Dear Mum,

Well. Here’s something that never occurred to me; having things with your handwriting in them. We did a bit of spring cleaning with the shelves full of paperwork – payslips, bills, bank statements, etc – and I ended up clearing the whole cupboard out.

I found your fat club recipe books, and inside one was your weight tracker form. You filled it in in 2008. If that was when you started, then that must have been when you met Joy.

But what struck me was that it was your handwriting. Apart from birthday cards and Christmas cards, I have nothing with your handwriting on. Maybe some stuff from when I was a kid, but nothing recent. No letters that arrived in the post, no postcards from holiday. It made me sad, and then feel a lot of other emotions.

Sadness that this is the only thing with your handwriting on that I can hold now (yes I could monkey up into the attic and find the birthday and Christmas cards, but I’m lazy).

Sadness and regret that I never kept anything with your handwriting (but then, what would these things be? Why would I keep a shopping list you’d written?? Where’s the logic in that?

Sadness and guilt that I’ve got texts and voicemails, facebook posts and comments, messages and emails, but they don’t seem enough now; there’s definitely something different to having a handwritten note.

Sadness and guilt that I never wrote you a letter that you could keep.

Now, if I hadn’t seen the doctor and got signed off, I know exactly what would be the rest of the story; the guilt would kick off The Loops (TM), both the basic and the grim one. I’d spiral down into the darkest parts and not come up for air for ages.

I hope you’d be proud of me as I did a fairly good job of stopping that from happening. I’ve gotten stronger; getting a bit more sleep and not having to spend all my mental energy on just being normal at work and getting through the day has done that.

I love you and I still miss you, it still hurts, but the torture has lessened. A hell of a lot.

Dear Mum,

You would’ve burst with pride yesterday. Absolutely burst at your seams. Your youngest graduated from Uni. You know how tough it’s been for him, and you wouldn’t be surprised to know that after you died, Gareth carried on with the course, that he worked even harder to finish. He persevered and did it.

Driving back home afterwards, I found myself thinking of how I would describe the day to you. Not here, not in a letter here, but to your face or over the phone.

I think that is another reason why it’s been so difficult to process your death.

I am struggling to explain myself properly here. I keep typing and then deleting stuff.

OK. You have spent a lot of time in hospital. You have had to be admitted to hospital so many times. And the last time, I still believed you would come home. As I said before, I dreaded the worst, but still believed you’d come home. Bedridden and in a far worst state than ever, but still, you’d come home.

The living room is pretty much left in the same state as it was the day you went into hospital in December. Your recliner chair is still there, it’s tilted up in the position it would be to help you stand. Your table is there, some knitting stuff nearby. It’s the exact same feeling as it was in all the other times you’d been admitted to hospital. Everything is there ready for you to come home.

But you won’t ever be coming home. And I think that’s why I relived everything over and over again. It was almost like a routine trip to the hospital for you; you got an infection and went in. The docs would give you strong antibiotics and they’d work and then you’d be discharged once they were happy that you would be ok. But it wasn’t routine, it wasn’t like the 50+ admissions to hospital you’ve had in the last 15 years.

There was definitely a lot of shock there, for me. Shock that something we as a family had been through so many times before had happened so differently. Shock and numbness and sadness (but surface sadness, like my core was in too much shock to acknowledge what had happened).

Maybe I still have a bit of denial to go through. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking that I can call you or visit you in the hospital to see how are you and tell you all about Gareth’s graduation. To show you the photos and make you laugh by describing how loudly we cheered when his name was read out. To see the smile on your face as your heart was filled with pride for your boy.

Oh yeah, it’s definitely wishful thinking, or a kind of day dreaming. And that’s ok. It doesn’t desperately hurt like before. Maybe I’ll keep a small part of me believing in the afterlife, the next life, heaven or what have you. There I can day dream about us having a cup of tea and some biscuits and telling you all about what’s happened when I see you.

Dear Mum,

Yesterday was ok, good and heart warming in some places, and when we went back to yours after the dinner, I did have a cry.

I got overwhelmed with memories of other birthdays there. Not just mine, Holls, yours, Gareth’s, Graham’s, basically everyone who has had a birthday cake at yours.

