Birds - the tiny cheerleaders encouraging you to stop
Robin on a winter branch at RSPB Ynis-hir, Wales.
One of the many sad things about losing my mother at such a young age is that, in the fifteen years we had together, the last nine of those are generally remembered through the veil of sickness and treatment. In all but the earliest years of my life, the mother I knew was almost inextricably linked with the side effects of cancer and its treatment.
Cancer inevitably took something more from me than my mother. It took away my ability to view her apart from her disease. Her own view on it, after it returned, was that she was ‘living with the disease’ rather than fighting for a cure or being declared terminal. I cannot possibly imagine how that felt, to have the weight of knowing you will never be free from it completely. I guess I shared (and continue to carry) some of the weight of that burden. It overshadows my memories of her and informs my own health decisions.
But I look for a silver lining. I remember days spent at the beach on holiday, gadding about with my dad in the sea and the sand while my mum lay and rested. I remember festive visits to family when my mum would take a break to rest in the spare bedroom. Even one of our last breaks - where my mum forced herself onto the Eurostar to take me to Paris. I used to find those periods of her rest interminably long and difficult.
I guess I was missing her before she was even gone, in those moments.
But if I haven’t learnt the importance of pacing myself from her, then I’ve failed.
Don’t get me wrong, I work interminably hard 99% of the time. I struggle to give myself a break, always onto the next job, yet at the same time…
I recognise my body’s need to stop. My husband will doubt me on this, but I know the difference between a cold I can power through and an illness that needs respite.
I sit here on one such day, recuperating from a nasty chest infection, having had to cancel plans to go to a gig and a festive visit to extended family. Instead I sit in my conservatory enjoying the sunshine and finding tiny delight in watching the birds flitting constantly to the feeder in my garden. If I feel my mother in anything wholesome and untainted by disease it is this. The ability to pause, be still and look outside of yourself at the joy of the world around you. Drink it in, today is a gift and who knows how many more tomorrows any of us will have.