Losing Mummy - Recounting the emotions following her untimely death
“Mummy suffered a stroke, she is at the hospital now”. On the morning of the 17th August 2018, 8.13am, to be precise, my sister called me with the grim news. I had just started my much-needed holiday break in Venice. But it wasn’t meant to be. My last conversation with mummy the previous day over the phone was a good one. I had bought her something she had been wanting and I bought her two of same and she told me “You know I don’t need two as I don’t have much time left in this life”. And I laughed it off. Thinking back it sounded as though she knew.
From that day on everything was a blur, cutting short my stay, the flight back, going to the hospital, the last moments with her. I talked to her but she couldn’t respond. I knew she was hearing me and I could sense she felt helpless at her inability to answer me. “She suffered a massive stroke”, the doctor told me, “It is highly unlikely that she will make it, the damage is irreversible”, together with the medical jargon that came along with her prognosis.
On the night of the 21st I kissed her goodnight while holding her hand tightly. I am sure she felt it because she reacted with a slight shiver which gave me some hope. She seemed surreally calm that day and for a short moment I thought that perhaps the doctors were wrong and she would come out of it. I just didn’t want her to go. But I was wrong. The dreaded phone call came at 5am the following morning. Mummy took her last breaths and just like that she was gone. There we stood, my sister and myself, beside her, lost, numb, incredulous of how she was taken from us so suddenly. The rest of that day went past in a daze, calling relatives and friends, all as stunned and shocked as we were, going to our parent’s house to get some clothes for her. We picked a white shirt and white trousers and a scarf I had brought her from Paris some years ago. She loved scarves.
I went on automatic pilot in the days that led to her burial, helping organizing the funeral service, talking to friends who sent their condolences, keeping strong for my ailing Dad while still playing mother to my young son. I was in shock. I just couldn’t digest the reality of it. Not yet at least. I think I was in denial. It felt like it was just a bad dream I would wake up from to remind me that our parents are not there forever and to make the most of them as they grow older. But the dream persisted. As I write I still wish I could wake up from it but I know I won’t.
The funeral service was overwhelming. Many dear relatives and friends came to pay their respects. Messages that poured in that morning were so comforting. My sister and I wanted to make sure she had a befitting service as she deserved it and it truly was. I thought to myself, once the funeral is over I would feel comforted and will move on. Only I had no idea how wrong I was.
In the days that followed reality started to kick in. I didn’t want to get out of bed for days and just wanted to sleep, not wanting to wake up again. I wanted to call her, talk to her. I kept recalling our chats over the phone. I still do. I miss her smile so much. I know she was suffering in silence after my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. But given all she had to face she still managed a smile every now and then.
Along came the panic attacks. Is this the new reality? I want to see her again. I can’t. Why was she taken from us so suddenly? Where is she? These questions kept reverberating in my mind for weeks on end. For the rest of my life I will never see her again.
I felt as though I was drowning, every time I tried to reach the surface to catch my breath I felt I was being pulled back down again, not giving me enough time to breathe. Tears flowed in abundance for anything that reminded me of her. There was so much, my life so far. The pain of the loss was hitting me with a vengeance. But it was more than that. I started to feel it was my fault, my fault for going away on holiday. Before we left she kept telling me what if something happened to them and I dismissed it as just fear of us being away for a few days. She was well before I left, I kept reminding myself. Maybe if I didn’t go, what if... Guilt took over. It was all my fault.
“She is in a better place,” those words were being said to me over and over, “she is looking over you”, words I myself said many a time to comfort others suffering the loss of their loved ones. “How do you know she is in a better place, watching over me? Have you been there? Do you know of anyone who has been there and back and recounted their experience?” That is what I wanted to scream at whoever told me so. I know in my heart those words were said to me to comfort me and they meant well but I started to question the reality of afterlife, if there is one at all, more deeply. What I would give to know if she really has turned into a butterfly in paradise and can see and watch over us or if she is just six feet under but I will never know.
I returned to work, threw myself in my work in order to distract myself from the pain of the loss, which did help a little, but then the pain and guilt gradually started turning to anger.
