Not over a man. Not over a silly relationship.
Over losing the best friendship in the world. The most steadfast person in my life. The one who truly believed in me.
My mum has gone, and I miss her so much.
I want to tell her so much. I want to ask her so much. I want to hug her again, I want to see her smile, and get excited about something so her eyes light up. I want to answer all the calls I missed. Those I couldn’t answer because I wasn’t able, or embarrassed that I wasn’t the success she deserved. I want to come home last Christmas, and visit more often.
She was so unlucky, but she still had hope. Hope that everything would be okay in the end – that my hips would somehow get better, that I would become a famous writer, that I would finally meet someone to settle down with.
Every time I find something she had excitedly planned, like flights booked to a relative’s naming ceremony, my heart breaks a little more.
It breaks when I see her dogs playing in the garden, or scampering around the house, she took such joy from them. And they miss her so much. They don’t understand where she is. They don’t understand why I want to hug them, or when I’m doubled over, sobbing with grief.
It breaks when I see her clothes, her make-up, her awkward smile in photographs – she never liked having her picture taken.
It breaks even more when I think of the pain that she was in. The confusion of her last minutes. Of being told to ‘calm down!’ by the selfsame doctors and nurses who had previously ignored her, ignored the warning signs, who relied on monitors instead of going to see her losing her last breaths.
Despite her spending a week being so patient with their abrupt manners, speaking so kindly of them. Trying her best not to be a bother.
She didn’t need more medications – they only made her feel more sick. She needed them to realise how ill she was, instead of her being at the bottom of the list to be transferred to another hospital for treatment. They needed to talk to her about her concerns, instead of just telling her off.
I know that they have a hard job, but I can’t forgive them for saying to my sisters it was ‘all in her head’. Half an hour later, she was gone.
My mother wouldn’t have harmed another soul. She had the softest, gentlest heart, which unfortunately wasn’t strong enough. We’ll never know now which part(s) finally let her down – it didn’t seem right to have a post-mortem after all she’d been through. She would have hated the thought too.
All the flowers in the world won’t bring her back. All the cards either. I know people mean well, but I find it difficult to even look at them. Especially the religious ones.
She’s not up there, looking down on me. On us.
She’s gone. Forever.
And my heart is broken.