A Letter to My Mum – 2 years gone, today.

Dear Mum,

I wonder if you are still here. After you died I felt your presence so strongly, every decision I made, I felt like I had talked it through with you. Recently I’ve felt more distant.

We’ve been in Dubai nearly a year, and I think the geographical distance has enhanced the psychological distance. Moving here was my way of removing myself from the heat ache I felt in our hometown. Everything reminded me of you and it hurt. I thought dubai was a happy medium, you lived here once and when I first arrived, I enjoyed seeking out the streets you lived in, or researching the landmarks that still exist that you would have visited. The sad thing is though, nothing in Dubai reminds me of you, and I’m starting to realise how those memories and those aches kept us connected.

You more than anyone know what I’m like. Distraction is key. I’ve always kept myself so busy and I still don’t know how to stop. You would recognise when I was burning out and you would have this unbelievable way of telling me everything was going to work out just fine, and I would believe you, and suddenly I could breathe again. Over here, the calmness of it all and the fact that I’m away from all my familiarity has meant that I’ve become more aware of the gaping hole that you left behind.

The strange thing I’ve found about grief is that when you’re in the depths of it, when you’re completely immersed in the dreadfulness of the situation, at least your mind is occupied. 2 years on, and yes I’m living with it, but the dull empty ache is even more apparent and continues to grow.

2 years, everyone told me, is how long it takes for you to start feeling like you can move on. I get what they mean, yes, my days are more normal, I don’t cry as much and I can go to work and get through most of my day without wanting to run home to hide in my bed. But the overall feeling that I get from reaching the 2 year mark is sadness. How has it been 2 years since I last saw you.

2 years on and I still need your advice. Alex’s contract is up soon, so what’s next? Should we extend and stay another year? Should we seek out a new adventure? Should we head home, and be with family and friends?

We have so many big decisions coming up and I’m entirely overwhelmed with our options. I like to think that you’re reading my mind as I write this and you’re going to send me signs. I’ll be watching out for them.

2 years mum. I miss you. The kids miss you. Scarlett’s still asking for new nanny Kim shoes. Leo has come on so much. You’d be so proud of him, he’s the easy kid now! Scarlett’s a proper little diva, you’d know exactly how to deal with her but I haven’t a clue so we’re just riding this phase out.

Writing to you has made me feel that closeness to you that I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe I should do it more often. You would be cringing and telling me to get on with my life, but without you as my driving force, it’s not that easy.

I love you. Keep in touch,somehow. Give dad a hug from us all.

Cara xx

Mental Health Matters – Living with Anxiety after Grief

Since my last post I’ve had a few worried friends message to ask If I’m okay because I said I was “going through a few things.” It’s mental health awareness week, and so I thought it was about time I responded.

The truth is, I struggled to respond to the “how are you?” and “what’s going on” questions. Whilst so well intended and so genuinely appreciated, when your problem is mental, and not physical, it’s much harder to describe. How much easier is it to say “ah, I haven’t been blogging because I’ve broken my arm” or “Sorry I’ve disappeared, I’ve had the flu” and yet, from someone who has had both of these things.. when my mental well-being has taken a battering, I struggle so much more with daily life than when my limbs are broken or I’m down with a virus.

I always wonder what an adequate response is to these questions.

“Are you okay?”

“Em.. no”

“What’s up?”

“Well both my parents are dead and I’m really sad about it”

“Ah, I’m so sorry.”

As someone who cares a lot about how others feel, I don’t want to make anyone feel awkward, or sad, so instead my conversations usually go:

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, getting there! How are you?”

So, when I said I was “going through a few things” what I really meant was my brain was completely overwhelmed and I was feeling… for lack of a better word.. crap. Nothing major has happened, I’ve just been struggling.. but I finally feel my head is back above water and I can start writing, responding and participating in the multiple missed whatsapp messages and chats again (sorry!).

Losing my parents has done many things to me. It has made me stronger, made me more resilient, perhaps even made me a better parent, because I treasure every minute.. however.. the level of anxiety it left me with is something I didn’t quite expect. The past few weeks my anxiety has been heightened. Sometimes something sets me off.. like big crowds or an impending social occasion. Other times I just wake up and know it’ll be “one of those days.” Living with grief sometimes feels like living on a tightrope. Each day could go either way and it’s very difficult to preempt which way I’m going to fall. On the bad days, nothing changes. I wake up and go to work or get on with my daily routine. As a grown adult with two little people depending on me, I have no choice but to get through the day. The people I come across will have no idea I’m having a bad day because I’ve learnt to cover it up but inside, my head is full of anxieties and fears.

