Spring is supposed to be the season of new beginnings, but it’s a little late getting started this year. (As I write this the poor cherry tree, in full blowsy bloom, is tossing its branches frantically in the wind, its petals spiralling down in gusts of rain.) I can totally relate. I try to update my journal monthly but when that doesn’t happen I reassure myself that I’ll always post at the change of the seasons. This time a long winter has gone by since I last put something up, so this – like the return of the warmth – is very overdue. (Thanks Sarah for the reminder and the lovely check-in!)
It’s been a strange few months. The natural order of things seems to have been disrupted a little, and not just by March winds that have roared into gales and April showers that tipped into torrents. My mum died at the very end of February, and it feels like the earth has wobbled slightly on its axis without her steadying presence. She was diagnosed with heart failure a few years ago and had been increasingly unwell for some time, so in that sense it was expected; she was fully aware of the prognosis clock ticking down and she accepted it with courageous calm. Grateful for a long life, she was pragmatic about its ending, and encouraged us to be the same.
It was her calm that made us all think we had longer with her – days, maybe even weeks more – and it was only afterwards that I remembered the story of the night I was born, when she informed the nurses in the maternity home that she was in labour, and they thought she was far too composed for it to be imminent and told her to go back to sleep. As a child I loved hearing about how I arrived half an hour later, much to everyone’s astonishment. There is a comforting circularity to this half of the cycle echoing the earlier one, my beginning mirrored by her ending, the two events connected by the same core of quiet resilience.
The death of a parent is strange territory to navigate, as so many of you will know all too well. I’m aware of the extreme privilege with which I set out on the journey this time, with all the experience of midlife, having had my mum’s company for so long, surrounded by family and armed with the tools she left for us (instructions for her funeral, files of well-ordered papers, memories written down, old photographs labelled and nothing left unsaid.) And yet, no matter how well kitted out we are, how sturdily shod and sensibly clothed, the terrain is still treacherous and uncharted, prone to sudden changes of weather; bursts of sudden, surprising sunshine and storms that catch even the most prepared traveller unawares.
I thought I was as prepared as anyone can be, but perhaps the only predictable thing about grief is its unpredictability. Planning the funeral involved an awful lot of laughter, but while I found myself perfectly able to cope with the big things – making arrangements, doing the official stuff and dealing with practicalities – it was the small things that undid me. The packet of ham in the fridge with only half a slice gone. A pair of gloves in a coat pocket. Her purse, the leather worn soft by her fingers, still lying beside her chair, where she could reach for it whenever I brought her shopping. Remembering the sight of it in her familiar, increasingly frail hands as she opened it and peered inside. ‘How much do I owe you, darling?’
Nothing, mama. Nothing. It’s I who owe you.
The morning after she died I woke up early. It had been very late by the time we got to bed, but a few hours later I came to suddenly and was aware of a strange pink light filtering through the curtains. Opening them I discovered the most astonishing sunrise painted across the sky, bathing the February garden in the rosy gold glow of an August evening, as rare and luxurious as strawberries out of season. My mum was always generous with both love and presents, and it felt like her last gift: a special order from heaven – express delivery. I started my first day without her with a smile.
And so on we go. A new season, a new landscape, different vistas ahead. Sending love to all those navigating the same path, however far along it you are. X
(And a quick writing PS – although beginnings and endings are on my mind in this season of life/the year, I’m actually right in the middle of writing my current book. It’s a reassuring place, an established world to escape into. Will update on progress there when there’s an update to give!)
Beautiful Iona
Brings tears to my eyes, as I have, I know , a tenuous connection to your mum but to you and your girls I feel so glad to be connected to you all, your lovely family are most special in my life
Xx
I found a lovely card you sent my mum when she moved house – I’ll send a photo of it! You have been there at my children’s beginnings and my mum’s ending. What would we all do without you?
Oh Iona
Reading this made me cry. I too lost my darling Mum in November 2021 and everything you said about the little things ring so true. I still find myself shopping for the things she liked – ‘frothy coffee’ (those coffee sachets you can buy!), raspberries, which she loved and J20’s- she could make one last two days!
Sending you love and hugs at this difficult time.
We’ve talked a little before about the loss of your mum Linda, which gave me some insight into what a long process grieving can be. Those memories are so important aren’t they? Painful, but precious. Hugs back to you.
Sending very much love, Iona. Such difficult days. I do know ❤
Ahh, thank you Claire – a hand squeeze for you and much love back. xx
Morning Iona
Reading this brought tears to my eyes as I lost my mum in February but 14 years ago. Seeing the blossom always reminds me of mum as her birthday was March. My thoughts and prayers are with you through these difficult days. X
Jane, I’m so sorry for the loss of your beloved mum. I was thinking myself that daffodils and cherry blossom will now forever be associated with loss alongside the renewal of spring, but in a bittersweet way it’s rather lovely that every year nature puts on her best to commemorate our mothers and reminds us that life continues and love is not diminished by loss. Thank you for your kind words and thoughts, and sending love back to you xx
You’ve given us all a gift too with this journal entry, Iona – and it feels as if your mother has a hand in it, and is also sharing this with us. It has that sense of being a ‘special order from heaven – express delivery’ – a collaboration between the two of you. I love your description of her ‘core of quiet resilience.’ And the ‘old photographs labelled’ made me smile because a friend of mine recently had a reading with a well-known medium, and something similar came up: the medium passed on a message of apology to my friend from her mother because of all the old photos that hadn’t been labelled. My friend told me this had been a source of sadness when she was sorting through them, even before she received this message, wherever it came from! She made her own decision to start labelling, to make the process easier for everyone in the long run. I will be sending this entry to my friend, Iona, and sending love to you and all your family…and to your amazing mum, wherever she is! xxx
Thank you Sarah – I’ve been aware of the need to write something here for a while, but without your kind and gentle check-in I don’t know when, or if, I would have made myself sit down to do it. Losing my mum has been a seismic life-shift, but at 83 and in ill-health, not a tragedy and she would be cross with me if I portrayed it as such. She was full of gratitude for the privilege of living so long, and that has been one of my foremost emotions in these last few weeks too. She taught us many valuable lessons in life, but I’m still learning from her now – the labelled photos being a good example! It sounds like your friend is still absorbing life lessons from her mum too; thinking about how to leave things for our loved ones is, I’m discovering, a surprisingly life affirming thing to do. Love to you too, and heartfelt thanks. xxx