A few days after my Mum died, I was in M&S to stock up on a few essentials for my Dad. Not looking where I was going, I had walked into it before I realized what it was: a large display of Mother’s Day cards between two aisles. I’d thought I was doing well, that day, ‘coping’, keeping busy: taking refuge in a long ‘to do’ list always helps, but when I saw those cards I stood quite still in the middle of the store, half-aware of other shoppers tutting and grumbling nearby, feeling as though a knife had been plunged into my stomach.
Mum looked askance at Mother’s Day anyhow, with her typical astuteness. ‘Mother’s Day. Does that mean that every other day is children’s day, then?’ I remember her asking when I was a child, when I proudly handed over the card I’d made in my primary school class. I felt defeated at the time, my badly-drawn card nothing like enough, the clumsy box tick of a special day inadequate. She preferred presents given on random occasions to those on days marked on the calendar – times I was shopping and got her a cheerful, stripy top because I knew she’d like it always meant more to her than meticulously planned presents at Christmas or on her birthday. In the last few years, Alzheimer’s robbed her of her sense of time, so when I brought her presents (including stripy tops), she didn’t quite grasp whether they were for an occasion or just because I thought she’d like them. On Mother’s Day two years ago, I gave her a large, soft, light brown teddy bear. I don’t think he has a name, but he was a favourite and faithful companion from the start, and brought her comfort right until the last hours of her life. He’s been adopted by my Dad now, and has become his new best friend. Maybe just that one time, I got the Mother’s Day thing right.
As a grown-up, I’ve always felt a bit funny about Mother’s Day too. I don’t talk about it much to anyone, but it does hurt that becoming a Mum myself did not work out. My life is so full and so busy that it’s not some kind of open wound, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t care. The people who know me best would probably say that I’m seldom lost for words, but when something really hurts me deeply, I take refuge either in changing the subject or in silence.
I haven’t been able to write anything since Mum’s health took its last decline. I mean, I’ve written thank you letters and cards, I’ve written to our solicitor, I’ve signed official forms, I’ve written detailed instructions for things to be done at work in my absence. But I haven’t written ‘properly’, despite the advice I’ve had that I might find writing about Mum therapeutic. On the day of the funeral, I suspect I may have come across as quiet, almost ‘absent’, as opposed to marvellously expressive of my grief. I certainly was completely ‘present’, taking in every detail to remember it forever. Some praised me for being strong: I didn’t feel strong at all. Mostly I was thinking how much I wanted to tell Mum about all the people who had come so far to her funeral – some had come the entire length of Ireland, one even from London – and all about how everybody looked, and how beautiful the flowers and singing were, how bright and glacially cold the weather was. I wanted to tell her about how one of her sisters had brought a pot of snowdrops from her garden in Dublin, to put on the grave. People tell me that she knows all these things I want to tell her. That I still can tell her things, still talk to her. I hope they’re right.
I’m writing this on International Women’s Day; it doesn’t, though, take a special day to remember special people. We should remember our inspirational role models, whether men or women, every day. We should remember the people we love and who matter to us all the time, not just when there’s a reminder on the calendar. When we feel stunned to silence, we should still remember that the words are there to help us say how we feel: even if it’s silent or half-heard, even if we don’t know whether the message can get through.
The snowdrops survived the eastern storms that swept across the hilltop graveyard, which overlooks the sea. I’ll add some more flowers on Mother’s Day; by then it will be almost exactly a month since Mum slipped away. If every other day is children’s day, I hope that, as her only child, I can get even a few things, and a few words, right as time goes on.
No comments:
Post a Comment