So 6 weeks today my beloved Mum died.
In those 42 days, so much has happened and yet, as I sit here – tapping this out on my computer – it feels like nothing has.
Coming back to China has been weird.
It’s like all the pain and sadness and trauma that happened in England happened to another person.
It’s like I am cocooned from the loss and I have to be honest, I don’t like feeling that at all.
I feel guilty.
Selfish.
My Mum was everything to me and yet in some ways, I feel like little has changed.
And yet everything has.
Everything.
I should point out that the reason for this attitude is not because I am a heartless bastard who doesn’t feel a deep sense of loss that my Mum has gone, it’s because I often forget she has.
I know that sounds incredible, but it’s true.
My ‘autopilot’ is like the last 42 days didn’t happen and everything is as it was.
I continually find myself thinking, “I have to tell Mum that”.
Or, “I’m just going to give her a ring”.
And then I remember I can’t … and my emotions kind of freeze.
I use the word ‘freeze’ specifically … because it’s like they don’t know what to do.
A slight nudge one way and I could break down into a mess of grief, a slight nudge the other and my brain might explode when the reality of the situation becomes clear to me.
Again.
My biggest fear is that I am constraining my grief.
I don’t think I am … part of the reason I wrote all those blog posts after my Mum died was to try and get my feelings out … but I might be.
And that would upset my Mum hugely because she knows I did that when my Dad died and that fucked me up for 10 years.
Seriously fucked me up.
But the fact is, living overseas when a loved one dies screws you up.
You don’t pass your old house every day.
You don’t pass the Church you held the funeral at every week.
You don’t see your family and friends every night.
It isolates you.
And while many may think this is a good thing – it helps you move on – I’m not so sure.
You’re left with turmoil deep inside you.
You feel torn between going one way or the other.
You have a sense that you need to change things to represent the deep change that has just gone on in your life.
I have to be honest, I’m going through this now.
I am literally fighting with myself about what to do next.
Part of me wants to run.
I want to take my wife, baby and cat and leave everything else behind.
Work. Planning. Home. China. England.
But the other part knows this is probably just part of the grieving process and some time and stability will help me feel ‘normal’ again … hence work, planning, home and China may be more important to me than they’ve ever been.
As you can tell, I’m feeling a bit helpless and conflicted right now and the thing I’m struggling with is wondering if I would feel this way if I was still in Nottingham.
Of course, seeing my Mum’s house every day would open up a whole different set of issues and emotions … but at least it would feel like I am letting my grief out. Right now, I feel everything has been frozen and placed in a room somewhere … waiting to be thawed out and trip me up all over again the next time I go home, whether for good or for a visit.
That scares me.
What scares me even more is that my little boy will one day go through this.
Hopefully he won’t feel as bad or as confused as I am, but the fact is he will go through it.
The irony is that a parent never wants their child to feel pain and yet, by the simple fact you become a parent, you know you will one day subject them to incredible sadness when you die.
It’s a horrible thought but it’s also the price you pay for becoming a parent.
So why do it?
Because frankly, being a parent is amazing.
It’s better than I could ever of hoped or expected.
Before Otis was born, I thought the best time would be when he was about 3 or 4 – when we could have chats and go on adventures – but I was wrong.
Every day is a brilliant day.
To be honest, it took me 4-5 weeks to really ‘bond’ with him.
Before that, I looked at him as this thing that I was responsible for … that I had to ensure I didn’t ‘fuck up’, but then, when he started gaining some personality traits, I felt an emotional connection to him like I’ve never felt before.
He is my little boy … someone I want to protect and show the World.
Someone who I get the honour of seeing learn and develop every day.
Someone who I will be excited to see make his way in the World.
When he smiles, everything is good.
When he smiles at me, everything is amazing.
Everything.
He single handedly helped me deal with my Mum’s death in a better way.
That is not to take anything away from Jill, my friends and all the wonderful people who reached out to me, but his innocence and happiness made sure the darkness could never get to dark.
I’ve heard the phrase, “the miracle of childbirth” millions of times.
I can honestly say that I didn’t really appreciate what it meant until I had Otis … and I’m not just talking about the day he was born, I’m also talking about everything he has done for me since he was born.
It’s every positive, wonderful and amazing thing rolled into one.
From tomorrow this blog will get back to normal.
By that I mean it will get back to the rubbish I normally spout.
Some of the posts will be even more out-of-date than usual because I wrote them prior to my Mum dying and have just recycled them … but I’ve decided that from here on in, I’ll be back focusing on expressing my ridicule rather than [just] my pain.