Some days my anxieties are ridiculous, and I know it, but it doesn’t make them any less real. I worry about the ironing pile that’s waiting for me at home, or panic that I’ve left the oven on. I’ll get a headache and panic that I’m dying or I’ll wake in the night and have to go and check my children are still breathing. Strangely, my biggest anxiety attacks often come after having a “good day.” I know in my heart of hearts that my parents would never ever want me to be miserable and yet I often find that I scold myself if I’ve had a happy day, or I’ve not cried for a few days. The guilt I feel that I’m somehow able to “live happily” without my parents is something I’m struggling to deal with.

I have a few big recurring fears that my anxiety likes to prey on. One is fear of my own mortality. I am absolutely terrified that my children will have to go through what I have gone through. As a parent you do everything you can to protect your child, yet death is something I cannot protect them from. One day they will have to experience loss, and the thought makes me feel physically sick. I worry how they’d cope without me. I worry about my husband and how he’d cope on his own. My heart aches every time someone comes to visit because I know my children will have to say goodbye to them at the end of their stay. I really struggle to find the right line between over protecting them and allowing them to grow into strong resilient little people.

Another fear I worry about every day is that I am losing the memories I have of my parents. I am so afraid I will forget the way mum smelt, or the way dad laughed. I can feel my memories are fading as my brain creates new ones. I find the harder I try to focus on finding memories, the less I remember.

Which leads me to my ultimate fear…that I won’t be able to sufficiently portray how much my mum adored my children. They brought so much joy to her and I don’t know how to explain it well enough to them. How can I adequately describe the desperation when she wasn’t allowed in the ICU to see them on the day they were born. The adoration on her face the first time she ever held them. The fact she couldn’t go shopping without coming home with new clothes for them. Her excitement when she won baby bundles on eBay. All the times she cuddled them, took them out on day trips, made them giggle uncontrollably. Or the times when I was tearing my hair out because their dinner was all over the walls/ceiling and she would just laugh and plonk them in the kitchen sink for a bath.

I am so afraid that I won’t do her justice. The worlds most besotted grandmother and they won’t even remember her.

I talk about “Nanny Kim and Grampi” all the time. They still remember them at this stage and recognise photos and videos but I know that eventually their memories will be manufactured by stories I’ve told them rather than their own memories.

Before she died, one of the only times I saw mum cry, was when she said “how will they remember me?” It was one of the only times that she showed her weakness. We talked so positively until the very end, but she knew they would forget her and when she said it, we both just broke down and cried together.

S & L’s minds are so innocent and pure at this stage. I struggle to explain death to them. One day they both decided that Nanny Kim and Grampi live on the moon, and that’s something we’ve gone with. Now when we see the moon they blow kisses and wave. Their innocence won’t last long but for now it makes things easier.. most of the time.

On my way to my “motherless daughters” grief group the other day, my daughter had this conversation with me.

S – Where you going mummy?

Me – I’m going out to talk to my friends about nanny Kim.

S – Nanny Kim.. cool.. can you ask her to buy me some new shoes.. these don’t fit anymore (shows me shoes mum bought her)

Me – I wish nanny Kim could buy you some new shoes but she’s a bit far away.

S – Aren’t you going to the moon mummy?

Me – No baby

S – Can’t you put on your wings and fly to the moon and get my new shoes from nanny Kim mummy?

My heart broke and smiled all at once. If only it was that easy.

If you’ve lost your mum or dad, I’d love to hear how you keep them alive in your children’s memories. Do you struggle to do them justice too? Do you have photos around your house or routines that help them remember and recognise their grandparents importance?

I’ve never really opened up about my fears and anxiety to anyone other than my closest friends and family, so this is quite a big thing for me. It is so important to understand and recognise that our mental health and well being is as important, if not more so, than our physical health.

As I’ve said before, talking openly about our grief and how it affects us both mentally and physically will help remove the stigma and will help make life so much more bearable for those who are suffering.

Our mental health matters.

Approaching Mother’s Day as a Motherless Mother

Most of you know, I have twins, Scarlett and Leo. They’re 3 now. They were 1 when my mum died and they absolutely completely and utterly adored her. Scarlett especially had a real connection with her. When mum came home from her final hospital stay, Scarlett was waiting for her as they brought her out of the ambulance. The second she saw my mum she burst into this hysterical fit of laughter and sobs because she had missed her so much. In turn, the paramedic burst into tears because she said she’d never seen a child so overwhelmed with love. Looking back, I think she probably knew mum was nearing the end and her heart broke for my baby girl knowing she was going to lose her. For months after mum died, she stood at our window waiting for her car to pull up and any time one did she’d shout “nana, nana” until eventually she gave up.

