Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Mothers Day-10 May.

10pm. 
How many times today have I stopped to look at something and think of her? How many times have I felt her absence? 

A perfect bottle of nearly empty Coco Chanel. 

The shopping list and her familiar handwriting. 

Her specs lying near the basket of keys. 

The flowers that are beginning to smell and ought to be thrown away. 

The kitchen counters are gritty with dust and unseen food waste. 

There are still half used containers lying scattered in the kitchen. 

There is no soft soothing music playing. 

The vegetables are two weeks old. 

The computer is not on. 

Her absence is raw and it hurts so much. All I want is to wake tomorrow morning and crawl into her bed with her. To listen to her talking about her Milo Cat who has brought a rat offering in the early hours. 

To discuss the merits of what a beautiful book it is that she’s reading. 

To have her ask me to make fruit salad for breakfast, and make suggestions for Sunday lunch veggies. 

All we have now is her battered and aching body in a hospital bed. In a matter of days, she’s gone from being My Mother to a terminal cancer patient without working lungs. I have never, ever felt to much pain. Nothing will ever be the same. No more book suggestions. No more advice on what to expect my daughters handwriting to be like, or how to grow beautiful gardens. Never again will I have the luxury of the most simple, yet luxurious relationship that has ever crossed my path. 

It hasn’t felt like Mother’s Day today. Mash potatoes and ratatouille in hospital are not the celebration that Mum deserves. 

But we had you. 

We have you. It was lovely. 

I’m working through so many thoughts, and I can’t sleep. Mum, you won’t ever get to read this on your e mail. It’s a soul destroying thought. 

I love you. 

We love you. 

We love you so very much. 

We love you and you are the most amazing Mom to us. 

Xxx

The next day- 11 May.

10pm

Milo wondered in this evening and he was damp- more damp than if he had walked through the dew covered fields. 

I realised it must be wet outside, with actual real drizzle. 

A few hours later, we heard the rain start to pitter patter on the roof of the house. How lovely to have an autumn rain. 

It’s bed time now, Rozie has just wandered in, quite disgruntled with the soaking rain. As I lift her off Beth’s bed (because Beth doesn’t appreciate cats sharing beds) it seems as if the heavens have opened. The rain is falling hard. It’s autumn. This rain is very unexpected. If I was to listen to that strange piece of my heart, I would say that this is the angels coming down to fetch you Mom. 

Please don’t let that be so. I’m not ready. 

I will never be ready. 

15 May.

10pm

I feel like I could write a book about Death, and it still would not be enough for me to express what I am feeling. 

You came home [from hospital] yesterday. It was your wish. I’m not sure if you are aware how terrified we are, but seeing your delight at Milo waiting for you on the hospital bed made us realise how important it is to fill your wishes. 

When Dad helped to take you out the car, the sun was shining bright and golden. You stood for a short while, waiting for us to settle you and my breath fell away as I watched you. You look so unfamiliar. You don’t look like my Mum. You are a shadow of who you used to be. Your eyes are vacant, and silently crying in pain. Your body is gaunt and empty. 

I wish your heart was happy, happy to be hugged and cuddled by your grandchildren, embraced by your children, and maybe it is. I wish I could tell. 

I walked away from you stepping into a chair, under that golden autumn sunlight. I can’t really bear to see you like this. I want you as you were. Why can’t you be as you were? Why did this awful disease have to ravage YOU, the kindest, most compassionate, tender soul I have ever had the honour of knowing? 

*****

I wrote those 3 pieces on the dates presented, typing my thoughts out onto my iPhone with tears streaming down my cheeks. Perhaps they are too sad for you to read, but I’m scared that if I don’t publish them, it will be as if I never felt them.

I have moved on since then. The inevitable happened. Writing anything in that aftermath has been difficult. However I do need one final word, chapter perhaps is a better word, to express gratitude to a very special group of people.

To my Bostonites, I wish to say the biggest, most grand Thank You. Dad has told me on several occasions that the freezer is full of meals, the cupboards are full of biscuit treats, the garden has many new plants, the prayers and letters of support have been unending.

In the aftermath, the support we received from the community has been indicative of the person that Mum was. It felt as if each person from Boston had lost their own parent. We seemed to mourn as one, and for a reason I cannot explain, it allowed us to know we were not alone.

Bostonites, our other family across the world, most of you expressed your admiration for Mum. Thank you for everything you did for our family. In the last month. In the last year. In our lifetimes.

And as for the tangible- St Michaels Church flowers, Netherby tea eats and treats, your quiet support will be remembered forever. Mom really did love every single moment of it.

I can think of no other community I would rather have ties to.

Aside from writing to each and every one in the ‘phone book’ , this is the biggest gesture I can make to you.

Thank you all, so very much.