done enough for her
when she was alive, then chastised myself because you can’t change the past. I
forgot appointments or turned up in the wrong week. I began re-evaluating everything
– my life, my marriage, my acting career, possible retirement plans, friendships,
travel and financial investments I could now make with my inheritance.
And like
investments, I found that emotions can go up and down and there is no warning. I became more aware of my own
mortality. I had moved up a rung to become the family matriarch, which my
children love to joke about and call me The Queen. Touchingly, they have also
moved up a rung and offer their care and concern to me. I am certainly more aware
of ‘Time’s winged chariot’ now and the necessity to carpe the diem more than
ever. This first anniversary is harder than I thought it would be, after all, it's just another day without her. But ... maybe memories are stirred, physical emotions revived? It's not comfortable, but it will pass. And no doubt return.