I hadn’t planned on having children when I did. I was 23 and to be honest, until the day they were born, the thought of having children utterly terrified me. There are still days that I look around and wonder who on earth let me leave a hospital with 2 children. It still feels so strange that I have two little people who rely on me as much as I relied on my mum and yet if it wasn’t for them, I truly don’t know if I could say that I would be still here. You see, kids have this funny way of needing you to keep them alive, 24/7. They wake me up every morning by clambering on my head and demanding food, or Peppa Pig and so, because of them, I rarely wake up with that sudden dread of realisation anymore.

My daughter is sick at the moment, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m failing her. There is nothing I want more than to call my mum and ask her what I’m supposed to be doing. When you’re sick there’s no one you want more than your mum and when your babies are sick it’s no different. I’ve walked this parenting path without her for nearly 2 years now, and I can’t even describe how hard it is. I want to tell her how grateful I am for raising me, for struggling through parenthood. I want to apologise for all the times I was a whiney toddler or bitchy teenager. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I’ve lost the woman that changed my nappies, bandaged my cuts and kissed my bruises. The woman that taught me how to ride a bike, helped me with my homework and threw birthday parties every year. The woman who encouraged me to go to university, held me when I thought my heart was broken, and laughed rather than judged when I fell through the door after messy nights out. She raised me through every milestone and I always presumed she’d tell me how to do the same with my children.

Being a mother is hard. My children give me an overriding purpose, but on a day to day basis I spend most of my time feeling like I might just lose my mind. A few days ago my daughter was shouting at me, probably because I cut her food up the wrong way, or I held the wrong hand, or I gave her the pink cup instead of the yellow one. She usually shouts and stomps and then gives up and runs off smiling, but this time she looked me dead in the eye and said “I don’t like you mummy, I like daddy.” I remember my mum telling me this would happen. I am so unbelievably grateful that I still had my mum when my children were born. I can’t imagine how it would feel to have had my children without her there. Some of the things I remember her saying are “just you wait until the first time you see your child look at you and their lip quivers and you realise that in that moment, you’ve devastated your child’s world, or “you think you’re doing okay and suddenly your child tells you they don’t love you” or “you go to hold your child’s hand and they shrug you off in horror and tell you that you’re embarrassing.” And so, when my daughter told me she didn’t like me, I remembered my mum. I remembered that I probably told her I didn’t like her a hundred times growing up, and my heart felt sad because I know how far from the truth that is.

My kids come first. They will always come first and as selfish as it is, the realisation that I no longer have someone who puts me first, hurts, because not only have I lost my parents love, but once you have children, your own needs get put on the backburner. I miss the days when I was allowed to feel ill and not have to get up and make breakfast 3 times until I’ve gotten their porridge the “right way.” Or the days when I’d get ready for work and leave in 30 mins, rather than getting up 2 hours in advance. So parenting without parents is weird, because as much as losing my parents put things into perspective for me and made me recognise how much I need my children, and how grateful I am to them, there are still days when I feel so resentful that I don’t have my own mum to do all these things for me anymore.

It’s Mother’s day in the UAE tomorrow, and my inbox and timeline have been flooded with advertisements for gifts and spa days. My heart plummet’s every time I see them because I would give anything to spoil my mum one last time. I usually spend mother’s day feeling miserable and sad, but I know my mum would never want that. So, this year, I’ve decided I’m going to try and put myself first a little and let myself enjoy mother’s day as a mother, because mothering is hard, and mothering without a mother is even harder.

So if you’re reading this as a mother, a motherless mother or a motherless daughter, I urge you to do the same. Be kind to yourself and allow yourself to come up for air every now and again. If you’re lucky enough to still have your mother’s, then I urge you to spoil them, not necessarily with gifts or spa breaks… but with your love and appreciation, because not many have worked harder, and sacrificed more, than her.

To My Mother On International Woman’s Day

On International Women’s Day I feel it’s only right to pay tribute to the strongest woman I have ever known. Someone who never had it easy and yet loved her life until her very last breath. An incredible mother, grandmother, daughter, sister and friend. This is a woman who had her first child at 18 years old, with a man so cowardly that he ran away and left her and her unborn child with nothing. She made the decision to never chase him or demand anything from him, because she knew my sister was better off without him, and she knew she could do it better alone.

She worked tirelessly in every aspect of her life and gave her all. Her work ethic was like no other. She dedicated her life to working with children, and each of them meant so much to her.

