Filed under: Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Charinee, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Empathy, Experience, Family, Fatherhood, Health, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad
So this is the last post of this year.
Yes, I know it’s only the 11th December, but frankly, I can’t wait to see the back of 2015 and I need to spend a few weeks letting out all the angst of the past 12 months so I can start 2016 as I mean to go on.
It’s no exaggeration to say this has been one of the worst years of my life.
Of course, the main reason for that is my wonderful mum passed away.
Having a parent die is always going to be tough … but when that parent is so full of life and – after her operation – expected to blossom, it makes it especially hard.
Alas, things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to and the events of that day on March 9th, still haunt me.
The high hopes.
The precious time together.
The slow, almost torturous, delay in being told any news.
The creeping fear of what may be happening.
The battle between hope and devastation.
The realisation of tragedy.
The hell of loss.
That 5 weeks in England seems like another time. Involving other people.
Recently, I was sent a new credit card from my bank in Australia.
When I opened the envelope, there were 2 cards.
One with my name on it. One with my Mum’s.
I’d forgotten I had given her a supplementary card. Not that she ever used it – getting her to take anything from me was always a struggle – but there it was, with her name embossed on the front.
It affected me deeply.
It was something precious and sad all at the same time.
Despite having organised so many things following her death … things that honoured her legacy, respected her beliefs and gave me a sense of peace for the future … I still feel I haven’t truly grieved.
I need to. I want to. But I’m also scared to.
It took me 10 years to come to terms with my Dad’s loss.
He – nor my Mum – would not want me to experience that duration of pain again, but I feel haunted by her loss … reinforced by the numerous beautiful things my son does that I wish she could see, experience and share. But the fact is she died this year and it casts a dark shadow on how I will look at 2015 for the rest of my life.
But there is a but.
Despite living each day carrying a burden of loss and sadness, there have been moments of sunshine pushing through the clouds.
I find it amazing how the human spirit can still move forwards when you feel everything around you is collapsing.
At first, I almost felt guilty when there were things that I found filled me with joy – as if I was dishonouring my Mum – but I knew in my heart of hearts, it would be something she would want for me.
Despite the utter tragic reasons for it, one of the things I treasure from this year is that I got to spend 5 uninterrupted weeks with my wife and son and my best friend and his wife.
To have that period of time to spend with the most important people in your life is always a gift … to have it at your greatest time of need is almost divine intervention.
To be together – just hanging out – sharing, talking and being an active part of each others lives was something I will always treasure.
By having it … by feeling connected to it … it highlighted how much I miss that interaction. Don’t get me wrong, I utterly love my life and the fact I have lived around the World … but being able to just drive over to my best friends house with my family and just hang was something I feel I’ve not had for 20 years. I felt I belonged. That I was home. That I had come full circle.
And maybe that is why another of my favourite things from 2015 is when Shelly, Paul’s utterly awesome wife – and Otis’ “oddmother” [because we are not religious] – came to visit us in Shanghai.
She was only with us for 2 days, but being together reinforced how much I love her and Paul being close.
It’s brought up a lot of questions for me, things I don’t have the answers to yet … but I feel so lucky that they are in my life.
Talking of ‘in my life’ … another thing my Mum’s passing did was reconnect me to her family.
We were always a relatively ‘independent group’ … my Mum, Dad and me.
That doesn’t mean we had issues with the broader family, just we loved our independence.
But Mum’s passing brought them all into my life again, especially her Italian family … and reconnecting created a connection we have all embraced and nurtured and it feels good.
I cannot tell you how happy I am that Mum’s beloved sister, Silvana, got to hold Otis.
If my Mum tragically didn’t get to do it, I’m so, so glad her sister did.
And then there’s the other stuff that made sure there was a silver lining in a dark year …
Seeing members of my team reach new stages in their life and career … getting one of my colleagues to have a perm … somehow being recognised for being OK at what I do [not to mention, what I don’t do] … finally passing my teacher exams AFTER FIVE BLOODY YEARS … being given a level of support and compassion that reminded me just how special Wieden truly is … meeting old friends, travelling, laughing, feeling loved and cared for by people that stretched much further than I knew or deserved.
And that includes everyone of you who reads or even insults me on this blog.
But there’s 3 people that made sure this year had moments of happiness in them that transcend everyone and everything else.
Without taking anything away from all the people who helped ensure this year was not be as black as it could – or should – have been, those 3 protected, loved and cared for me during every bump in the road.
