So Far Without You

4 months and 2 days. That was the longest I’d gone in my life without seeing my mum. I was on an acting tour in Australia back in 2018 (having the time of my life) and 4 months then without seeing my mama felt gargantuan — we spoke everyday, of course.

It’s now nearly 5 months. I really am in unknown territory. These initial months I’ve thought ‘I’ve gone this long before without her’ as a way to soothe. To help me — keep going.

To get me through.

But when it comes to loss, ‘I’ve been here before’ doesn’t cut it. I’ve lost loved ones — leading roles. Dad’s sudden death was blinding — the surges of shock tripped me up like a live wire over and over for years. Still does from time to time.

But this. THIS.

Unthinkable.

Impossible.

I reject it completely.

Losing her… no. Just no.

I am strong (teeth gritted, tears streaming, fists clenched).

But this demands a strength to continue that I simply don’t have in me. Not yet anyway.

And thank you friends for often saying ‘you’re so strong’ — holding up a mirror so that one day I feel it, am it. STRONG. Like her. Only me.

Having people believe (even know!) when I haven’t grown the strength roots vast enough to take on THIS PAIN… is reassuring. I ponder it and think ‘let’s see then’. Yeah, let’s see if I can. Can I actually do this.

I currently don’t want to go through the motions of a life I’ve lived in for 37 years… I don’t want a life where she isn’t here physically. Not interested. But can I… that is more interesting. And the challenger in me sends word to those little shoots of grit deep in the guts. They stir. Hearing the call… they’re needed.

With that, there is promise… I don’t want to or have to keep going.

But CAN I.

Worth a shot, at least.

Over the months, I’ve been writing in an attempt to harness my feelings of grief and the monumental overwhelm it brings to a human heart. I have gathered quotes and comments from friends, authors, poets and others along the way. Many remain in stacks in the ‘white room’ — mum’s sitting room — the family temple and epicentre of my grief. And rescue.

Words really can save a day. Today, for example –

‘Guide me with your light

Take me through today

I’m tired and losing sight

Might you light the way?’

~ Lemn Sissay

It feels good to share… to be witnessed — less isolating. For we’ll all experience loss at some point in our lives. So let’s talk about this. Let’s get better for each other. Horrendous as it is. Let’s try and move away from the ‘polite grief’, as Cariad Lloyd calls it.

‘…The lingering silent pressure to have moved on, be cheery, not be sad about a death after a ‘decent’ amount of time has been alotted to us… “not crying every day? Well then, so glad you’re over it finally”… it’s easier to look away.’

To those out there also broken hearted and torn apart by grief — this is the most wild beast I’ve known. It’s terrifying and it takes you to the darkest of places. Places I certainly never thought I’d face. Self discovery in reverse.

But, you’re not alone. I’m not alone. So, let’s hold our candles out to each other and see if we can find a way…

Thoughts, Mummy

I will always use a napkin, mummy

Flowers on the dining table

Never a sunflower!

I’ll refrain from talking when brushing my teeth (though it amused me — annoying you when I did that)

I’ll sing your songs forever

You’re belting them beside me, aren’t you?

Your music taste was always better…

Correcting me on The Drifters’ lyrics a week before you left

God I’ll miss our car journeys!

Those scared chats… I always stepped out of the car that little bit wiser.

I’ll miss everything about you

The way you cleared your throat on a phone call — ‘Hi darling, it’s only mummy’… as if I wouldn’t know it was you… with an ‘only’… as if you weren’t the most important person in my life.

But you knew. You knew you mattered most.

It’s such a long life ahead without you

I’ve done it all for you so far… I realised that when I spotted you and Philip at the Florence marathon in November 2022. 40 km in, just before my finish… ‘it’s all for them, I thought’. Clear as day.

I messaged you today… it felt good to see your WhatsApp at the top again. Where you belong. The top. The Sun at noon.

Oh the pain of it, mummy… what shall I do

I replay that day in my head endlessly… returning to the house with you not in it… I fell into your empty hospital bed and wailed. Breathing deeply into your pillow… sucking any last trace of your scent. Your skin.

I’ve contemplated eating your ashes.

I’ve slept in your bed, worn your dressing gown, finished your milk.

I found your old crumpled tissue and I kept it in your coat pocket, for safe keeping. It’ll stay there.

The last box of tissues… do I hold onto them? I hear you whisper, ‘let it go…’ and I die letting these things go

What about the casseroles I made that are still in the freezer? ‘Good effort’, you’d said. ‘Needs some pearl barley.’

I’ve considered the point of any of the rest of it

The nightmare of this last year… haunting until hollowing

That call from the further support nurse… ‘we can no longer accommodate your mother’s needs.’

Instruction from the GP that injections are being sent for end of life, when needed.

And that was Monday.

The prognosis… simply ‘months’. That’s when our grieving began. That fated date… Wednesday 17th April 2024. You bastard.

There is a tightness when sharing grief with someone who doesn’t yet know such colossal loss. To protect them. Micro dose the share.

I won’t stay here for long, promise. You can relax in a moment. Just let me say her name…

Let me resurrect her in saying her name. She’ll be here instantly.

Friends, don’t worry. I will always want to talk about her.

I know there’s no time for anything these days… but keep asking. Ask me about my mum. Because I’ll love it. I will always love it.

The freedom that is felt when you’re with someone who knows.

Nothing needs to be said. Everything wants to be shared.

‘Grief. It takes everything from you’

~ my darling friend, Jessica Power. Yep.

I listened to this 12 days after mum died. I took a walk around Peckham Rye on a cold spring afternoon. Bought a double cherry magnum ice cream and stood in the middle of the green expanse, facing the setting sun. I listened and wept. This was my first glimmer of hope twinkling through the skinless pain. There was a quiet knowing in that moment… I actually can get through this. Deepest breaths. I can.

‘There will be a scar… with changes of weather the scar can and will ache again. That is the nature of a true grief. Although there will be scars and plenty of them it is good to remember that in tensile strength and ability to absorb pressure, a scar is stronger than skin.’

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estés

So, what next. Start again. And again. And again. Every weighing moment.

Peel yourself up and keep going.

‘FUCK YOU. LET’S GO.’

~ Cheryl Strayed (surely the greatest phrase on earth?!)

And when the grief attacks consume you and you’re crawling in darkness to get to the other side, suffocating in your gasps, drowning in tears and completely undone… wrap your arms around it, let it do what it needs.

It will move on.

Eventually.

It will come back again, of course. But not now.

For now, you listened and let in the bellows. Gave it space to writhe and moan like the untameable beast it is. You heard its call, bravely answered, now it can rest for a while. And so can you.

‘She died — this was the way she died;

And when her breath was done,

Took up her simple wardrobe

And started for the Sun.’

~ Emily Dickinson