My Mum would want that too.
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
The house is now empty.
44 years of life removed in little over 5 hours.
It hasn’t been this exposed since 1971, when my parents bought it to be their family home.
We had a good send off on Monday night by having dinner with Paul and Shelly, but now we have entered the phase between history and future.
As I now walk around the familiar rooms, it seems like another place. From another time. From another life with only the beautiful gardens – that remain intact – reminding me this was a place where so many happy memories were created and cherished.
Soon everything will be renovated. The house will be given an injection of love and life from both the builders we have asked to undertake the project and the family we will be welcoming into the home.
And while that is wonderful and exciting, I can’t help be reminded of why this is all happening.
It’s only 3 weeks since my beloved Mum died and yet the World seems to have moved on at a frantic pace … only applying the brakes when the impossible-to-ignore takes place.
Her death.
Her funeral.
Collecting her ashes.
And even I am being swept along with the progression … consumed by the expectations and needs of the law, the time I have available to do everything and the desire I have to honour my Mum in the best way possible.
But every now and then, moments arrive where I am smashed in the face with the pain and sadness of her loss.
Of course things like her death, her funeral and collecting her ashes are natural spotlights of grief but it’s the other things that really bring home how much you miss her and how much she loved you.
Today, as we walked around the empty house, there were two rooms that reiterated all the love my Mum had for me.
Her bedroom looked tired. Old. In need of some love and care. Sure it has just had new heating which meant it was in need of some decoration and sure, a empty room always reveals the bumps and bruises of the years lived within, but this room felt almost desolate – with only the indentations where my Mum’s bed had once sat … where my Mum had once lay – to remind me it was once one of the most important rooms in my World.
Then I walked into my bedroom.
Sure she had just had it decorated in preparation for her grandsons visit. But even with everything removed, it looked clean. Fresh. Full of life.
The contrast between hers and mine could not have been more distinct and in that moment I saw how my wonderful Mum put me before her.
That is both a beautiful gift and incredibly sad.
Beautiful: because it means she loved me without limit. Sad: because she deserved – and I always wanted to give her – the best.
Today I brought her ashes home.
My beloved Mum now in a relatively small, tubular container.
I’ve been hugging it for ages. I can’t believe it’s her and yet at the same time it’s quietly comforting. Being able to put my arms around her. Being able to kiss it. Being able to just hold it close to me.
I miss her. I miss her so much.
I must admit there is a part of me who still thinks someone will come out soon and tell me it’s all a joke. A mean, horrible joke, but a joke all the same. But with each phase of death, I become more and more aware it’s not a joke, it’s real and the pain hits me all over again.
Of course there is a tragic irony that this is all happening on April Fools Day.
Not just because this is a day where silly jokes are supposed to happen, but it is a year to the day that we found out we were going to have Otis.
A year where so much has changed and happened.
A year where every good and bad thing that could happen, seems to have happened.
But back to the house.
With nothing now in it, we are now staying in a hotel. But I’m still coming in and driving past all the time. Part of that is because I am well aware I won’t be able to pop in or stay here any more. Part of that is because of what it means and represents to me.
This is the house where love lived.
This is the house where happiness resided.
This is the house where the memories and values that guide me were born.
In just 21 days, my World has turned upside down and while I am letting another family start their journey within these 4 beautiful walls, I am glad this house is still mine – still my families – and I’ve ensured that’s the case by writing this in the garage.
Eden by DH Lawrence [with a slight tweak by Robert]
I have found a place of loneliness,
Lovelier than Lyonesse,
Lovelier than Paradise
Full of a sweet stillness,
Which no day can distress,
Never a noise transgress
The full moon sank in state;
I heard her stand and wait,
For her watchers to shut the gate
Then I knew myself in a wonderland,
All of darkness, and falling sand
Of hours hard to understand
Always waiting, again I knew
The presence of the flowers that grew,
Noiseless, their wonder noiseless blew:
And flashing kingfishers that flew,
In soundless beauty – and the few
Shadows the passing wild-beast threw;
Eve discovered on the ground,
Soft-given, strange, and never a sound,
To break the embrace that we had found
The perfect consummation,
The final, paradisal One,
Recovered now the world was gone
_________________________________________________________________________
My Mum would hate being here today.
Not just because of what it represents, but because she hated being the centre of attention.
But I always wanted to put my Mum in the spotlight because I have always thought she was an amazing, inspiring and special woman.