Despite working every God-given hour to ensure she could provide for us all, she still managed to raise four strong, independent women alongside helping other people raise their children. She was there for each and every one of them, as much as she was there for her own.

There are not many people who could have children in their home from the first thing in the morning until the last thing in the evening and still find time to run after their girls, and take care of their sick husband. I watched her persevere over and over again, not once allowing the many trials and tribulations she faced to ever get in the way. I can count on one hand the amount of times I heard her complain or moan because nothing was ever too much for her. Whatever any of us asked for, she gave and whatever we needed, she provided.

I don’t know where she found time to eat, sleep or rest, in fact, I don’t think she did. Until she got sick, I did not realise that I had taken her for granted. She gave us her all, and left nothing for herself. She was always my best friend and biggest ally, and I knew I was lucky to be so close to her, but never did I realise just how much I owed to her. Growing up we believe our mothers to be invincible and it’s not until that belief is questioned that we come to terms with how vital they are to our lives.

I owe so much of my strength, resilience and heart to my mother. Her unwavering tenacity in paving a better life and a brighter future for her children did not go unrecognised.

She was the glue that held the family through difficult times, our voice of reason, our closest friend, and the one person we knew we could trust implicitly.

So on this day, March 8th, or International Women’s Day, I’d like to say to the women who question themselves every day and wonder if they’re doing enough – you are. My mother was not an academic, she didn’t have loads of money and she didn’t have all the answers, but she was everything, and more, than I could ever have wished for. One day, hopefully in the very distant future, someone will be paying tribute to you for making them who they are today.

I can only dream to grow into half the woman she was and so, on this day, I honour my mother. Let’s take a leaf out of her book and recognise how lucky we are. To my fellow women, let’s be kind to ourselves, and kind to each other. We are all someone’s daughter, mother or sister, and we are all enough.

 

 

One Year On..

One year ago today, I was told my dad was gone. It was almost 6 months to the day after I lost mum. This means I have somehow gone 365 days without hearing his voice, without receiving his daily voicemails that used to drive me mad, 365 days without seeing him take off down the street when his Parkinson’s meant his legs couldn’t keep up with his body, 365 days since I saw him sobbing uncontrollably as he tried to come to terms with a life without his wife.  I have had 365 days to learn how to live without my parents. Some days it doesn’t feel like living, but I know it is.  This time last year, I was sat shaking uncontrollably not quite believing the level of devastation that had torn through my life in such a brief amount of time. One year on, the thing that hits me every day is that, I survived.

Most people think it’s the anniversaries that are the hardest to deal with. I have managed all the “firsts” and have had the messages of sorrow roll in from people, on birthdays, holidays, special occasions. These days are hard, of course they hurt, but they are the ones I’ve seen coming, the times that I’ve had opportunity to prepare for.  On mum’s one-year anniversary there was one thing I kept hearing – “at least you’re past the worst now.” When I hear those words it’s like an unintentional punch to my gut because, for me, I will never be past the worst. The hardest moments are the ones we don’t see or can’t expect, the moments when tears just appear, or a flash memory leaves me shaking and nauseous. Yes, the fog of sheer devastation has cleared slightly but what I really wish people understood is that grief isn’t staged, it doesn’t pass with time. We don’t get over it, we just learn to manage it. This is the thing that’s been hard for me. It’s like everyone saves up their sympathy for the “big” days, so when you suddenly break down out of nowhere, you’ve not given them time to prepare their response. I find that my random sad days often result in people telling me I should consider medication or anti-depressants, as if to say I shouldn’t be breaking down anymore. Yet for me, I’ve accepted these sad days. These moments are part of my life now, and I expect to incorporate them into my future. I don’t want medication to stop them. I don’t want to numb them out forever. Don’t get me wrong.. I know with time they may get fewer and further between, but I will never not mourn my parents. There is no cure for grief, it’s a way of life.

I have always been an emotional person. I feel things strongly, I attach easily and I have always cared deeply. This is something I grew up ashamed of having frequently been told to “not take things to heart” or “stop being so emotional.” As humans we get to feel joy, jealousy, love, shame, happiness, embarrassment, sadness, anger, frustration.   Except, after my parents died, I realised that there are days when, despite all the dips and spins of life, I feel nothing.  I often take a step back and look around and see people laughing, screaming, and enjoying life, and I long for my previous life. This feeling of nothingness isn’t a constant, it comes and goes. Some days I’ll be laughing and finding joy in my children, and others I’ll struggle to find anything worth getting up for.