The big ones and the small.
From the worst moments of my Mum passing … to the hell of the legalities that death forces you to deal with … to the sadness of other situations occurring involving people I care about.
OK, so Rosie did it by being annoying.
Regardless how down I was feeling or sorry for myself, she would miaow as if she was the only one having a hard time.
And while I would never want to tell her this, her selfishness was kind-of lovely. It forced me out of my darkness to sort her out. It gave my brain an excuse to focus on something else.
The other person is my wonderful wife, Jill.
I have no idea – no idea at all – what I have done to deserve her, but I am so glad I managed to convince her I was worth having.
Her compassion, care and love got me through moments where I wonder how I’d cope without her. That may sound dramatic, but it’s true.
She makes me a better person. She makes the darkest days brighter and I can never thank her enough or show my love to her enough for what she means to me.
Thanks Jilly, you’re perfect.
And the last person is of course Otis.
12 months ago today, this little bundle of perfect came into the World.
Yes, my son is a year old.
Today.
A year old. Today.
That is bloody amazing.
[When you’re older Otis, click here for a birthday message]
A year ago, I literally had no idea what to expect … I was a mixture of nerves, fears and anticipation.
Nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared me [or should I say, would make me believe] for the joy this little boy has brought into my life.
Watching him grow has been one of the most beautiful and wonderful things I have ever experienced.
He has done far more for me than I have done for him.
He has made me feel a sense of pride and happiness I didn’t know existed.
Literally didn’t know.
He has shown me that the wonderful woman I married, is even more wonderful than I imagined.
He has made Rosie – that selfish, self-centred, pampered moggy – start to be a little bit gracious.
Sure, it’s only to him, but that’s a start.
He gave my Mum an energy and happiness that literally radiated out from her.
She sadly may never have got to meet him in the flesh, but he ensured the last 3 months of her life were filled with joy and pride.
For that alone, I can never thank him enough, but he did even more than that.
At my greatest time of need, he ensured I didn’t fall.
From giving me the most infectious smiles imaginable to the most delightfully inappropriate behaviour at the most inappropriately appropriate times … he made sure I always had hope and love to cling on to.
He has been a revelation.
I am so proud and honoured to be his Dad and I hope I can repay him for everything he has done for me in his first 12 months of life.
[Let’s face it, I probably can and will … especially if he starts developing the same tech tendencies as his old man]
OK … that has been a super long post.
Few – if any – will have probably read all of it, but this was done more for me than any of you, so I don’t care.
All that leaves me to do is say this.
To my beloved son, Otis … happy, happy birthday.
You are perfect in every single way.
Literally, every single way.
I am a better man for having you in my life.
Thank you my darling son, I love you so, so much.
To everyone else … every single one of you who was gracious and kind enough to care and be part of my year this year … I wish you a Happy, Happy Christmas.
Whether you gave me hugs, laughter or just a well-timed message, your actions meant more to me than you could ever imagine and I wish I could see you all in person so I could return the gesture.
I’m so grateful for all you did for me and I wish each and every one of you, nothing but happiness and the hope that 2016 is a stellar year in your life.
We all deserve it and I need it.
Have fun and make sure you tell everyone who needs to know, that you love them.
See you January.
So today, after over a month in the UK, we fly back to China.
It has been one of the worst months of my life.
Saying goodbye to my childhood home.
Packing – and throwing – away 44 years of my history.
I won’t lie, it’s been incredibly tough and I don’t think I’m anywhere near getting through it.
Part of that is because I’ve been so preoccupied with doing things like organising the funeral, sorting out my Mum’s legal matters and finding builders and decorators for the house, that it’s felt like I’ve had another full time job.
But now I am heading back to my ‘normality’ and I have to be honest, I’m scared.
I’m scared how I will feel now the distractions are over.
Sure, there will be other things to occupy my mind, but they won’t be like what I went through in Nottingham.
The things I had to do there was stuff that had to be done … demanded to be done … and given they all had a time limit for completion, it meant every waking moment was focused on specific tasks and objectives. However from here on in, everything is – to a large extent – optional and so my mind will be allowed to wander, reminisce, consider … and I’m worried where that will take me.
I got a taste of where I could be taken as I walked around the house for the final time.
Checking all the windows.
Closing all the doors.
Turning off all the radiators.
As I went from room to room, I heard myself saying goodbye.
Not just to the room or the house … but to the things, memories and people who once resided there.