Since Mum passed away, I have literally been inundated with messages from all sorts of people who knew her … old friends, old colleagues – even her dentist – and all of them described her using the same words:
“Gentle. Generous. Kind. Thoughtful. Compassionate. Independent. A true lady.”
They are wonderful words.
They are words that describe a beautiful character … but if I was to tell her that, she would give me a sweet smile before changing the subject.
You see my Mum was an incredibly humble woman who didn’t think she was doing anything special. In fact, if you asked her what she was proud of, I would imagine she would say a maximum of 3 things.
1. Me.
2. Her attitude to life.
3. Her teeth.
But the fact is, everything she did was special.
Everything.
Not just in terms of her talent – of which some of you may be surprised to learn included being a wonderful painter and writer – but in terms of her generosity.
There’s a reason why many of my friends are here today – and it’s not just because she always loved it when they filled the house with noise and laughter – it’s because she always was warm, open and kind to them.
But in matters relating to me, my Mum’s generosity knew no bounds.
From a personal perspective, I can tell you that I never wanted for love.
I never wanted for support.
I never wanted for encouragement.
She gave me so much including teaching me what total, unconditional love really meant.
For example, when Dad fell ill, she was adamant I should continue with my plans of moving to Australia.
Of course part of her didn’t want me to go, and I felt the same, but she – and Dad – wanted me to live a life of discovery and fulfilment and they knew if I didn’t go at that moment, I may never leave which is why I hope the life I now lead repays their faith and love … though they may be more impressed by the fact I am wearing a suit, tie and shoes … which is something I didn’t even manage at my own wedding.
But my Mum is no longer here.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
My Mum was going to go into hospital, get her heart fixed and enjoy a new lease on life.
But it didn’t work out that way.
It is important you all know mum knew there was a risk.
And as risky as heart surgery is, she knew it was not as risky as not having the operation.
Mum embraced life.
She loved walking, learning, travling, exploring – we had gone everywhere from China to the North Pole together – but her illness had curtailed most of the things she loved which is why any chance of changing her situation was a chance worth taking.
And while the level of risk was relatively low – 10% – the reality is my Mum had rhumatic fever when she was a child and that is an illness that slowly – but continuously – attacks the heart.
While most people with that condition still have a successful surgery, my Mum sadly had a complication that only 5 people out of 8000 have had and that resulted in this terrible thing happening to her.
If there is anything to feel thankful for, it is that she didn’t suffer at all and knew I was with her.
And while I am eternally grateful that we got to spend so much time together in the last 5 months – including spending New Year together – and I’d do anything to have her back with me … I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that ending and I know she would feel the same way too.
While there is so much more I could say about her, I feel I need to say some things to the people in the church.
To her family, especially Silvana, Chris & Selene.
My Mum loved you so much. We were even talking about her maybe moving back to Italy as she loved the idea of being closer to you all. She would be so happy and honoured that you are here today.
To her friends, especially June.
Thank you for always being there. I know my mum was stubbornly independent but she always was greatful for the friendship and support you gave her over the years. To be honest, I don’t think she realised how many people thought so highly of her … but that’s because she didn’t realise how special she was.
To my friends, especially Paul and Shelly.
I can’t thank you enough for everything you did for my Mum and for me. We both appreciated it more than you could ever know. I don’t know if I will ever be able to repay your kindness and compassion but I will continue to try.
To my wife Jill.
My Mum loved you. She was so happy we were together, so happy I’d found you, so happy I had managed to convince such a beautiful, kind and thoughtful person to be my wife.
To her grandson Otis.
I know you won’t understand what I’m saying or will remember these words … but you need to know that while my Mum didn’t get to hold you in her arms – something she desperately wanted to do – she held you in her heart and I’m so greatful that you made her last 3 months so full of happiness.
You are a gift to all of us and I totally understand why she told your other Grandma that she rejoiced in your birth.
And finally to my Dad.
I know we are not a religious family, but I have to say I hope Mum is with you, especially as tomorrow would be your 51st wedding anniversary and you deserve to be together again.
And so I come to the end of my dedication and all I will say is this.
Thank you Mum. Thank you for everything.
The kindness, the support, the care and most of all the love.
You were a very special person and I miss you more than I will ever be able to express.
The world is a better place for having had you in it, even if it is now a sadder place now you’re gone.
You were – and are – a very special person.
I love you and always will.
Arrivederci mamma, molti baci.
_________________________________________________________________________
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
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.