I know I have said getting the first birthday card from Graham with only his name written in would be too upsetting for me. Graham wrote ‘and Buddy’ in his card to me. It helped. It made me smile.

I was definitely catatrophising. A counselling word; it means thinking the worst. It’s a fancy psychology way of saying ‘thinking the worst’. I was thinking the day and the weekend back in Coventry was going to be horrible, that a black cloud would be over everything, that I would feel like I’d been hit by a ton of bricks.

And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I missed you, more than usual and being at yours without you was saddening.

It was good to see everyone, to catch up and give Gareth and Hana their congrats on graduating cards. You’d be so bloody proud of Gareth. He did it, it’s been a struggle and he’s worked as hard as he could and now he graduates with the ceremony in just over a week.

He said a few months ago about you not being for the ceremony. I said you would be. Whatever people believe in; an afterlife, ghosts, spirits, angels, heaven and hell, or nothing, I respect. It brings comfort and who wouldn’t want that? Vicky told me that on her first birthday after Trish died, a robin sat on the chair near her outside the cafe she was at. It fluttered around and stayed there for a while. Was it Trish, hanging around? Was a sign from Trish to say she was near? It brought comfort to Vic so who really cares why or how.

I sad to Gareth that you would be there at the ceremony. I said even if he didn’t believe in an afterlife and didn’t believe that you would be there in spirit, then scientifically, biologically, physically, you or some form of you would still be there. Half of his DNA is from you. So you’d be there in him, and in Jon and in me and Holls.

We carry you in our hearts, always.

Dear Mum,

I didn’t get a phone call or a voicemail or a text or a facebook post this morning from you wishing me a happy birthday. That hole, that void, that You-shaped space in my heart is huge today. HUGE.

You are very noticeable by your absence today. That saying has brought back great memories of you playing rummy with us, where we’d play 13 sets and in each set a particular card was the floater and could be used as anything. Starting with the four Aces and finishing with Kings. “The floaters are the aces, noticeable by their absence”. You’d say that every round.

It’s getting easier to remember you. It’s not like my mind has thrown my memories at me in one go, but I can concentrate and bring up as many memories relating to one thing, playing cards with you for this instance, and I’m not getting overwhelmed or spiralling down The Loop. (I really, really, should trademark that).

And I can smile at the memories. I can enjoy them. I’m not losing it and zoning out and shutting down and hiding or wallowing as much as I was.

These letters are really helpful because they are giving me a way to get the thoughts out of my head and I’m able to put them into some sort of order, so that they make sense. Otherwise I’m just stuck; I just keep thinking the same things over and over and can’t figure why or what the thoughts are blocking or trying to tell me.

I’m still not certain what I want these letters to be – a keepsake of my memories of you, a journal of how I doing, a confessional, a release, somewhere to just dump all the pain and confusion and shit in my mind. Most likely all of the above.

I miss you today especially and I love you so bloody much.

Dear Mum,

I wish you were here. Every single fibre of my heart wishes I could talk to you. I’ve tried imagining a conversation with you, but it doesn’t work. I conjure up your voice in my head so we can talk but it brings back memories of you in hospital and the Loop starts again.

I feel worse. It was the Tank Fest last weekend, me, Rich and Dad watching tanks rattling past. I did not enjoy all of it. Being with Dad was lovely, seeing him happy and excited at the tanks was funny. But it was too hot and too loud, and too many different noises and too much info. We walked around the museum on Friday and it was ok for the first bit – tanks and so on. Just mechanisms and vehicles. But the second part was not ok. Pretty fucking far from ok. Images of soldiers caught up in the barb wire of The Somme and being shot. Images of war horses dead from stepping on landmines. Descriptions of tank crews climbing out of damaged tanks while on fire and screaming. Memorials of tank crew members and the heart break their families felt. Images of concentration camp liberation with descriptions of what was discovered there.

