The inevitable conclusion.
I can’t decide whether it’s just nostalgia or if I’m in danger of veering into rather morbid territory, but for some reason, ever since the immediate monumental crappitude of my mother dying had passed, I have found myself playing a small mental game about the ways in which my life, and the person I appear to be, would be recognisable to her.
This morning, I walked up a small Devonian lane, shutting the door of our house and stopping to look at our new door handle (which is of the brass beehive variety, and thus exceedingly pretty, to my mind) and the recently-cleaned foxy door knocker, to a car which is the next-to-current version of a car which Quercus drove when my mother was alive. Would our house be surprising to her? Yes, but only in that we are extraordinarily fortunate to have had it since we were twenty-six. Inside, I think she would be unsurprised, though delighted, by its hobbit-like nature. She would probably be surprised to see how practical we have become; she knew Quercus as a music student, not as wielder of chain, mitre and table saws.
I am wearing jeans (to work! horrors!), a sweater with the neck standing up against the gentle drizzle, and purple leather sandals, based on a pair I owned when she was alive. I am wearing silver spiral earrings given to me by Quercus the summer that my mother was diagnosed. I have a leather keyring which was my mother’s. I call to mind a day spent in Boscastle with her, before illness loomed on the horizon (in fact, just before, given that I’d already started university, so it must been the first time they came to visit; the return trip from that visit brought the road accident which started the process which would end in my mother dying of breast cancer, unrecognised until it was too late because her injuries masked the massing symptoms of her imminent doom. Gosh. That is still hard to write. And is it horribly wrong that even in the midst of this hardness, I note that this is a bit like the psychotic version of The House That Jack Built?), when the sun was shining and life was blissfully simple (though of course Sod’s Law being what it is, I didn’t realise this then, and I’m sure that I was full of teenage angst about something-or-other). We sat on a small wall together, and she said I looked like a pixie, a throw-away remark which I’ve often thought over since then, in moments when I contemplated a mirror which showed me a haggard vision of sleep-deprived bile.
In the car, an MP3 of David Bowie plays. This would definitely come as no surprise, and nor would the Jamiroquai I switch to later on.
My bag, which sports a fair-trade peacock on the outside, was probably not even designed, let alone in existence, when she died, but I don’t think its curly design would have failed to appeal, and nor would the felted purse lurking therein, rich in its bright spiral of colour but disappointingly underprivileged in fiscal terms. That probably wouldn’t surprise her, either.
In the back of the car, a small springy sheep lurches from the top of the window. Fastened to that bit you’re supposed to hang jackets on (who does that, incidentally?), he is there to distract the small girl when she’s imprisoned in her (German, which would also be no surprise to a woman who had a life-long affair with the Teutonic, and nearly married a German when she was eighteen) car-seat. She would not be surprised by the small girl; she it was who foresaw a ‘herd’ of small blonde children clinging to the legs of my dungarees. Not quite a herd, yet, but there’s still time.
As I get to work, a space I have inhabited for ten years in one form or another, I reflect that she’d probably be both surprised and pleased that I eschewed the London move which seemed the likely outcome for most of my sixth-form friends in favour of a life in which elderflower cordial-making goes hand-in-hand with lethal alcohol of unknown origin, rootled out of a hedge by friends, and with knackered cars which are constantly in danger of breaking down, and with a house of which gaffer tape has become an integral part. And with ancient clothes in danger of achieving listed status, and with stupidly uncommercial research projects, and with Quercus, and the small girl.
Strange though it may seem, this game is immensely comforting to me. My mother didn’t get to see my adult life, really, which had only just begun when she left, but she would feel a part of it, easily, inevitably, effortlessly, were she to reappear tomorrow, I think.
Thank you for writing this – I may just have to play the same game – My Mum dared to die on me 2 years ago & I am still coming to terms with it & yet I got to have her 20 years longer than I would have if it wasn’t for modern medicine & Kidney Dialysis – Every infection she got she fought off for so many years that she appeared indestructible until a stint in hospital and the lack of proper care for an ulcer on her foot led to MRSA infection which finally took it’s toll on a body wracked by illness
She is as omnipresent in my life now as she was when she was still alive – the only difference is I can’t talk to her & get an answer – I can’t have a hug & I don’t have her fighting my corner at time in my life when tbh I really need her but she made me a strong independant woman & I thank her for that from the bottom of my heart
I do this too.
She would recognise and be proud I’m certain.
I feel this way a lot. It’s been almost 15 years since my dad died (from cancer). Every so often, I’ll have a bit of a brain freeze when I think about everything I’ve done since he died.
He never saw me go to college, or uni, or my first job. He never taught me to drive, or consoled me after reversing my car into a wall less than a month after passing my test.
He never lectured me on staying out late, getting a tattoo, or having unsuitable boyfriends.
He never met my wonderful husband – I know they would have got on. He has never seen where I live, my dogs, my beautiful garden, my chickens.
He will never see any children I have, they will never have a grandad.
What a brain freeze! I don’t think like that all the time, but sometimes, stuff happens and I just wish he was still here.
being remembered by the people who loved us & who we loved is immortality in it’s purest form. not morbid at all.
