Hi, friends. I’ve been stop-starting this one in Drafts for days.
But I know that there is no way that will ever feel ‘right’ to share the sad news that, two weeks ago, we said goodbye to my beautiful mother.
Losing her when we did was absolutely not expected, but I was blessed to be able to be at her side. I’ve been sporadically on Insta and Substack, but haven’t posted or written anything until now. It’s surreal watching these words appear on the screen as I type, in the usual Life Stories font, just like any other post.
And yet, it’s anything but.
The world has seemed so very much quieter here.
As I write, I’m holding in my heart and mind, too, all those reading this and remembering a loss — whether it’s recent, tender and surreal, or one that happened years ago and is, still, no less so. Only last night a friend checking in remarked that “grief is not linear”.
Another of my oldest, dearest (and, clearly, wisest) friends said to allow space for the emotions to change, from day to day. I’ve 100% found this to be true.
Energy levels, too, surge and plummet. One moment, I’m striding into town, feeling like I’ve got whatever “this” happens to be in any given moment — a supermarket run/catching the post with a cousin’s birthday card — adrenaline (and more coffee than usual) carrying me along. Later that day, I’m curled up on the couch with one of the cats and an abandoned book, incapable of keeping my eyelids open.
Last night, I tried really hard to get through episode one of the first season of The Bear with Will, but it just wasn’t happening. “I’m not falling asleep, don’t switch it off!” I kept protesting.
But — nope! — asleep again.
Anyone relate? I think it must be something our bodies do when we need a total reset, as I’ve often found it happens after an intense visit to my parents’ care home. And I can’t override it.
Likewise, tears will suddenly rise, unbidden. Because the fresh, starchy smell of the reels of fabric in the John Lewis haberdashery department takes me back to childhood visits to pick out dress material with my mum. Or I’ve spotted THE EXACT SAME skirt on the M&S end-of-summer sale rail that I bought for my mum last year, when she and my dad moved into residential care.
Among the most special words of condolence are the stories that speak of my mother’s kindness, and the love and welcome she always extended to others. In many cases, I’m hearing them for the first time. It’s almost like getting to see that part of her again.
I know so many will relate to the sense of stealth-grief that comes when an elderly parent or loved one experiences memory loss.
In a sense, I’ve found myself missing two mothers: the one I knew and loved so much in recent years, and the mother she once was. I’ve caught myself longing to be comforted by that mother now (and she was the very best comforter.)
Yet, through it all, my mother’s love was always there. Most of all, I felt it whenever I took her hand. In the way she gently locked her fingers around mine. Every time.
How it felt it to hold her hand never changed.
A few weeks ago, in Notes, I shared this beautiful, powerful essay by
about the loss of her father, and how she misses telling him about milestone moments in her family’s life.Running errands in the car just days before we lost my mother, I’d said to Will, “I just really miss her”.
Back in April, on the trip to Florence I made with my daughter, I had the urge to call my mum, as I always used to, to tell her we’d arrived safely. Enthuse about the hotel. Give her a weather report.
This summer, I’ve wanted to tell her about the flowers I managed to actually grow — from real bulbs! — in our little garden, and that I’m even remembering to water them.
And how I impulse-bought a bird feeder and am apparently now a birdwatcher, with the Merlin app to prove it (the reason why I dangle my phone out of the kitchen window most mornings, identifying birdsong).
She would have LOVED all of it (but remained sceptical about the plant watering part).
‘I was just dancing with her, days before,’ said one of the carers in my parents’ home, his eyes glistening.
She loved any opportunity to take to the floor, with my dad (her all time favourite dance partner), or one of her four grandchildren.
Her motherly love was, is, testimony to the miracle that families can be knitted together outside of the womb.
I came home to be with her, my dad and my older brother not long before before this photo was taken.
My mother’s love was the best coming home present. I pray that as she made her journey home, she knew just how much I loved her.
And I always will.
Last Sunday, during Mass, one of the brothers at the Oratory cited this verse in his sermon:
“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 12:13)
In her life, my mother demonstrated all three, but her greatest gift to me was her love.
I can’t believe that I got to be her daughter.
Hitting ‘Send to everyone now’ with so much love,
Sweet Jen, my heart goes out to you. I'm truly sorry for your loss and am sending so much love across the miles. Be kind to yourself and allow joy to permeate your grief as you remember how precious your dear Mum was. Thank you for letting us in. Praying for you and the family... 💖
Praying for you, Jen. So incredibly sorry for your loss. Sending you so much love and a big virtual hug!