Of course part of this is because it’s only 4 weeks since my Mum lived in this house.
Only 4 weeks since my childhood lived in this home.
But now it’s all gone and I’m finding it almost impossible to believe.
Yesterday I read all the posts I have written relating to this terribly sad time in my life … and while some things brought back jolts of painful memories and some, admittedly, also reminded me how fortunate I am, I had to often remind myself I was reading about my life, not someone else’s.
Deep, deep down, I feel I am in a dream and soon I’ll wake up and head to the hospital where I will see my beautiful Mum smiling as I walk into her ward. It’s mad. But I do. I just can’t quite accept it and that’s why I’m so nervous about how I will be once I get back to China.
Of course the fact is that while I’m leaving, the house remains.
From Monday people will be in it … fixing it … painting it … loving it.
And then a totally new family will be there.
Creating their own memories and experiences in each of the rooms.
But even if they lived there 1000 years, that house will still feel mine. Not just because I still own it, but in the sense its where my family came together and where my parents ashes are scattered.
I am eternally grateful to everyone who has been there for me, whether it’s in person or via messages.
I am also eternally grateful I was surrounded by my beloved wife and child and my closest friends.
The difference Otis made in particular, was astounding.
A constantly happy little chap who has the ability to be incredibly inappropriate at the most inappropriate time is a blessing in disguise as he ensures the darkness of grief can never fully take you away.
Being able to spend 5 weeks so close to him has been – in some ways – a gift and I should be grateful to my Mum for making it happen.
But I still wish she hadn’t.
I still think the sacrifice she made to make that happen was too big.
My life as an adult, in some ways, starts now … so it’s kind of ironic I feel more of a vulnerable child than I have in years and years and years.
Losing both parents is a strange sensation.
It feels like you are totally on your own. Abandoned. Left to fight your own battles.
Of course, compared to people who have really gone through that, I accept it’s nothing of the sort – but that’s how it feels and it’s both sad and unsettling, even though I came across a card my Dad wrote to my Mum on the day I was born that reiterated to me how much I was loved and wanted.
So as I get in the car to drive to the airport to fly to my ‘other life’, all I can say is goodbye Mum, house, childhood … you were amazing in every way possible and I’ll never forget you or be grateful for you or wish we could do it all again.
Miss you. Treasure you. Love you.
Rx
So the last few weeks have been a bit of a blur.
In some ways it seems like my Mum died only a day or so ago and in other ways, it seems like months have passed.
I’ve come to the conclusion that all the legalities you have to go through when a loved one dies is really there to allow your brain to be preoccupied with paperwork and phone calls so your grief can be diluted and you can start coping with your loss.
But it’s a false sense of coping because along the way you encounter little emotional bombs that bring it all flooding back.
I’m not talking about the things like picking up her belongings from the hospital or washing her clothes – especially the ones you saw her wear in the hospital – or organising the funeral, you know that’s going to hurt, I’m talking about the things that catch you off guard.
For me, night times have been the worst.
When my wife and child sleep, my grief awakens. With nothing to occupy it, my brain goes into that dangerous area of remembering every detail of Mum’s final 48 hours … every word of the surgeons explanation … every conversation we didnt have … forcing me to face the unbelievable reality my dear Mum has died.
But there’s other moments where the rawness of grief gets opened up. Moments that seem almost insignificant at first glance, but end up ramming home the horror of the situation you are living through.
One of them has been organising our home phone number to be switched off.
Yes, I know it is just a phone number but it has been synonymous with my life, my parents and my home for over 44 years.
6 little digits [which became 7 when the telephone exchange was running out of numbers] that in some way, represent my history.
I know … I know … I am a sentimental fool, but to end my relationship with those numbers feels, in some way, that I am ending my relationship with my history and childhood.
I must admit I did try and “buy” the number – offering to either pay to keep it or pay to have it retired – but the phone company told me I couldn’t, and they wouldn’t, do it.
In some ways that’s good. It means I can not be held back by grief – as I let myself when my Dad died – but it’s hard. To be honest, if I had my way, I would have preferred to hire a security guard to stand outside my childhood home so I could keep it exactly as it is but in-keeping with the spirit and values my parents tried to instill in me, I’m having it refurbished so I can help a family move into an area that, like my parents did for me, can give their children a better chance in life.
It will get harder.
Next Tuesday all the furniture is taken out.
Every little thing.