Yes. I STILL do this. I promise myself that I will stop, someday, sorting my wardrobe into Things Kirk Knew, Things Kirk Never Knew, Things I Still Buy Because They Are Like Things Kirk Knew And He Would Like Them.
Have you ever read Rosehip or Prune? She writes about having lost her husband and her most recent post is really excellent.
http://rosehiporprune.blogspot.com/2010/06/still-here.html
I am lucky enough to still have my parents, but on reading your words I felt a sadness mixed with love and hope. These mental games that we play are very important it helps keep memories alive. I often hold direct conversations with my Gran who died about 18 months ago. A feisty proud woman – she and I often clashed but we loved each other dearly and these conversations and thoughts keep her ‘alive’ for me.
x
Nice to know I’m not alone in this, though I suspected I wouldn’t be.
AmethystDragon: a couple of years is no time at all, in my (limited!) experience – it’s taken me a long time for the grief to sort of reach a plateau, and now I think that this game I play with myself is just part of the everyday experience of Not Having A Mother Here. Whatever gets one through the day, sort of thing.
Thursday: I thought you might.
amber: why thank you.
OverWyreGrower: hello, and hail fellow, well met, etc. Thanks for dropping in; yes – it is indeed a brain freeze. I often find myself getting quite pissed off about the fact that she won’t get to meet the small girl, and vice versa. It’s so hard to try to convey to people who never met her how vital a part of my existence she was (apart from the obvious, er, having-given-birth-to-me bit, that is), which is one reason that I feel very grateful she overlapped with Quercus, albeit relatively briefly.
Megan: ah yes – I do that too, too. If it’s any comfort, I have been doing this for a bit longer than you – since 2000. Meh -old habits, or something.
hawthorn: yes – I suppose it is partly my way of including her in my daily life. The disconcerting thing is that, from time to time, she crops up in my dreams, i.e. dreams of my life today, in this house, at this age, and the strangest part is that I’m always aware that something is wrong, or unusual, yet it seems completely natural that she is here, and that she’s a part of my life.
nige often speaks of how his dad would feel about the way we live our life, or the way we are in general. he thinks he’d thoroughly approve, i have no way of knowing as his dad died of cancer when nige was 16, he never met his grandaughters (6 of them – no grandsons) he didn’t know what nige went to study at uni, or even if he got there. nige is lucky though in that he has his dads best friend as a godparent who gives him a dadlike nudge every now and then, it’s not the same though of course.
the girls know all about him and boo is the first to openly talk about him, she often talks about her ‘dead grandpa’ ‘he’s very nice but i never met him’ and now yogi is asking about him too. i love that we keep him alive in their minds by talking about him and things he used to do/like. in fact nige picked up his dad’s tandem last weekend which has been sitting unused since he died, needs a bit of a fix up as it’s been 15years but we’re determined we’re going to ride it! together, as his mum and dad did.
Well, my situation is a bit different. My mother and I absolutely adored each other when I was a child and were still close for years- but I was a shy and unsure child and not very comfortable in my skin. When I finally started to find an identity of my own, she didn’t like it – the identity that is, ie me. Since she lived with us by then, it wasn’t the easiest fifteen years.
My father died when I was sixteen. So I can still have the rosy view that he’d recognise me and be pleased. I know that my mother would be critical and dismissive, even though I can see a lot of her in me and I even do the sort of things she did. So it isn’t something I normally do – though funnily enough, on Thursday I was wearing a striped skirt and it did occur to me that she wouldn’t like it, because she didn’t like stripes.
I do try very hard to see the good in everything and not to be critical. I don’t want ever to ruin my relationship with my children in my old age. I’d never have thought it would have happened with my mother who, at one time, I loved with all my heart.
She would recognise you because, in many ways, you haven’t changed that much in the intervening 10 years, other than to appear somewhat calmer and even more zen-like since the Witchling arrived. (Something within you seems to have settled itself in and rooted since she came along.)
She would fit in because she accepted you as you are, and she knew, I think, that people aren’t perfect and do have bad days, and supremely good ones too, and she would see, as I do, the basis of your life is grounded in your love for/with your husband and your daughter. And she would have approved of that because what mother would want anything else for her child? More than anything, she would like your life because she loved you every bit as much as you loved her and she would want you to be happy. She would be immensely proud of how you manage, and she would (probably?) tell you that money isn’t everything in life.
Or perhaps I am just projecting? Because I see who you are, and how you live, and I feel all those things for you, and I can’t imagine her thinking any differently, given all that you’ve told me about her.
(Also, she’d tell you that your kitchen cupboards rock! Although perhaps in different words.)
I play this game! My dad died 5 years ago when I was 5 months pregnant with my little boy. Since then everything has changed so much. He would hardly recognise my daughter, who was just 4 when he passed away (they were best friends). He would be so amazed and happy to see how blessed our lives have been despite him disappearing off to the Big Wherever. My brother followed him three years later. Luckily he got to spend time with Rowan (my little boy) though. I feel pleased that Dad and my brother are together Wherever and me and my Mum stuck together down here. We’re all off on our different adventures.
I’d like to add that I’m really grateful to have found the little pathway through the web that’s led me here. And I’ll be coming back!
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