my birthday 2012 — under a month before mum died

Living with grief.

A reflective account of unspoken truths surrounding death.

I’m on countdown mode. It’s been almost a year without my Mum. In my head, this breaks down into the hundreds of phone calls, cups of tea and hugs and kisses that haven’t been exchanged, and crucially a landmark birthday of mine – all missing from my 2013 memory log.

For a while I’ve wanted to write about my experiences of the last year, particularly what a winding road grief is, and continues to be. You may think this is too sobering a subject to enjoy reading, or too depressing. You might be right, however, I also think it could be one of the most important things you force yourself to read.

Death, and everything that surrounds it, is full of clichés.

“They wouldn’t have known anything about it. It would have been quick.”

“Anything I can do, just call.”

“They’re in a better place.”

“They’re not suffering anymore.”

“They’re with Grandma and Fido now.”

Good intentions and well meant words, dissipate into thin air and after a few weeks, you’re left with a lot of empty promises – no doubt a byproduct of everyones ever increasing busy lives. You start to rank your friends by those who pick up the phone and those who “like” a Facebook status to show they’ve read a post that hints at you being sad.

I always thought I would be able to recognise unhealthy behaviour or changes of the mind. I always thought I was acutely aware of my own mental health as well as those around me. I wasn’t. Looking back, I spent a lot of time in the denial phase. I’d been taught that if I worked hard enough for anything, I could achieve the thing I strived for. I struggled with the notion that I could work myself into the ground, but not inch myself a step closer to my goal of having my Mum back. It took me a long time to deal with that.

I also didn’t cope very well with change; certain that change would be unfamiliar to her should she return and make it uneasy for her to slip back into life as she knew it. I even convinced myself I was part of the most cruel reality TV programme ever. I had visions of a camera crew arriving at my doorstep and me running back into my Mums arms, vowing to spend more time with her and undo all my wrong doings I’d stupidly convinced myself I’d made.

The brutal sights of what happened the day I lost her snap me back to reality, and I am back at square one.

I was unprepared for the sleepless nights and the feeling of wanting to walk around in a protective bubble. For someone who’s spent an entire life proud of the strong facade I could switch on should I need to, I wanted people to know what had happened to me, so it would excuse my quietness at times. I didn’t want them to make a fuss, just hold the knowledge. The biggest security blanket I’ve craved for is for people to not expect too much of me.

I yearned to spend time with people I could be myself with; always having valued a smaller group of close friends than a large group of friends, paid off. Airs and graces were not an option. New friendships or friendships that always bordered on your outer circle of friends became a struggle, and unless I feel instant warmth from someone, I held them at arms length and rarely let them into my bubble.

I’ve seen the way England deals with grief. Our stiff upper lip culture simply sends the grieving person underground. I found myself wondering how I’d never heard of some truly terribly things you have to go through, logistically, when I knew so many people who had lost loved ones. I promised to write about them so no one, especially at my age (then, 29), would be in the dark surrounding some of the tougher questions death puts to you, and often within hours of losing a loved one. These may be tough to read, but I’ve always thought being well-informed is better than having something emotional sprung on me, especially in difficult circumstances — when the consequences of each, will haunt you for life and can’t be reversed.

1) If the circumstances are right, you’ll be asked if you wish to see the deceased. I’m glad I did in the hospital (as disturbing as it was) but I didn’t want to see her in the funeral home, for reasons I’ll document later. They also rarely look like they are sleeping. I’d always assumed they would look nothing but peaceful and twice now, have been caught out by the Hollywood mirage.

2) When you register the death, in the UK you are required to take their driving licence and passport to the registry office. They will cut it up in front of you, with a degree of empathy council officials have when they do this day in day out; scissors through your loved ones face a few days after their death, isn’t something I was prepared for. Nor the hundreds of questions they had to ask.

3) If you’re asked if you want to see them in the funeral home, there’s a level of preparation that has to be done in order to make it safe and pleasant for you to do this. Read up on what this preparation entails, as graphic as it was, I’m glad I did. I made an informed choice and chose not to. Individual situations and beliefs prevail here, naturally.

4) If the loved one has to go for a post-mortem due to unexpected death, this can take weeks and delay the funeral. Expect to be dealt with in cold, callous language throughout your exchange — “there’s a backlog at the moment due to the cold weather” was my favourite.

N.B. I found anyone who deals in funerals as a business (florists, caterers, and so on) can be quite absurd and removed from the situation.

Sobering. Yes. Horrible to read. Probably. Something everyone has to go through and no one talks about? Without doubt.