It got too much and my head swam. My head hurt and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t think properly. I could feel my brain wanting to shut down. And it started to on Saturday, in the afternoon. It was so hot, I’d been in the sun for over four hours straight and that definitely frazzled my circuits. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

I was so happy to get home. I’m glad Dad had a great weekend, it was for his 70th, and I’m glad Rich had a good weekend too. But I did not. And now it feels like I’ve been set back. I feel like I was a week ago. Blurry, tired, mind spinning, every thing is an effort.

And it’s my birthday on Friday. Another of the Firsts. My first birthday without you. Without my Mum, who always made such a big deal of my birthdays. So I won’t get the early morning phone call where you sing Happy Birthday, either to me because I’ve answered or you leave it as a voice mail. I won’t get a card in your handwriting with your name and Graham’s name in it. I’ll get one with just Graham’s name and the thought of that breaks my heart even more.

And I get angry. I get angry because this whole process, of grief, of losing a parent, is natural, it’s inevitable, it’s a huge part of Life. And yet, I was so unprepared. Why the fuck was I so unprepared?? How is losing a parent so frigging devastating when it happens to a shit ton of people every single fucking day??

I get angry because I’ve spent so many hours talking to Holls about my funeral, and making jokes about it, but never once discussed how they would cope afterwards! How the emptiness of the space where their Mum used to be, would be so draining, so black and so painful.

I miss you Mum, I love you and I miss you so bloody much,

Dear Mum,

Saturday will be six months from the day you died and so much has changed, and so much hasn’t. I miss you, I miss you just as much today as I did before. And it hurts more. It’s a hollow feeling in my chest.

I went to the doctors yesterday and she’s signed me off work with depression and bereavement reaction. I’m on a higher dose of antidepressants, and got some zopiclone to help me sleep. I’ve got an appointment to see a counsellor through work, that’s tomorrow. I hope this all helps.

I’m a fucking mess.

I should’ve taken more time off in January but I didn’t. I should’ve dealt with it all in January but I didn’t.

And so now, six months later, I’m going through grief after going through the shock of you dying.

I started writing these letters in the hope that it would help. It does. But I’m still struggling. I watched you die in front of me. I watched you suffer. I watched you distressed and crying, begging for help and the most I could do was hold your hand and stop you from pulling your night-gown off, and just tell you that everything was ok, that I loved you, and kept telling you rest, to sleep.

And you did. The morphine was increased and you fell asleep. Still fighting for every breath. It stayed like this for a while.

Then, around 10 or 5 minutes to 6pm, your breathing changed. We held your hand, and I kissed you, I kissed your forehead.

And then you were gone.

And it wasn’t powerful or spiritual or peaceful, it was numbing and heartbreaking, and I didn’t know how to react. I’ve never seen anything like that before, I’d never been a part of anything like that before.

I didn’t know what to do, what to say.

I did some things right. I said goodbye to you. I remember saying goodbye to you. And then that’s all I can remember, that’s all I can think. I relive it over and over again.

My mum died in front of me and I did nothing. I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I just let it happen. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve fought, you fought every single day and I didn’t. I didn’t fight for you. I should’ve held on tighter, I should’ve held on so tight it made my fingers bleed. But I didn’t.

I just let you go.

Dear Mum,

I am really not good.

I truly don’t have any intentions of doing this, but I googled how many paracetamol tablets would kill me.

That’s when I knew this had gone too far.

I’ve wanted the loops to stop, the thoughts to stop, I’ve wanted to sleep for a week, and now I want all of it to stop.

I imagine you standing near me. This started last week, I think. It’s you as you were in the coffin though; eyes closed, hair soft, wearing the grey cardigan. I don’t see you there, it’s not like a hallucination, but my mind keeps bringing up the image of wherever I am with you stood there. That’s really not good, is it?

I can’t stop thinking about cracks appearing, in my arms, running along the skin. I can’t stop thinking about fading away, about becoming see through. I don’t feel like I’m really here.

I know this feeling.

I’m doing every thing I should – I’m not dicking about on my iPad or phone in bed, I’m eating as well as I normally do, I’m still practising being mindful, meditating, repeating breathing exercises when I need to, I’m taking my tablets every day, I’m trying so hard to control my negative emotions. I’m getting exercise, fresh air, being social, keeping to a routine.

Still, I know this feeling. I can see I’m looking down a path I don’t want to walk down.