Some of it if going to a storage facility so we can collect it when we’ve decided where we’re going to settle down but most is going to charity.
All the furniture.
All the trinkets.
All the thousands of books.
Even though the house will stay mine [and the deal with the family we’re renting to is the gardens, my parents passion, must be maintained as they are] the fact is everything is about to change which is why next Monday night – the day before the emptying – my best friend Paul and his wife will come over for dinner to say goodbye to the old [something he was inherently part of] and hello to the beginning of the next chapter.
But then there are moments that fall into a totally different catagory … moments that trip you up because you didn’t even know they existed.
In these cases, they are specifically related to the life you had with your parents rather than the home you all lived together in.
These are moments where you discover a side to your parents you didn’t know.
Now I appreciate this has the potential to be a bad thing but in my case, it was something both beautiful and sad.
As we were going through all the papers and the photographs, we discovered all manner of things.
Every photograph they ever took of me, them and us.
Every Mothers and Father’s Day card I ever gave them.
All the messages my Mum received when Dad died.
And while it was amazing to see them – as well as see how much Otis looks like I did as a kid [see above] there were 3 things in particular that set my emotions over the edge.
Two were love letters written between my parents.
One from my Mum. One from my Dad.
They were written in early 1964 – before they were married and well before I came on the scene – and in them, you see all the love and compassion they had for each other.
Of course I knew this because I saw it every day I was living with them … but this was different. This was when they were young. When they had less responsibilities. When they didn’t know what the future held but were excited by the possibilities. This was something I never saw and it was beautiful and precious.
My Dad told my Mum that the last 12 months were a beautiful time for him. That finding someone to love and have them love him was all he ever needed.
My Mum responded with excitement about how their life would be together and how she was grateful my Dad had found them a flat with a working fireplace in it as it would be cosy in winter and would keep them warm.
It was achingly beautiful and utterly touching.
And then I found a card.
It was something my Dad sent my Mum on the day I was born.
This is what he wrote:
I always knew I was loved and wanted by my parents but this revealed just how lucky I was to have my Mum and Dad.
To see this. To have a chance to glimpse into a time before I was around felt like a gift.
Part of me wanted to keep these things but they were not mine to keep. They belonged to my Mum and they will go with her and I just feel incredibly fortunate to have been able to see them and re-experience the love that lived amongst them and us all.
Don’t get me wrong, we went through some tough and challenging times – we certainly weren’t the Brady Bunch – but through it all was the certainty that we belonged together and valued that above all else.
The other thing that is interesting is the loss of my Mum has reawoken the loss of my Dad.
A friend of his – who I haven’t seen for 30+ years – came to see me last weekend to pay his respects to Mum.
It was wonderful to see him but as he sat in the chair that my Mum sat in – and my Dad before her – I couldn’t help notice how similar his eyes looked to my Dad.
It was strange. It was like he was back and when I reminded myself he couldn’t be, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me.
I wasn’t the only one who felt that.
Paul – my best friend – was with me and when my Dad’s friend left, he told me how much he had reminded him of my Dad … which might help explain why I felt such an overwhelming need to spend the last few days arranging my parents names to be honoured on flowers, plaques and park benches around the community where they lived.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that for all the pain and sadness I’ve experienced in the last 14+ days – accepting there have been some moments of heart-warming love – the fact is it means I truly loved my Mum [and Dad] and while I know they wouldn’t want me to feel pain and sadness I’m going through, it’s the greatest compliment I can give them.
On Friday it will be Mum’s funeral.
It will be hard but it represents another stage of the grieving process.
The sadness of goodbye.
The celebration of an amazing person.
I’m going to be a bloody mess.
I am sitting in my Mum’s house. I say ‘Mum’s’, but really it is now mine. But I don’t want to think of it that way, at least not yet.
A lot has happened in the past week and I have already entered the horrible cycle of comparison.
It started yesterday, as it was a week to the day that my Mum had her last full day alive.
And now we have today … the first week anniversary of her death.
I’ve been awake reliving every moment of 7 days ago.
How I got woken up by a phonecall from some random Chinese number at 1am.
How I got up at 5am to ensure I was at the hospital in time.
How I stopped for a McDonald’s breakfast as I was going to get to the hospital too early and they wouldn’t let me in.
How my Mum said, “I heard your voice talking to the nurses as you came in, it’s so nice to hear it” as I walked up to her bed at 6:45am.
How she told the surgeon “she was a bit anxious” when he came to see her.