It wasn’t just anger. It was a rage. I took it out on people I cared for deeply, who had no fault. I wasn’t reasoning anymore. I was firing things I never thought I would. It felt like I wanted others to feel the pain I was going through, regardless of what they were going through in their own personal lives. “You don’t walk in my shoes and I don’t walk in yours” were words said to me by a dear friend which stuck with me. And it was true. I was wrong in getting it out on others just because I was going through my own hell.
The anger made me turn suicidal, I ached to end it. I was no longer seeing straight. I felt the world turning black. Everywhere I looked there was a memory of her. What a sad life I felt we are living in. What kept me going? My son, he is my miracle, my love and my life, my dear sister, family and friends, those who genuinely cared, those who truly mattered. I knew that in ending it I would ruin his life forever. He would live wanting an explanation as to why his mother chose to end her life. It would have destroyed him and that is certainly not what I want for him. I would never want to do anything to hurt him.
Three months later, that pain still persists. I get my good and bad days. I still miss my mother so very much. And it comes in so many different forms, in her photographs, our long conversations, recalling our suppers together at home, a lifetime of memories. I still dream of her almost every night. Healing from the loss of someone as close as a mother is a very slow process and I guess it will take a while. And only in experiencing it can I understand the pain one truly feels. Nothing prepares you for the death of a loved one, no matter the cause of death, be it sudden, be it expected.
She was a good woman, a beautiful one, both inside and out. Yes, we did have our occasional tempestuous arguments, she was a perfectionist. I wasn’t. But she was always my mummy.
I have sent many a condolence message prior to my mother’s demise, only now I understand the true pain of that loss. I know there will be the firsts: Christmas, New Year, birthday, anniversaries … and those days will be particularly hard. I still find myself talking to her when I am alone.
They say time heals. It doesn’t. The pain will never really go but something you learn to live with. The moment you feel you are drowning you must swim up for air. Death is a part of our life and we all have to go through it at some point. Mummy looked at peace when I last saw her in the morgue. Every day is a day closer to that next stage of our lives and I am trying my very best to make the most of my days ahead, to keep positive even after all that this year has thrown at me.
I just want to end by saying this to all those whose parents are still alive, not just parents but also dear ones, be it family or friends. We must make the most of our time with them. Treasure and cherish every moment with them. Life is not to be taken for granted. And I now have a better understanding of this. Always tell them you love them, do not bear grudges, never leave an argument unresolved. You don’t know if you will see them alive again, talk to them again, resolve pending issues because when they are gone, they are gone forever and that is the hardest part of it all. It is very hard seeing a loved one go.
stef
From that day on everything was a blur, cutting short my stay, the flight back, going to the hospital, the last moments with her. I talked to her but she couldn’t respond. I knew she was hearing me and I could sense she felt helpless at her inability to answer me. “She suffered a massive stroke”, the doctor told me, “It is highly unlikely that she will make it, the damage is irreversible”, together with the medical jargon that came along with her prognosis.
On the night of the 21st I kissed her goodnight while holding her hand tightly. I am sure she felt it because she reacted with a slight shiver which gave me some hope. She seemed surreally calm that day and for a short moment I thought that perhaps the doctors were wrong and she would come out of it. I just didn’t want her to go. But I was wrong. The dreaded phone call came at 5am the following morning. Mummy took her last breaths and just like that she was gone. There we stood, my sister and myself, beside her, lost, numb, incredulous of how she was taken from us so suddenly. The rest of that day went past in a daze, calling relatives and friends, all as stunned and shocked as we were, going to our parent’s house to get some clothes for her. We picked a white shirt and white trousers and a scarf I had brought her from Paris some years ago. She loved scarves.
I went on automatic pilot in the days that led to her burial, helping organizing the funeral service, talking to friends who sent their condolences, keeping strong for my ailing Dad while still playing mother to my young son. I was in shock. I just couldn’t digest the reality of it. Not yet at least. I think I was in denial. It felt like it was just a bad dream I would wake up from to remind me that our parents are not there forever and to make the most of them as they grow older. But the dream persisted. As I write I still wish I could wake up from it but I know I won’t.
The funeral service was overwhelming. Many dear relatives and friends came to pay their respects. Messages that poured in that morning were so comforting. My sister and I wanted to make sure she had a befitting service as she deserved it and it truly was. I thought to myself, once the funeral is over I would feel comforted and will move on. Only I had no idea how wrong I was.
