Today is five years.
Five years since you left us. You didn't have a choice in the matter- I know given half the chance you would have fought even harder than you did to stay, but a year of battling pancreatic cancer and the effects of chemotherapy had taken its toll. We all knew it was inevitable and yet you refused to believe it- moving the scales round the kitchen to find where you weighed the most to continue treatment, refusing to allow us to find alternative childcare whilst you could still sit on the sofa, and even insisting that you'd soon be able to continue chemo the minute you got your strength back.
We'd spent the day before in the hospital with you. We'd been told that it was now just a matter of time.... it was also the day that your sisters told your mum that actually the situation was far worse than you'd told her- I remember her being so angry afterwards, "I'm her mum, I'm meant to worry, why didn't she tell me?"
I hope she gave you plenty of grief when you finally saw each other again... I can remember her stroking your hand so tenderly as you slept, yours looking so delicate in her 95 year old grasp. I can remember thinking I'd be as angry as she was losing a child, how desperately unfair it seemed.
The kids all came up and got the chance to see you and say goodbye. Dad took Tomas for me so I could stay with Catriona and Philip for as long as possible. It shook him to see you. You were a force of nature, he told me later. To see you so weak completely threw him when you had always been so strong.
You had the last rites with the three of us with you, and we sat quietly together, chatting and checking to make sure you were ok. You finally told us all to go home, and had a go at us- we were talking too much, how could we expect you to rest with us doing that all night?
You insisted.
We left.
The next morning was bright, sunny and cold. I'd stayed at dads and woke up, got showered and dressed and headed to meet Catriona at the house before heading to the hospital. We decided to go get breakfast, things seemed normal.
Except.... all morning, from the moment I got in my car, I had been conflicted. All I wanted to do was drive to the hospital. I nearly called Catriona and Philip a few times to tell them that was what I was going to do, I wasn't going to wait, I had to go now.
But I didn't.
I went and met Cat, and we had breakfast, and as we stood in a queue in the local co-op we got the phone call that made our worlds stand still. Nic drove us to the hospital silently, as we tried to figure out how we hadn't heard sooner that we needed to be there- Somehow even with our double checking, the hospital had called the house where there would have been no answer. We've always said it was you making sure we weren't with you, that you didn't want us to see you like that.
All morning I had wrestled with going to the hospital. All morning I just wanted to get in the car and head to you. And all morning something held me back.
You held me back. It was your voice in my head, telling me not to go. Your hand on my shoulder, telling me it would be fine. And I had listened, reluctantly, and had said nothing, even though I should have. I should have gone, I should have been there. The one time I finally listen to you and do as I'm told and its the day you leave us forever.
It's such a strange feeling, losing a parent. I mean, you obviously expect that your parents will pass away before you, but not at 62 years old. And no matter how old you get, you always need your mum. We went from speaking everyday to never hearing your voice. So many pieces of news, general gossip, chit chat, and even getting your opinion on things (sometimes asked for, sometimes not!) daily that we still turn round and say, 'What would Mum/Granny think/do?' Even though I hadn't lived at home for years, even had a family of my own, suddenly I felt like I was 18 again and leaving home to deal with the world on my own for the very first time.
We sat with you all day. We walked with you when they took you to the morgue. and then we went home to navigate the rest of our lives without you.
I'd say we've done ok. Cat is still working far too hard than you'd care for her to be but is still doing amazingly well and it's paying off in spades- she was recognised for her acheivements with a nationwide company award last week. Philip and Stacey are still the best couple I know and the strength they've shown in their loss and their miracles is nothing short of incredible. I'm so proud of my siblings for everything they have accomplished and I should probably tell them that more, especially as you can't. I promised you I'd take care of them but honestly, I don't need to, they're absolutely smashing it.
I'm told constantly I look like you. Auntie Catherine always catches her breath on the phone with me, when I say something and sound exactly like you did. When Dad sat with me and spoke about you, he said ' You two fought so much because you were her. Both of you were, are, wild, you weren't made to be tamed or to fit in.... She worried about you but knew you'd be alright, that you'd find your way.'
I hope he was right.
I would be lying to say I haven't needed you, especially after the last few years. I remember you telling me once that you are "strong when you need to be... you can collapse later, but be strong even when you aren't, because that's what's needed." That's basically been the last 2.5 years...... There have been so many times that all I've wanted to do is collapse in your hug (there's nothing like your mum's hug) and sob my guts out and I can't- somehow I have to just scream into my pillow and keep going. How do I keep going?
I'm still angry that you had to go. I'm still lost without you. I see silly jokes that you'd love and wish I could share them with you, and I'd give anything for you to cook dinner for us all and make far too much as usual.
But it's your eyes I miss the most. My favourite memory is actually one from whilst you were ill. It was the 25th May, 2016- a day that two years later would see the birth of a granddaughter you would never meet- and I had taken you for your blood tests. I know it was the 25th as I had brought Night Watch by Terry Pratchett with me. You never read Pratchett, it wasn't your genre, but you knew every character, every story as if you had, from living with me reading them from the age of ten. You asked why I'd brought a book I'd already read, and I explained the significance, the fact I always re-read it on this day... As I was talking, I realised I was babbling on and looked at you. You had a bemused look on your face, the same you always had when I would geek out and you didn't really understand it... but your eyes. Your eyes were so full of love. It didn't matter what I was saying, what I was passionate about- books you couldn't get into, or horses that you had always hoped would be a phase until I found boys (I found polo instead which meant I could combine the two to your chagrin)- You loved me. You loved me more than anyone else could ever love me. You always had, you always will.
I didn't tell you enough that I loved you. I didn't tell you how grateful I was for all of your sacrifices, all of the times you were there for me. I'm left wishing everyday that I could talk to you one last time.
And yet..... Through all this, I want you to know that I'm doing ok too. I'm enjoying work again, it's not so painful to be around anymore. I have my group of friends- oh you would love them so much!- and I know they are there for me. I don't know if you'd approve of the mid life crisis I have planned but we do still need to clash occasionally and that's you being the voice of reason. I hope that in the past five years, I've made you proud, and that I continue to do so.
I miss you mum. I love you.
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