My mum died 10 years ago today, and it feels like 10 years. That’s almost all of my adult life, a lot has happened since then. It’s the main event my life was punctuated around. It used to be the gnarled rock on which the rest of my identity was built, but in the last few years that feeling has dulled. I’d like to think that it’s been eroded through my relationships and purpose from my work, but it’s probably just that my memory is bad and is finally taking its toll, or that being on the other side of the world has softened it. It’s ok though, it’s probably better this way.
I had a really rough time for the first few years. I thought about her every day, and was emotionally fragile. Any time I would see my friends having fun I would immediately become sad. A few years after mum died, I called my grandmother and she told me about her nice memories and tried to reminisce, and I felt so jealous and behind that she was able to do that. If someone mentioned their mother in a conversation I would shut down completely. It was a lot, turns out people talk about their families quite a bit. I’ve had a lot of emotional walls in relationships. And any time I took any drug I would end up crying. That mostly feels behind me. Now I think I have appropriate sadness that will sometimes inexplicably wash over me in social situations, and a probably good anxiety that if I take any drug I’ll end up bringing something unpleasant from the deep.
Mum had the largest personality of anyone I’ve ever met, and I had a great childhood. It was in Sydney, probably the best place in the world to be from. Mum would force us into just about every activity and experience a child could have. Painting, pottery, drama, sports, gymnastics, music, tutoring. We travelled around Australia, and a few times overseas, but most holidays were taken up roping other families into camping trips with a traditional talent show. She drove everything and grew an immense cast of characters. She was the brightest person in any room, with a huge smile and lively South African accent. She had the mix of incredible determination, warm charisma and fun, and a deep, deep distrust of people. It wouldn’t be long after someone entered our lives that they would be cast out, it was hard to hold onto family friends for very long. She told me a couple times, as a kid, that I couldn’t really trust this or that friend. I ended up being an overly trusting person.
Her main trait was the ability to be completely engaged with the thing in front of her, which was usually people, and it made her magnetic. The downside of this is that she got so absorbed in things that she neglected everything else. I would often wait at school or sports for up to an hour for her. There were many occasions where other family members had to be called to relieve whichever teacher wanted to finally go home. We missed many appointments and travel plans. Always with some appropriate excuse and a bit of rage if frustration was shown. She was an obsessive, I get that from her. But mostly she was obsessed with making sure we grew up well.
Of course there was also the Chinese herbal medicine, chiropractors, kinesiologists, acupuncture, and the large-nosed breathing instructor. Mum was a homeopath. We had cupboards full of tiny vials of small, barely inoculated sugar balls, and were taught how to make the remedies: this dose, 1/4 brandy, the rest water. We had to get secretly vaccinated away from her gaze as adults. She did homeopathy in the least new-age way possible, everyone in my family is allergic to hippies. She had a degree in economics, a masters in textile engineering, and later worked at McKinsey. She saw homeopathy as building up the scientific field, but with an intense distrust of the established health system. She wrote papers, submitted to conferences, reviewed literature. She had many patients who would come to our house. I think she genuinely did them the world of good. A lot of people go to alternative medicine when things don’t work for them, and mum would sit with them for hours and listen, and tell them to go on a healthy diet and give them some remedies. She had endless patience for talking to and understanding people, and making them feel seen. That all seemed to work.
There were hundreds of people at the funeral, a few told me it was the largest they’d ever been to.
I think it was hard for me to see that warmth, it was rarer at home. All of us have very good friends for that. And we took emotion out on the cats. Our family has an abundance of practical love and obligation. I kinda think it works. But there was also the arguing and shouting on a daily basis. I retreated to my room as soon as I got one as a teenager. I still like solitude.
We did a family trip to Spain and Cuba nine months after mum died. There was so much frustration and arguing, her ghost looming over us. I’ve lived away from my family for a long time now. We all got together for Dad’s 80th birthday last year. It felt good, I felt more myself. More fluid, less bottled up, and more angry.
She died of cancer, caught at stage 4 and protracted over 3 years. She was mostly fine for a long time, then rapidly deteriorated. She explored every solution except the standard ones. I’m not sure if it would have been better, chemo seems terrible. But she was devastatingly sad at the end that she didn’t try. I remember the last few years the most vividly. I remember visiting her in the hospital, catching her on a walk, her so excited to see me and hugging me. I remember sitting with her in bed at my grandmother’s house, and her being inconsolable that she wouldn’t be there to see what we’d become. I remember her begging me to stay to sleep next to her, on the couch. I remember the one heart to heart conversation we had about my solitude, and being the easiest of the four kids to deal with so being left to my own devices. I remember being at my grandmother’s place sitting with her in the spare room. She was so frail, and not able to eat the things that I brought her. She cries. Her deep, deep sadness was that she wouldn’t see us grow up. I put my hand on hers, not knowing what to do. She said that she knows I’m sensitive, and I really really need to try hard to get in touch with that and bring it out to be happy. I only realised maybe a year later that she was identifying with me, and wished she could have been like that herself.
I remember finding it harder and harder to call her every week as talking became harder, with the disease and morphine impacting her memory and speech. I remember sitting alone with her body in the hospital, in tears, with the words thank you, I love you repeatedly coming out from my mouth over and over. And I remember the incredible loss for not having my mum to talk through every decision and occasion in my life.
I find it so hard to be proud of myself for what I do, pride and congratulations always feel so patronizing. Maybe it’s easier when your mum’s there, because you can just show her the things and she’ll be proud of you, which she was. Very much so. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to replace that. But at least now I’m much better at thinking and talking about her. Not good, but better. I don’t do it enough. But also I don’t really want to do it. I’m not sure what else there is to talk about, and the grief is mine. It wells up and wells down once or twice a year, and I treasure it.
Sometimes, I feel like maybe I’m another iteration of my mum. I’m a highly driven and obsessive person, like her. And I feel like that drive is a piece of her. But she must have been far more fearless. Less anxious, more empathetic. We never really discussed our similarities, even as I grew into someone more like her. She was proud that I was doing whatever things I was doing, though we never had any specific passion in common. It is easier to speak with her now when I go to her grave.
I wish she was here.