I put these feelings down to the trauma I have survived, and believe it is my bodies way of protecting me. Somedays I just can’t afford for my heart to hurt. It feels truly awful to feel nothing, and I am lucky that I don’t live with this on a daily basis.  Despite everyone saying that we “expect” our parents to die one day, it never feels natural. I didn’t class myself as an adult until after my parents died. Life loses a lot of meaning when you realise that you’ve lost your two main constants.

One way I deal with this is by trying to find more meaning in life by forcing myself to feel. I force myself to walk along the beach regularly and I stare at the horizon wondering how many other people are starring back from somewhere. I have started reading about astronomy because it helps me take in the fact that we are such a small piece of a huge picture. In order to survive my grief I knew I had to leave Belfast. Every day was a constant reminder of what I’d lost. My mum was a big member of our community and I’d see her friends everywhere I went. I’d see her car drive past and my heart would jump for a second before I remembered. My dad was a musician, so I’d be in Tesco and suddenly a song he used to play over and over would come on and I’d burst into tears. I thought leaving Belfast would help and to some extent it has. Being abroad puts a distance between me and my grief in some ways. Some days, it feels like I’m just… living away from home. My parents are back home and I’m just … away. Other days, the reality that I’m in entirely foreign land, with no support network, is a lot harder.

In this past year, I have come to realise that grief leaves an unfillable hole within you. I thought leaving Belfast would help fill that hole with other exciting opportunities. Grief leaves you with this overwhelming desire to find happiness so I spent the past year trying to seek change in new opportunities, however that hole is still there, and I’ve come to realise that it always will be. This was an important realisation for me, because it has forced me to find comfort in the present. In the people around me, and in my current circumstances. No amount of distance, change or excitement can fill that hole, so it’s important, for people grieving, to take that deep breath, and trust that you will eventually learn to live again.

Meeting and befriending people who understand my grief has become a huge part of my journey. These people get it, they understand how grief has changed us to the point that we will never again be the people we once were. These people have become one of my greatest comforts because they know my pain without trying to understand it. Unfortunately, there is a horrible peace in knowing you’re not alone.

That is why this blog exists. I truly hope that if you are a member of this morbid “club” that you know you are not alone. One year on, I want to say to anyone currently grieving — even if right now it feels unrelenting, overwhelming and all-consuming— I promise that you will survive, in your own way, too.

They’re still my Parents..

I’ve come to realise that death isn’t generally a welcomed topic of conversation in our society. Most consider it inappropriate or awkward and go out of their way to avoid eye contact, hush their voices or randomly apologise. Others avoid it entirely, almost as if it is less likely to happen to them if they just don’t bring it up. Like it’s taboo, don’t mention it or you’ll jinx yourself, or you’ll upset us, or you think once we start talking about it that we’ll suck you into our dark cloud of doom and gloom. It is completely and utterly abnormal to society, and yet death is the one absolute certainty in life.

I want to be clear that on the whole I’ve found people have good intentions, so if you find yourself thinking “oh god, I’ve said/done this” then please don’t over think it. For me this is entirely a societal flaw and not a personal one.

I talk about my parents all the time. I bring them up in conversation and relate things to them. I celebrate their birthdays, I buy their favourite flowers and cook their favourite meals. I do it because they are as much a part of my life now, as they were before. I don’t do it for sympathy. If I say “oh my mum loved those too” or “dad would do that” I’m not asking you to look at me with those sad sympathetic eyes. I certainly don’t want to hear “oh I’m so sorry” and for the conversation to abruptly end or change direction. We talk about them not because we’re sad or longing in that moment, we just want them to be a part of our daily conversations and routines. Sometimes I just want to talk about them within every day life..because they were, and still are, my “normal.”

For me, they’re still my parents. They might not physically be here right now, but their essence, their advice, their impact, will always live within me, so there will never be a time when talking about them isn’t normal. Death cannot take that away from me.

I think people panic that they’re going to make me cry, or upset me or that by mentioning them, memories will flood back to me. Trust me when I say that those memories haven’t ever left me. You aren’t reminding me of what I’ve lost, because I haven’t forgotten. By asking about them, or indulging me in two minutes of conversation, you are showing me that they still matter, that they’re still an important part of my life and my conversations. I’ll appreciate that you haven’t presumed that I’ve past that “initial phase” and must have moved on by now. Showing me that you know they’re still a part of me will bring me so much more happiness than avoiding the topic or changing the subject. Yes, there are days when just hearing their name will bring tears to my eyes and the impact of my loss hits at the wrong time. I know there are definitely others out there experiencing loss who can’t talk about it yet, maybe it’s too early or too raw, that’s okay, but at least sound it out with us. You’ll soon know where our emotional stability is at that time and we’ll appreciate you trying.

