The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness. - Honoré de Balzac
Hey there.
So here we go.
On the 18th of November 2004, my mother, Elizabeth Anne Dean, passed away as a result of a heart attack. She'd suffered several over the years, seven at my last count including the one which had seen her brought into hospital perhaps two days earlier, and had soldiered on regardless. She was, in my eyes, unstoppable. As a result I'd become over-confident, almost blithe, about her hospitalisation. Please don't read this the wrong way. It wasn't that I had become uncaring; I was confident in her strength and her vitality, so much so that I was sure this would just be an occasion where she would spend a couple of weeks in hospital and then return home, as strong as ever.
So when I arrived at the hospital with one of my best friends and my girlfriend of the time, quite chipper and looking forward to telling mum about our antics while she hadn't been at home, to discover my stepfather alone in the hallway, in tears, I was understandably shocked. No. Terrified. This was a man who simply did not, to my knowledge, cry. To see him red-eyed and shaking, clutching at a crumpled tissue and stuttering, shook me right to my bones. He gave me the news and my mind simply whirled away by itself, adrenaline rushed through me and I could feel every muscle tense and quiver. I was halfway up the first set of stairs when I was told (by whom I forget) that the lift had arrived. I walked in, my breath tight, shaking and inwardly thinking that this was fucking stupid, why didn't they just let me take the stairs? I could feel my fists clenching and simply didn't register that there was anyone else in the lift with me.
We arrived at the ward. We informed the duty sister who we were, and who I was, and were directed to a small, plain room to where they had moved my mother. I entered alone. As soon as the door closed behind me I snapped.
Looking at my mother's unmoving body, my eyes, already wet, broke into tears. That is the best way I can describe it. It was not a creeping, oh-dear-I-think-I'm-going-to-cry moment, it just happened. I could barely see. I was suddenly in pain. I can still feel the same ache that spread from my chest up through my throat, into my jaw, my eyes, my mind, right now, as I type. An agony that is physical and mental, like steel fingers grasping at my spirit and squeezing, always squeezing.
I know I didn't spend long with her. I spoke for a while, through wracking sobs and heaving, choking breaths. I told her the things I expect we all try when enveloped in the vice of sudden and total grief. That this wasn't happening, that she was fine, that she'd be okay, that we were going to look after her, that I loved her, that we all loved her, that she couldn't just leave like this... But she had. There is no doubt in my mind that my mother fought every inch of the way as she was taken, that she battled tooth and nail, heart and soul.
Anger was in me now. I clutched at my mother's hand , teeth suddenly ground together, driven by rage and blind, red fury to burn the whole place down. No. Not the place. The world. Burn the entire world to ashes and bones for taking the only person, the ONLY person, who had always, without prejudice, without question, without hesitation, been there for me, believed in me, loved for who I was and accepted all (and there are many) of my flaws. I laid my head on her chest, and, I'm not ashamed to say, spent a few moments simply crying.
Of course, I probably would have stayed with her until an orderly was sent to remove her body, but, after the anger and fear began to ebb, my stepfather entered the room. I remember him being there because I remember a strangely distant part of my mind being fascinated that this man, who I had for a long time simply disliked, then resented, then despised, was also the only person who could reasonably expect to get any kind of sense out of me at this point. He spoke, briefly. I forget now what he said, but it must have had some effect. I told him I would be out in a bit. After the door closed, I stood at my mother's side. By now rationality was starting to return, and I could feel that detached feeling again, a sense that it was looking at two other pieces of my mind which were bitterly at war. The rational, logical side was trying desperately to explain that this was simply an empty vessel now, a thing which must return to the earth and which would only cause me pain to linger by. The other was a screaming, mad thing that simply refused to let up, insisting that to leave mum here would be horrible, monstrous, that I was a terrible person for even thinking such a thing. Some kind of agreement was reached, though, because I remember leaning down to kiss my mum goodbye. Once on the forehead, and once on each mercifully closed eye. I cannot remember why but this seemed incredibly important at the time.
And then I said goodbye. And then I left.
Not a single day goes by that I don't miss my mum. I've said it before and I'll say it again; the loss of a loved one is something you learn to cope with, but never really get over. Hell, I've been on the verge of tears while writing this whole thing. And I've had help.
Which is the other thing I want to write about today. The people who have helped me along the way. Now don't get me wrong; I'm fully aware that I haven't had some terrible wasting disease or horrific stigma that's prevented me from having a life, but I have my problems. I want to thank my Auntie Gill, who has been a constant comfort to me, even before mum's passing. My Auntie Gill, for those of you who don't know, is my mum's younger sister and a wonderfully accepting person. I don't stay in touch as much as I should, but I am constantly aware that she is there for me should I need someone to speak to about anything at all. She is a legend whose love of family, cats, good books and nerdery is an inspiration to someone like me.
And I also want to thank some mums, who are, let's be honest, deserving of far, far more praise than they get.
I want to thank Allison Colchester, who is my friend Chris' mum, and has put up with me and my sporadic visits since I first met her son at school almost sixteen years ago. She is a vibrant, constantly chipper person who is more than capable of brightening my day within the space of five minutes. She is also extremely generous with home-cooked dinners and has been a key element in my gradual acceptance of Colchester as a place to live rather than a place to resent.
I want to thank Lou Joyce, my stepmum, who couldn't be more of an opposite to an evil stepmother if she tried. Lou is a brilliant person, Essex at heart, quick-witted and with an infectious laugh. Lou has been keeping my dad in line for a long time, putting up with my virtual absence from the family unit and raising my little sister Paige to be a perfect, if a bit odd, sibling. And by that I mean Paige tends to have a snappy comeback for most of my insults and is always ready with a sisterly shriek of fear when I threaten to wake her up by pouring a glass of water over her head.
I want to thank Ellen Salmon, known by just about everyone I've ever had a drink with as "Mum", for being, bar my own, the mumsiest mum I've ever met. She makes a mean mac and cheese, drinks Baileys like a boss, taxis her daughter just about everywhere without complaint, deals with intermittent but noisy invasions by her daughter's friends, and (this is VERY important) makes certain you are aware that, if you absolutely must put your puke-stained jeans in with the washing, she does not do pockets.
So if you've made it here, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, having fought your way to the castle bey- sorry, to the end of this post, I thank you again, and urge you to just give your folks a bell. Or send a quick text. Something. Just to let them know you're alright.
Oh and one final note to some people who have just arrived in the glorious, pastel-coloured hall of motherhood (a rather cosy hall really, with fancy marble pillars sculpted to look like piles of dirty washing, mother-of-pearl coathangers - the bloody things get everywhere - dangling from the chandeliers, and where the slightly grubby but well-used hallway rug is watched over by little golden statues of Yorkshire terriers):
Jesamine Cripes Atkinson, Holly Fitzgerald and Rachel Ambrose, you are each the most important person in someone's life now. No pressure. Just carry on being awesome.
Thanks for your time.
Love, Odsox.