How we had a wonderful chat about so many things.
How she saw her grandson on Wechat video chat.
How she said the hairdryer she’d been given was so powerful.
How the hospital orderlies came to get her at 11am.
How I walked with her to the operating theatre.
How I cried as she was wheeled through the doors.
How I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Till I got the news around 6pm.
Things had gone well, but there had been “a complication” in which her heart leaked in a place they hadn’t touched and required 4 bags of blood and the surgeons steady hand to get it back under control.
How I was taken to her around 6:20pm and saw her attached to a multitude of machines.
How I spoke to her and held her hand even though she was heavily sedated.
How one of the machines started bleeping at around 6:40pm – which was the exact moment I was told I should go home and get some sleep because Mum was going to stay sedated till the morning.
How I said I was staying and rang my wife to say how scared I was.
How a nurse told me to just go to the waiting room while they “sorted Mum out”.
How the same nurse came and visited me to explaim they originally thought the bleeping was a loose connection but it was actually because my Mum’s heart had stopped and they were going to reopen her frail, little frame to see if there had been another leak.
How my best friend arrived and I fell into his arms and cried because I knew the truth.
How I held my fist to my mouth as a surgeon and nurse came to confirm the worst possible news imaginable at 7:12pm.
How everything changed forever.
In that 7 days, I have been trying to grapple between grieving and sorting things out.
I’ve been blessed with incredible support and acts of friendship but there are still so many things to do … legal things, emotional things, irrational things … all underpinned by my desire to make sure I honour my Mum in the best way possible.
And while I only have a limited amount of time to do it all, I find myself with 20 minutes to myself.
Alone.
Quiet.
Not ‘Shanghai quiet’ … but true silence with only the faint sound of the radiators churning out heat, the gentle snoring of my son fast asleep and the odd bird chirping for company.
And this gives me the time to express what I’d really like to say to my Mum.
Because as much as I am gut wrenchingly sad, I am also incredibly sorry.
I’m sorry this operation didn’t work.
I’m sorry you didn’t get the new lease of life you deserved.
I’m sorry you didn’t get to hold your grandson in your arms.
I know the operation had to be done. I know if it hadn’t, your life would have been made slowly worse, but I’m still so, so, so, so sorry it didn’t work out for you Mum.
I know you had your suspicions, despite being told you were the ‘perfect candidate’ for the operation.
Finding you had re-done your will, written down all your commitments and put aside all your favourite verses for me to find, tells me that.
And I am grateful to you.
What you did shows you didn’t want me to have to contend with the complexities of death. It shows a level of love I can’t even comprehend … but it also shows me you were anxious and while that makes perfect sense, I am so sorry you had to contend with that as well.
You were – and are – an amazing, inspirational person.
I cannot tell you how much I am going to miss you.
The pain of your loss is incredible and will not be something that fades anytime soon. I know you wouldn’t want me to feel this way, but I would respond by saying it would be horrible if I didn’t feel such sadness.
I am just so, so, grateful I was there, you knew I was there and you didn’t suffer. If there is anything good I can take away from the painfully dark day, it’s that.
There is one last thing you should know.
We moved into the house on Saturday.
I use ‘moved in’ very specifically because while we will be moving back to Shanghai in a few weeks, we wanted the final chapter of our home to be one of family.
I know how much you wanted to hold Otis in your arms and while we didn’t manage to make that happen, the fact we are all here – living as a family – is something, I hope, you would love.
We’ve taken Otis all around the house and told him various stories about what went on here. We’ve shown him photos and paintings and even put him in your bed for a moment so I could feel you were giving him the cuddle you so desperately wanted to give him.
We’re all sleeping in my old bedroom – the one you recently redecorated because you wanted it to be “just right” – and it’s lovely.
We’ve turned the top of one of my Marshall amps into a change table. We’ve bought a special contraption to make sure Otis can’t fall out the bed and we’ve filled the fridge with food. It’s wonderful.
I cannot tell you the amount of times I’ve said to Jill how much you would have loved to see this scene. And while that makes me feel incredibly sad, I can tell you that a 3 month old baby smiling and gurgling is the best way to lift the cloud of darkness.
He might be small, but he is literally filling the house with happiness and life and I know that would please you immensely.
We would have moved in sooner, but Angelo was fixing the new central heating I’d ordered so the house was a mess all last week.
The good news is he finished on time [surprise, surprise] and the house is warm and wonderful. The bad news is the [new] shower now doesn’t work so you were right when you said that “sometimes he is a bit sloppy”.