I’ve unsuccessfully tried to explain this before but I’m going to keep trying and hope it makes more sense on paper. If you were to die tomorrow, would you want to be spoken about under hushed tones and awkward silences. Would you want the world to try and blot you out of conversation as if to say “if you don’t bring it up it didn’t happen.” Or do you want people to talk about you? To keep your name alive? Surely you want people to smile when you come up in conversation, not grimace or shut down.

As a society we associate death with the elderly and we live our lives with the assumption that we have time to do all the things we want to do. We allow ourselves to procrastinate and avoid doing things because the idea that we might not have time is just too morbid to accept. This is partly to blame for the topic of death and grief being so widely avoided. By living that way, we’re essentially saying that it won’t happen to us, or at least not any time soon. Unfortunately one day you won’t be here, and unless you’ve talked about it, then it’ll be your name people are hushing under the carpet. I want to take the morbidness out of death, and live with the appreciation that life is fragile. Celebrate the people we’ve lost so that when your time comes, your loved ones will do the same. Make it normal, talk about them, talk about life, about death, and about life after death if that is something you find comfort in. For me right now, life after death is about the people left behind, the people who have to live with it. We’re all just trying to find ways to make it more bearable and this is how you’ll do it for me. Talk about them, smile about them, post their pictures, share your memories. They still exist..it’s just…different, now.

We Planned for Life..

Mum’s deterioration was so sudden that we didn’t have a palliative care team organised for her. We were in hospital when the doctor told us things weren’t looking good but we were told to go home, and come back on Monday to try radiotherapy. Mum was tired and sick, but we got her home. She’d been in hospital for a while so while she was there I had rearranged her house. I’d gotten rid of things that suddenly lacked any importance and I’d organised and tidied everything. I remember feeling excited to show her because mums house was always a bit disorganised and she always said she wanted to sort it all out. I had a plan, I wanted her to feel peace in her home so we could tackle the “big road ahead.”

We didn’t talk about death. We didn’t plan for death. We planned for life, we planned the future. When she got home, I’d moved her bed downstairs and made her a cosy bedroom. On that first night back in her house, I gave her a buzzer which I told her to press if she needed anything throughout the night and I went home leaving her with my sisters who still lived at home. I had plans for the next day so I got back early, and was met with sadness as soon as I walked through the door. My sister told me mum had woken up calling my name in the night. My heart broke at the thought of her needing me and me not being there. I decided I was going to stay with her until she settled into a routine (or so I thought.) I went to the shop and spent a fortune on things I knew she’d love around the house. I’m explaining this because these mundane things show how completely clueless I was as to how my life was about to change irrevocably. I got back and found a woman I’d never seen before in mum’s house. I walked through the door smiling but that soon stopped when I saw the look on her face. She was looking at me with a look that I’ve seen so many times since.. a look of sadness, of sympathy, of awkwardness. She was the hospice nurse. I couldn’t understand why she was there when we’d just gotten home, but we sat down to talk. She told us that she saw death every day and that it was her job to measure how actively people were dying. It was the first time anyone had talked about death. She told us mum was close.

How could she be talking like this, about the most important person in my life, with such ease. I wanted to tell her that mum wasn’t like all those other people but I suddenly felt so small, so stupid. I had been in charge until this point. I’d guided mum through various options, been by her side at every appointment, researched and read every book under the sun that could help us.. and in that moment, all control was taken from me. She told us that mum had hours, maybe days at best and she said we needed to start preparing our goodbyes, fast. She had this look of complete disbelief that we didn’t have anything prepared. It was a job to her, but how could I suddenly say goodbye to someone who I’d been making life plans with and discussing future holiday options with, an hour earlier?! The ache in my heart as she said it is an ache that hasn’t left me since and I’m not sure it ever will.  I understand entirely the word heartbreak because that’s exactly what it is. My heart has broken multiple times over the past couple of years and each time the ache left behind feels slightly different, slightly worse. The hospice nurse said her goodbyes and left us to ours. I breathed in and walked into mum’s room. I planned on talking to her about it all, I planned on telling her that it was okay if she didn’t want to fight anymore. Instead I walked into that room and tears tore down my face. Mum looked at me confused and asked what was wrong and all I could manage was “I’m just so sad..” she squeezed my hand and said “me too.”

I don’t know why, but I never managed to talk to her about it.  We talked about everything but death. I thought I was being strong for her, talking about life, the future, the past, but never death. But since she died I’ve realised I was being the opposite of strong. I was scared, too scared to face the reality and too scared to break her heart. Although I believe now that she knew what was happening, at that time I just couldn’t bring myself to tell my mother “you’re going to die.”