So I’ve made an appointment to see my doctor. I still have ages to wait for the Cruse counselling to start, and I need something to help me till then.

I’m starting to think that I’m not coping as well with your death as I thought I was.

I put your name down on a NASA trip to Mars. Happy travels Mum

Dear Mum

I had a bit of a breakdown yesterday. I was supposed to be helping Rich with his final OU assignment but I really couldn’t focus, which is nothing new. I’m not sleeping well, and because I’m so exhausted, I’m struggling to focus. I realised that I’m so tired that my brain isn’t processing what I hear and see properly and mixing the signals up. A while ago (I can’t even remember when),I saw a hand reach out to get something off the desk at work and it was an old woman’s hand, like very old, 90 years. Her hand was gnarled into a claw. I looked and there was nothing there. Another time at work, the little red rubber thimble thing grew legs and wings like a ladybird in front of me. I see our dogs or cats out of the corner of my eye, but there’s nothing there. I keep seeing movement on my desk and thinking it’s ants. It sounds like someone is calling my name, but they haven’t. I’m not worried, I know these things aren’t real, it’s just that my brain is so tired, it’s not working properly.

And yesterday, the cogs really jammed up and stopped turning. I know I’ve said about feeling guilty and not knowing why so creating reasons for the guilt. now I think I know what I’ve been trying to tell myself about guilt. Something so horrid I’ve hid from it. Until yesterday.

Rich and I were talking about how I was doing. I explained how guilty I feel, and he asked me why. I said I can’t seem to get past the day you died, my mind brings up the Loop over and over again and I don’t know why. There’s nothing I regret: I was there, I held your hand, I comforted you as best as I could. Looking back, there were signs that you were ready, that you knew what was most likely and that life after this latest infection wouldn’t be worth living. And wanting you back is massively selfish of me; how could I want you back when it would mean more pain, less mobility, less dignity, and more humiliation, more doctors, more surgery, more pills.

So I do wish sometimes that you came back, but I add so many caveats that I know this train of thought is futile – I’ll do/give anything, please bring my Mum back, but without the infection, without the pain, and if we’re going down that route anyway, bring her back without the arthritis and leukaemia. Who can grant that to me? See, a great example of useless thinking.

Anyway, Rich and I talked more and when I explained about the loops of memories and images constantly running through my head, he said it sounded like I was hurting myself with them, I was torturing myself. He asked why I was doing that to myself.

The thought process and realisations came to me in thumps:

Why am I doing this?

Thump. Because I deserve to feel this pain.

Why?

Thump. I feel guilty.

What do I feel guilty about?

Thump. I let you go.

Thump. I didn’t stop you from dying.

Thump. You were there right in front of me and I didn’t do a thing to stop it.

Thump. I should’ve held onto your hands tighter.

Thump. I should’ve held onto YOU tighter. But I wasn’t strong enough.

I should’ve screamed at the nurses and doctors to stop it from happening. I should’ve argued earlier with the doctor’s decision that there was no more they could do, that the infection had gone too far. But I didn’t. I just agreed. I was helpless and just accepted it. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t get loud.

I held your hand, stroked your forehead, and watched you go. I’m so sorry. I should’ve fought somehow.

I need to hear your voice one last time. I need to hear you say you’re ok. That I did my best that day and it was good enough. That the comfort and love I gave you got through and you felt them. That you don’t forgive me because there is nothing to forgive; I couldn’t have stopped it, it wasn’t my fault or my responsibility.

And I know this. I KNOW this. I know me being there made no difference in the outcome whatsoever. I know I could do nothing and it was out of my hands. I know all I could do was provide support and comfort. But that doesn’t stop the guilt. It doesn’t stop the fucking loops.

Will knowing the reason behind the loops help me through the grieving process? I fucking hope so, because right now I just feel more and more weighed down by this.

