Losing My Mum: My Mum Was Beautiful, Strong and Kind
This piece is a personal one. In October, I experienced one of the greatest pains that a person can experience. It might not be an experience everyone can share, but if you’ve ever lost somebody close to you then maybe you can relate. This piece mentions loss, cancer and a detailed experience of grief that may be upsetting to some readers. You aren’t alone, remember that.
I’ve always found something strange about the phrase ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ When I hear the word sorry I always think, in my dark humoured way, ‘Why? You didn’t kill her.’ I know it’s one of those things that people say when they’re not quite sure what else should be said. The other word that has always confused me is loss. When someone passes away you don’t lose them, they are taken from you. They aren’t wandering around Tesco, or milling about a shopping centre, they are gone. Before this year I hadn’t ‘lost’ anyone for around ten years and the more recent years I have had a pit in my stomach knowing that my next loss would be substantial and potentially life altering. Safe to say I was right.
With mum it all happened so fast. She had been in and out of hospital throughout the year but things were on the up and she was due to be coming home when one morning the phone rang and everything seemed to stop. Mum had been told - on her own - that cancer had been found in her body that was too far along and she had days to live. It felt like something out of a film. Everything slowed down and there was a roaring in my ears. My chest hurt like it was going to burst yet at the same time I felt unbelievably numb.
Thirteen days before this call, mum had rang me on my birthday just to have a chat and if I had known then what was coming - I would have stayed on the phone for hours. I would have told her about every plan I had for the future, everything I wanted her to see me do and achieve. The day after the phone call I went to see her in the hospital. I hate hospitals with everything inside me, I hate the sounds and the smell and the atmosphere but nothing could keep me away from mum at that moment. Due to her health problems I had stayed away throughout the whole of lockdown. That’s months that I could have spent reminding her how much I loved her or just sat with my eyes shut listening to her talk.
It’s a strange feeling looking at someone and knowing they are going to die. You suddenly want to take in every wrinkle and mark on their face and stare into their eyes until your own eyes water from not blinking. You want to hug them until your arms feel sore and smell their hair to commit it to memory. It’s never enough.
When mum came home all I can remember is that she looked so small. The first day was kinder because she was in her own bed which meant I could climb in next to her and rest my head on her chest and listen to the beat of her heart. Once she had been moved to a hospital bed all I could do was hold her hand and stroke her hair.
I can’t imagine the thoughts that would have been going through her head. The way she must have felt. I just hope she didn’t feel alone. The seven days that she had at home were filled with every emotion possible. We cried in despair, laughed at the memories we had and got angry at the situation we found ourselves in. Our family got together to make her as comfortable as possible, anything she requested she had. As the days drew on, she became weaker and weaker. I’ll be honest and say that some days it was hard to look at her, like she was going to disappear before my eyes.
The day mum passed away I had been crying as she had gotten so weak that she was largely comatose, and wasn’t able to communicate anymore.
“Tell her you love her, she’ll say it back.” A family member had told me, and I did. It was faint, and I know it would have taken all of her energy but she did. That afternoon, surrounded by all of her children with her grandchildren, husband and sister at home my mum passed away peacefully.
So many emotions and thoughts have gone through my head since that day.
I’ve felt angry. Angry at myself that I didn’t spend more time with her. Angry that Covid took months of this year that I could have spent with her. Angry at my siblings because mum got to see them all get married, see all of their children and here I am at twenty four and my mum won’t see any of those things with me. And sometimes I just feel angry, with no explanation or real reason. I want to scream and rip rooms apart and run away just to ease the anger in my head.
I’ve felt relieved. Relieved that mum isn’t in pain anymore. That she isn’t suffering or scared or anxious anymore.
I’ve felt selfish. I’d give anything to get her back, just for another hug. Another ten minute talk over a cup of tea and a cig. Another laugh about our last holiday or the time I taught her how to use skype. Or to relive the moment she climbed up on a table and dance one New Year’s eve years ago. I’d give up all the material things in the world just for another chance to hear her say ‘I love you.’
But at the base of it all, I just feel cripplingly sad. I want to bury myself under a duvet with one of mum's jumpers in my arms and watch the world go by. I want to drown myself in photos and videos and the memories of her and wait until the sadness disappears, but I don’t think it ever will. I know the gaps between the sadness will grow bigger. I know that in time I will think of mum and smile.
Because my mum was beautiful, strong and kind. She made people happy and gave anything to help those she loved. When someone you love dies, they take a piece of you with them and you have to learn to live without it. With the right support and people around you it is possible to cope, possible to carry on. I know that everyone has a different experience with loss and in some ways I’m luckier than others because I got the time I did with her. But nothing prepares you for how unfair it feels when someone you wholeheartedly love gets taken from you.
Grief is painful. It takes over your body and your mind and leaves you lost, wandering around trying to find that missing piece. It turns out that I’m the one who is lost. Hopefully one day I will find myself again.
I miss you mum. Every day.
Written by Hannah Stait
Hannah is a writer from South Wales. She has her Bachelor's degree from Cardiff University in English Literature and Creative Writing. She is an advocate for animal rights, mental health and sexual well being and writes poetry and short stories in her spare time. She performs in a local theatre group in her hometown also. Her socials are @hannahisfragile