It’s been 207 days since my mama died and all of the parts of me that died with her are somewhere buried in an abyss under a lifetime of regrets and 207 days of mourning. I’ll wake up tomorrow in a room full of things that remind me of her, things I put there but can’t make eye contact with. It will hurt, because it always does. I’ll smile when I think I should, because I always do. I’ll make the right noises in the right parts of conversations like I’ve rehearsed and practiced and I’ll put one foot in front of the other and I’ll crack the jokes and roll with the sarcasm and say thank you and I might even mean it but if you look into my eyes, you’ll know.
There’s a book on my shelf called ‘I’m glad my mother died’ that I bought when things were the way that they used to be, a little over a year before that phone call, a little over two years before she died and at a time when something like this happening to us seemed beyond any realm of belief. I thought I’d find resonance in the words and like some crazy premonition I never got round to reading it. Now that book mingles in with the rest of the things I can’t make eye contact with, all of the happy memories from the cancer haze and a reminder that I don’t know who the fuck I was then and I don’t know who the fuck I am now.
Once upon a time, I was a little girl who had never heard ‘I love you’ and then I was a teenager crying out for help and then I was an adult so lost and lonely it should be a crime. I cried and fought and battled and sat on leather couches spilling secrets until I grew, grew, grew and forgave and tried to forget. Who knew that it would be the cliche of death that would ruin it all. Out of 27 years, I got 17 months with the mum that I wanted, deserved, needed. I could fall to my knees and weep with gratitude for the holes that were healed in that time. I learned that time is short but you can make so much of it, if you really try. I learned that we all have wounds and we all have scars, there’s no shame in that. I learned that we all have light and dark within us, we all deserve love anyway. And maybe I’ll be the child that wasn’t loved enough forever, I’ll always be the teenager who hurt herself to ask for help, I might always be lost and lonely. But for 17 months I was a daughter and a friend and a confidante and a carer and a personal shopper and a hugger and a hand holder and my mum, my beautiful and strong and brave mum, she gave those things to me. She lived with her demons and she shared them with me and it was and is complicated, it will always be complicated. This will hurt forever. But my mama gave me happiness and sadness and hurt and anger and love and hope and dreams and she gave me life… I’ve spent 207 days trying to find the will to live it. Tomorrow it will be 208 and I’ll look up at the stars and thank all of them for you.
Mama. I miss you, I love you, I need you, I am never moving on. I think of you all the time. 💙