Dear Mum, 

On Wednesday it will be five months since you passed away.  Shit.  It also coincides with Graham’s birthday.  Shit shit.  It’s going to be a tough day for him.  Gareth is taking him out for the day which is good, get him out the house. I’m going to call Graham later. We’ve gotten closer in the past five months, I feel like because we were both there, Graham can understand how I feel and what I’m thinking, more than others. I know we’ve been there for each other when it’s got dark. And I can imagine that you are very, very exasperated with us, for not talking to each other sooner. I think maybe it’s because you’re no longer here, you supported both of us a hell of a lot, so now you’re gone, we support each other.

I was going to say Graham’s getting better, but I decided to hate the word ‘better’ a few months ago.  It’s been said too many times “things will get better’ ‘it will get better’ ‘sorry for your loss, I hope things get better’. And if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want things to get better; why would I want to be joyful and happy and have an easy life when my mum has just died?? I don’t want to wallow in doom and gloom, although that is a lie.  I do, sometimes.  I want to wear black and wail and wring my hands, and grieve like Miss Havisham, although without the wedding dress.  It’s far too pretty to wear constantly and of course, it’s not black.  You know the one, I mean you bought it for me.

I have to admit that I am a mess.  I’ve become so scatterbrained.  The Loops are seriously fucking my head up. I’m making mistakes at work, not big irreversible ones, just daft ones where I know better. (Yes, I am fully aware of using that word after I just ranted about not saying it).

My thoughts are running at full steam ahead, I go from one simple thought of what’s in the fridge to have for dinner to the memories of the day you died in, what, the space of a minute?  Maybe less. I have felt like such a heartbroken teenager who’s first love has dumped them for no real reason and now every thing, every little bloody thing reminds them of who they’ve lost.  Every song on the radio, every song played in the car, every tv program, every meal cooked, every place I’ve ever been, every one I see, every thing.  Flowers in gardens, shops I go into, the clothes I wear, every topic of conversation, every single thing now reminds me of you.  My thoughts link every thing to you.  Even trimming my fingernails brings back memories of doing yours in the hospital that very last time.  

It’s like my brain has decided to constantly link you.  “Yes, that woman with the grey hair, she looks like Mum.  Who’s now dead.  Lets remind myself of that day, lets go through every moment of that again. Bring up The Basic Loop(TM)!” “Rock music on the radio at work? Mum loved, LOVED, Meatloaf, wonder if they’ll play one of his songs?  Bat of Out Hell played at the end of Mum’s funeral.  Lets remind myself of that day again. Run the Grim Loop(TM)”.  “There’s Frankie and Benny’s.  Benny sounds Jenny.  Mum’s name. Nana Jenny.  Auntie Jenny.  She’s dead.” 

And I think the worst thing is that I’m linking all this quite calmly and matter-of-factly most of the time.  It’s those fuckers denial and detachment again. I’m denying that your death has affected me to the huge extent it has, and I’m detaching myself from the emotions because otherwise I doubt I’d get through the day. Just walking to work is so hard, it brings a physical need to fall on my knees and crawl.

I’m scared of allowing myself to feel. I can explain best with a picture; the grief and strong emotions of missing you are a sea, fairly calm waters and small waves breaking on the beach. It’s nighttime but I can see clearly because the sky is full of stars and the moon is full. I know I need to swim, but I’m scared. The moments when just the waves wash over my feet and I feel something, then become so aware of the hugeness of the sea behind the waves, is terrifying enough. I can feel the pain of missing you, I can cry and sob over finding some of your hair in your crocheting, but I can’t give in and walk into the sea, I can’t go ahead and swim. I know I’ll never get out if I do. I’m scared that once I’m swimming, a storm will start, the waves will rise higher and crash around me, I’m scared won’t be able to keep my head up and I’ll drown. And I’m scared that if I really think about it, I am not scared of drowning at all.

Well, I definitely get my story telling from you and not Dad. Not sure who I get my over-thinking from though. Even now, I’m worrying that my above words sounds so dramatic, they won’t be taken seriously. That whoever reads this will just roll their eyes at me. “Who do you think you are, eh?? Virginia bleeding’ Woolf? Sylvia blumming Plath?? Certainly not Marian Keyes, mate, she’s brilliant.”

You’d get it though. You’d listen and understand and let me cry on your shoulder. I miss that so much. I love you a huge amount Mum and I miss you so bloody much.