Oh Mum, I miss you so much and the next few weeks will be one of even greater turmoil but I promise you I will do everything I can to honour your views and beliefs.
I will always be eternally grateful for everything you showed me, gave me and said to me … you were and will continue to be, an enormous influence in my life and I will ensure Otis always knows how much he was adored by you.
If there is anything beautiful to come out of all this, it’s that you have given me 5 uninterupted weeks with my son … a chance to spend every minute with him while surrounded by the people I love. That is a wonderful gift and I will remember it and treasure it forever.
I love you my dear Mum.
Thank you for everything.
Especially the love.
Rx
Filed under: Comment, Death, Family, Mum, Mum & Dad
So today it is a year.
A year where, for me, time stopped.
A year from the day that started with high hopes but ended with despair and loneliness.
A year where I saw the best of humanity and the worst of emotions. Again.
Today I will relive those fateful final hours with my beloved Mum over and over.
I will remember the beautiful hours we shared talking about life and love … how I watched her smile as she looked at a video of my son … how she wanted a hair dryer so she could wash her hair before her operation.
I will remember it all in a bid to delay remembering the final hours.
Where I was looking for answers that weren’t forthcoming.
Where concern and fears slowly crept up on me.
Where I slowly realised things were not going as planned.
How I finally got to sit next to my Mum after her operation and despite her being totally sedated, I told her how much I loved her and willed her to get better.
Before things took their final turn.
And I was sent to wait in a room while they “checked things”.
Where I waited nervously with my wonderful friends Paul and Shelly who came to be my side … before I saw a DR and Nurse approach the room.
Who asked me to follow them and took me into a room opposite.
I knew what was coming …
As they spoke, I realised I was trying to hide behind my clenched fist. Ridiculous I know … but I was scared about the words they were going to say, even though I knew they were inevitable.
That moment it all became real and everything changed.
And yet, I still remembered to thank the Doctor and Nurse for everything they did.
The things that happened that night will stay with me forever.
At my lowest point, I still remembered the manners my Mum taught me … that she would want me to convey and express.
As I walked the short distance to see her, I didn’t know what to do.
Only 30 minutes had passed since I last saw her and yet now everything was different.
She looked serene, but I knew she wasn’t sleeping.
I felt frozen inside.
I wanted to reach out … to hug her … and yet I felt scared to do it.
I know that sounds crazy, but that’s how I felt.
So instead I kissed her on the forehead and gently stroked her cheek before sitting next to her and cried and cried and cried.
I wanted to try and be dignified – Mum hated being the centre of attention – so I held her hand and told her how wonderful she was … how grateful I was to have her as my Mum … how I will ensure Otis will always know who she was and how much she loved him … how I would do all I could to honour her and make her proud … how I was so glad we were together and that we had shared such a wonderful time in the morning.
And yet all through of this, I couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to run away from the reality while feeling petrified to leave.
The moment I said goodbye … the moment I realised it was time to leave … it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to face.
I kept walking away only to come back. Afraid to leave. Afraid to give what had happened, validation.
From then on, everything has been a blur of emotion, confusion and challenge.
The things I needed to organise.
The jealousy I felt of seeing others with their Mums.
The decisions I didn’t want to make but had to.
The discovery Mum had been working in the background to try and make things easier for me should this terrible event actually happen.
In some ways, that is the ultimate demonstration of love … and yet I don’t like she did it because it meant she was thinking about that possibility and I never wanted her to be scared.
Since then, things have calmed down.
Things have been decided … acted upon … dealt with.
There’s still the odd moment of surprise, from receiving a credit card with her name on to – very recently – realising one of Mum’s friends doesn’t know what has happened and I’ve needed to write to notify them, but overall, thanks to doing things in the way I believe she would have liked, I feel I am slowly walking away from the shock and sadness of what happened a year ago today towards the love and memories of the previous 44 years together.
I still wish she was here.
I still wish that day, 12 months ago, had turned out differently.
I still wish she could have met Otis, her beloved grandson, ‘in the flesh’.
Everyday, when he does something wonderful [and it is every day] I wish I could ring her and tell her what he’s done … what he’s learnt.
To hear her voice … see her smile … just listen to her happiness.
But I can’t.
Instead, I think of her.
And feel lucky she was my Mum.
I miss you Mum.
I hope you’re with Dad, holding hands and laughing.
Rx