In the days that followed reality started to kick in. I didn’t want to get out of bed for days and just wanted to sleep, not wanting to wake up again. I wanted to call her, talk to her. I kept recalling our chats over the phone. I still do. I miss her smile so much. I know she was suffering in silence after my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. But given all she had to face she still managed a smile every now and then.
Along came the panic attacks. Is this the new reality? I want to see her again. I can’t. Why was she taken from us so suddenly? Where is she? These questions kept reverberating in my mind for weeks on end. For the rest of my life I will never see her again.
I felt as though I was drowning, every time I tried to reach the surface to catch my breath I felt I was being pulled back down again, not giving me enough time to breathe. Tears flowed in abundance for anything that reminded me of her. There was so much, my life so far. The pain of the loss was hitting me with a vengeance. But it was more than that. I started to feel it was my fault, my fault for going away on holiday. Before we left she kept telling me what if something happened to them and I dismissed it as just fear of us being away for a few days. She was well before I left, I kept reminding myself. Maybe if I didn’t go, what if... Guilt took over. It was all my fault.
“She is in a better place,” those words were being said to me over and over, “she is looking over you”, words I myself said many a time to comfort others suffering the loss of their loved ones. “How do you know she is in a better place, watching over me? Have you been there? Do you know of anyone who has been there and back and recounted their experience?” That is what I wanted to scream at whoever told me so. I know in my heart those words were said to me to comfort me and they meant well but I started to question the reality of afterlife, if there is one at all, more deeply. What I would give to know if she really has turned into a butterfly in paradise and can see and watch over us or if she is just six feet under but I will never know.
I returned to work, threw myself in my work in order to distract myself from the pain of the loss, which did help a little, but then the pain and guilt gradually started turning to anger.
It wasn’t just anger. It was a rage. I took it out on people I cared for deeply, who had no fault. I wasn’t reasoning anymore. I was firing things I never thought I would. It felt like I wanted others to feel the pain I was going through, regardless of what they were going through in their own personal lives. “You don’t walk in my shoes and I don’t walk in yours” were words said to me by a dear friend which stuck with me. And it was true. I was wrong in getting it out on others just because I was going through my own hell.
The anger made me turn suicidal, I ached to end it. I was no longer seeing straight. I felt the world turning black. Everywhere I looked there was a memory of her. What a sad life I felt we are living in. What kept me going? My son, he is my miracle, my love and my life, my dear sister, family and friends, those who genuinely cared, those who truly mattered. I knew that in ending it I would ruin his life forever. He would live wanting an explanation as to why his mother chose to end her life. It would have destroyed him and that is certainly not what I want for him. I would never want to do anything to hurt him.
Three months later, that pain still persists. I get my good and bad days. I still miss my mother so very much. And it comes in so many different forms, in her photographs, our long conversations, recalling our suppers together at home, a lifetime of memories. I still dream of her almost every night. Healing from the loss of someone as close as a mother is a very slow process and I guess it will take a while. And only in experiencing it can I understand the pain one truly feels. Nothing prepares you for the death of a loved one, no matter the cause of death, be it sudden, be it expected.
She was a good woman, a beautiful one, both inside and out. Yes, we did have our occasional tempestuous arguments, she was a perfectionist. I wasn’t. But she was always my mummy.
I have sent many a condolence message prior to my mother’s demise, only now I understand the true pain of that loss. I know there will be the firsts: Christmas, New Year, birthday, anniversaries … and those days will be particularly hard. I still find myself talking to her when I am alone.
They say time heals. It doesn’t. The pain will never really go but something you learn to live with. The moment you feel you are drowning you must swim up for air. Death is a part of our life and we all have to go through it at some point. Mummy looked at peace when I last saw her in the morgue. Every day is a day closer to that next stage of our lives and I am trying my very best to make the most of my days ahead, to keep positive even after all that this year has thrown at me.
I just want to end by saying this to all those whose parents are still alive, not just parents but also dear ones, be it family or friends. We must make the most of our time with them. Treasure and cherish every moment with them. Life is not to be taken for granted. And I now have a better understanding of this. Always tell them you love them, do not bear grudges, never leave an argument unresolved. You don’t know if you will see them alive again, talk to them again, resolve pending issues because when they are gone, they are gone forever and that is the hardest part of it all. It is very hard seeing a loved one go.
stef