Since July of last year I’ve been living in Winter.
Busy, caring, grieving, loving, losing, wishing for life to be less cruel.
I remember the week, the day, exact moment our world stopped.
I was in my favourite pink dress, holding two scolding hot earl grey teas in to-go cups, had just arrived in mums room, but she wasn’t in the hospital bed. The bathroom door gradually opened, and there she stood crying. 3 months left, through the tears she repeated. 3 months is nothing. Why the doctor who knew I was on my way told her this alone I will never understand.
In the middle of a heatwave, she knew she wouldn’t witness another Summer. In shock we spoke about her wishes, knew quality of life and dignity in death were top priorities. Still, actually putting through her DNR order, picking up her just-in-case meds and everything else that followed, the depth of mums death on me didn’t sink in. There was no time in Winter of last year, until I watched her take her last breath and nodded to my sister that she had gone. Her loss hit me again at her funeral when Woman’s Work by Kate Bush played as her coffin entered, again on New Years, and again when I lost our dog Herbie.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It’s the first day of Spring now, Mother’s Day yesterday. Life is moving. Quite often I forget I can’t just call mum anymore, and we spoke everyday.
Today, I woke to mixed emotions. I doom scrolled for too long, my mind now fuzzy, my jaw now clenched, back to bed I go after doing the dreaded dishes, looking out the window at the many plants I’d inherited. Mums loss whacked me over the head again. I have no clue how to tend to these bloody plants. I’ve already killed a few cacti from stupidly not bringing them in since plonking them down in my garden last November. Mum was an excellent gardener, my skills unmatched. Her washing dishes and repotting plants are both childhood images I can never unsee. She could name every flower and took so much pride in her home. I wish growing up I’d helped out more, asked more questions, the same way I did when she cooked, but mum took a lot on herself. It probably wasn’t until I had reached my early 20s that I appreciated how much it takes to run a house or to grow a wild garden, why she did those things to stay sane or distract herself from troublesome thoughts, and how I treat other hobbies with the same care.
After clearing the mound of dishes, I looked at my calendar whilst eating my breakfast and saw that past me had marked FLOWER GRENADE with lots of silly emojis in the calendar on todays date. Today is the first day of Spring I remembered, and I am supposed to launch this wild flower grenade onto my front lawn - a gift mum had left me in amongst a shoebox of other thoughtful things like a book on how to grieve your mother which I still can’t read, a lilac notebook, matching lilac pen, a soft yellow rabbit and a card to open on my 30th birthday. Mum was the very best, most thoughtful little lady.
Anyway. Thing is, it’s raining and there’s lots of men digging up the road in front of my house, so I’m thinking I’ll wait a day or two for the weather to clear and these men to disperse from wherever they came from. Whilst I mull over this decision, whilst I type right now, I’m dying my hair pastel pink - a sign of a woman in crisis if I’ve ever seen one. There’s a pattern to this hair dying thing, it’s a coping mechanism for when life feels nervy and I have family visiting soon, a work event, a season to emerge out of. Hibernation is over people, maybe.
Trying to control what I can. You know.
It’s a weird headspace, this wanting and trying my upmost to come out of my shell as a new season arrives, lighter evenings on route, the thought of hanging the washing outside, pure bliss, whilst also colliding with this feeling of I want to stay still, I want to go back in time, I don’t want to move on at all. I miss my mum and I am alone in this feeling, because everyone who loves her feels her differently, and there’s no one to talk to who understood her like I did, or who understands me like she did. She is a different character in everyone’s story, and we are connected in this weird unparallel, almost identical but not quite way. I don’t know how to explain. We felt the same about almost everything. Just like me she loved Spring: Sunshine on her face, cups of tea in the garden, bees, flowers blooming, cute dresses and sandals, cream teas, new sunglasses, dog walks without a coat, people watching, ice cream, laying in the grass, lighter evenings, gin, coastal day trips, birds chirping, clear blue skies.
Mum was warmth to me. Everything. Wicked and sweet. Spring and Summer. Home and holiday. A delicate flower. All things floral. Closer than ever, yet growing further away.
My big take away from todays feels? I hate doing the dishes lol. How stupid is that? - it is my least favourite chore ever ever ever, but I suppose if memories of her keep popping up during this time they are welcome. I’m sure as the sun shines brighter this side of the year I’m going to feel her on my skin even more. With luck Winter gloom will evaporate and days waking up on the sad side of bed will become more sparce.
Life will go on, but her energy will forever remain - Words I fondly remember from her as we drove through Cornwall countryside, travelling to the beach one last time.