As I write this I keep thinking “why am I writing all this” and truthfully, it’s because I need to. I find myself telling everyone about my mum and dad. The parents in my work, new people I meet, the delivery guy.. and I watch their awkward responses, but for me, it’s showing who I am now. It’s almost like my introduction. Those days changed me as a person and I want people to know how and why I am the way I am.

Whilst there are many aspects of myself that I wish I could go back to, and many things I wish I could change, the only positive that I can take from my loss is the realisation that your heart cannot break if it is not full. Whilst it is so cruel that those who love the most, hurt the most, the fact that I have loved and been loved is something that many people don’t get to experience. I am so grateful for the time I had with my family and I am so lucky to have had a mum who was not only my mother but my best friend and biggest ally. It has reminded me to openly tell people how much I love them in the moment. I take risks now that I maybe wouldn’t have taken before, I push myself out of my comfort zones because it allows me to feel new emotions, and I try to live as fully as possible. Some days I fail, but at least I’m trying. This is something I wish was common knowledge because it isn’t something that should be discovered after death. I’m not saying we all need to live in an idealistic world where we never take anyone for granted and sing love songs to each other all day long, but I’m saying, make sure the people you love, know it, deep down. Arguments and fall outs happen with the people we love, but in those final moments, they are forgotten and what matters is that you know that your loved one died.. knowing they were loved. In the end, it’s not about money, social ties, followers or weightloss… it’s about relationships and I honestly believe that being loved and showing love are the single most important counterparts in leading a fulfilling life.  Trust me when I say that you will survive anything if your roots are grounded and your heart is strong.

The Background

Mum had been back and forward to the doctors over the years with persistent heartburn and bad coughs but otherwise, she was healthy, and to look at you’d never have known what was going on inside of her. She NEVER complained. A lump appeared on her neck in October 2014, she questioned it but was told lymphnodes swell at this time of the year, when you’re run down, feeling the cold etc. Despite this, she pushed for tests. We received a phone call whilst on a day out with my kids in our local science museum. That phone call will never ever leave me, because for the first time, I saw my mum cry, in public, not out of sadness but out of pure relief. That phone call told us my mum did not have cancer, that phone call told us that there was nothing to worry about. That phone call made my strong, beautiful mother, burst into tears, and through her tears she said “I’m just so relieved that I get to watch these two grow up..” pointing at my twin 1 year olds, her grandchildren.

They were wrong. The results were wrong, the doctor was wrong. 2 months later my mum was given a terminal diagnosis. She was dying.. only.. she wasn’t, not in her eyes, not in mine. She wasn’t going to accept that diagnosis, she was going to fight, and fight she did. For 11 months she fought to within an inch of her life. I’ll write another blog on how she did it, but for the rest of my life I will be so grateful for the fact that she didn’t give up. She showed me her strength, and together we grew together, as mother and daughter, as friends, as warriors. That one year opened my eyes more than I ever thought possible. I saw that small miracles happen every day, that we are so lucky to live the lives we do. She taught me to appreciate everything, to love more than I knew possible. She showed me how lucky I had been to have had her as my mentor and mother for 25 years. In that one year, I grew up. I was already a mother, an adult, but that year changed me forever.

I got through the funeral. I read words off a piece of paper and don’t even remember what I said. I got through the sleepless nights where her face would appear every time I closed my eyes. I got through the nightmares, I got through my children begging for my attention when all I wanted to do was collapse in a heap, I got through the awkward smiles from friends who didn’t know what to say, I got through the lack of communication from people I thought would have been by my side. I picked myself up and I made a promise to my dad, I promised I’d help him. I promised I’d be there for him, I promised I loved him and I promised I’d save him.

My dad had Parkinson’s disease. He was diagnosed when I was much younger, so it was a disease we’d come to live with. Unlike cancer, the word didn’t fill me with dread, but he struggled. His life was hard. Him and mum had a funny relationship, but my dad absolutely adored her. He drove her a little bonkers, but she would never have not been by his side when he needed her, be that 2 am when he’d frozen up at a music venue and needed help getting home. Or when the police had taken him in because they’d seen him stumbling out of an event and presumed he was drunk (he didn’t ever drink.)

So when the one safety net in his life was torn from beneath him, he fell. I watched him cry every day, I listened to him say he didn’t want to live without her.  I shouted at him telling him that he better bloody live because he wasn’t allowed to leave me. After he died, a lot of people asked me if he’d killed himself. If he couldn’t cope without her, and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t the first thought that came into my head when the police hammered my door at 4am to tell me he was gone. But he hadn’t. He would never have made that choice. He would never have orphaned his daughters. My dad’s body was weak but his mind was strong. He was fiercely loyal. He wanted to live, he wanted to be our dad, he wanted to continue to raise strong courageous daughters.

The first few months after mum’s death, we cried. I’d go to his house and find him sobbing uncontrollably over old videos he’d filmed of mum and us. I’ll never really know why, but those videos didn’t make me sad, they made me smile, but for him, the memories hurt. All I could do was listen, and talk. So that’s what I did, we talked about the incredible life they had both given me and my sisters growing up, the places we’d travelled, the stupid arguments we’d had through my teen years. We found strength in each other and we came up with a plan to tackle his Parkinson’s. I researched cures, alternatives. I looked into dietary changes and contacted people who had written articles and blogs with suggestions. I contacted charities who could provide support, and slowly I started to see a change in him.

His friend has since told me that he noticed the change after my dad told him that he knew I was fighting for him, that I needed him and he was right, whilst I was doing it for him, I was also doing it for me, because I needed him.

The night before I got the news, I was in his house. I’d had daily fresh meals being delivered to him so we’d sat talking about how good for him they were. He said he was enjoying them, but I could 100% tell that my dad was point blank lying to me, and as soon as I left he was going to raid the cupboards for chocolate or something sweet, but that was okay because he was trying, and it was all part of our plan to tackle his health holistically. I told him I’d be back at 9am as I’d arranged for a lady from a Parkinson’s support charity to come and meet us to talk about ways she could help and I took his diary and wrote it in. I noticed that the coming week was quite full, and he got excited telling me about that plan’s he’d made with old friends, and projects he was going to work on in the future. He was looking forward and I left smiling that evening, because of it.

I woke up to the banging on the door. I was paralysed with fear and I begged my husband to go downstairs. He says the fear had gripped him too, because we both just knew something wasn’t right. I went down and saw police at my door and I crumbled. Their words made no sense to me and I just screamed at them that they couldn’t do this to me. That I’d just lost my mum and I needed my dad. His words will never ever leave me, “It’s just one of those things…”

 No, it’s not “one of those things”. It’s the unthinkable. Your parents are supposed to get old, and see their grandchild grow up. They’re supposed to bail you out of situations, and give you advice on how to grow up. They’re supposed to cook you dinner when you’ve had a fall out with your husband and you just want to moan to someone who won’t judge. They’re supposed to annoy you with their “parenting tips” which I’d give anything to hear. They’re supposed to be your constant. Your parents can’t fall out of love with you, they are your fall back option if life choices don’t work out. The loneliness I felt after losing them was unbearable. I had my children, my husband, my friends but I was so lonely.. I was suddenly the “adult” that was supposed to have the answers and there was no one above me.

I’ve fought hard to let go of the anger I felt afterwards. The anger that no one diagnosed mum earlier, that things were missed, that she was wrongfully given false results over the phone. The anger that my dad’s care team didn’t pick up on heart problems, and in fact, had said he was overreacting when he said he felt like his heart was going to explode. I have thrown myself into raising awareness and campaigning for early diagnosis, for prevention, for alternatives. I’ve used my anger and bitterness to push back on policy, on cuts, on false advertising. Why? Because my mum asked me to. She told me to let go of my anger and my frustration, because it wouldn’t change anything, it would only manifest itself within my own body and she was right. For a while I couldn’t let go, I lay awake dreaming of what I would say to those doctors if I could go back, I screamed at my husband that life wasn’t fair, I lost my temper at my children so many times and I was sick. I was losing weight, losing my hair, I caught every illness going around and I felt exhausted. I still haven’t completely conquered it, but I know what I need to do, and I’m slowly pathing the way for it.

Introduction

One of my earliest memories is waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, completely riddled with fear. My mum came running in panicked and asked what had happened. Through sobs I muttered “I don’t want you to die…” I remember her look of confusion, why was her 3 year old dreaming of her dying. She laughed, cuddled me and promised she wasn’t going anywhere. She stayed true to her word for a further 22 years.

In September 2015 I lost my mum to Oesophagael cancer, 6 months later, I lost my dad to a heart attack. I miss them constantly, love them endlessly, but that love is why I’m still here. They instilled a strength in me that I didn’t know existed so this is my blog, exploring the comings and goings of a motherless daughter, a parentless parent, a mid-twenties orphan and.. more positively, a new expat, exploring the world of Dubai whilst coming to grips with my own personal grief.