One of our writers reflects on his first Mother's Day without his mum.

Two hundred and twenty-six days.

Two hundred and twenty-six days since I joined the club I hope you won’t have to join for as long as humanly possible.

My mum died on September 27, 2014, the day my sister and I joined the dreaded ‘No Mum on Mother’s Day’ club. It’s weird to type and it’s even weirder to imagine.

There are so many emotions tied to the loss of a loved one, especially when it’s your mother—the anger, the sadness, the pain, the heartbreak.

At a young and healthy age of 59 it didn’t seem fair. But it was my mum, she could have been 159 and it would have felt too soon. Even the past tense is hard to swallow. Referring to where my dad lives as “dad’s house” feels bizarre. But you learn to deal with the language in your own time and regardless of tense, nothing changes the memories you have.

Well-meaning people regularly warn about the perils of big occasions, “take care of yourself at Christmas…” or “Easter is going to be difficult.” Actually, these events have been some of the easiest times to deal with grief. I’m lucky. Surrounded by friends and family throughout the heartbreak makes everything seem manageable. Find your people, find them early and find them often. Do you want to know what is difficult? An out of context Tuesday night driving home from work and bursting into tears for no reason. That’s hard. That’s when the membership card weighs heavily on your heart. Dealing with those unexpected moments is a lot easier knowing that you have friendly shoulders for later.

As clichéd as it sounds, the best advice from a fellow member of the dreaded club has been that “time heals all wounds”. Well, maybe not completely healed, but time certainly helps. I’ll never get over the loss, and I don’t particularly want to. I want to think of mum every day. It’s the pain that becomes more manageable, almost as if it’s been dulled.

While the number of days between mum’s death and the present grows, it’s easier to forget about the devastating hole left in our lives and focus on remembering all the good times. There’s also time to find humour in the small things. For example, recently I’ve been able to chuckle to myself about how mum disliked AFL so much that she died on Grand Final day.

It’s funny how when you’re caught up in the drama of having a sick parent, who no longer resembles the person you remember raising you, that the little things are pushed aside. I have a memory bank filled with a lifetime of good times filed away in the deep recesses of my brain, but some of my last moments with mum, when she was still technically her bright and bubbly self, almost got lost in the anguish of grief.

Sometimes these final memories resurface at unexpected moments. One of the last conversations I had with my mum came rushing back to me as I was innocuously driving past a bench where we shared one of our last conversations. It typified our relationship as well as her undying sense of humour and wit.

Despite her condition, mum was never one to take the easy way out and would insist on going for walks outside to get away from the stuffy confines of the hospital. We would often wander down to a bench that over-looked the serene Adelaide Park Lands and sit—sometimes chatting, other times silent with a quiet sense of understanding.

On one of these occasions, mum noticed a high profile member of her favourite Channel 7 television drama in the vicinity. She gesticulated in his direction and demanded that I go ask him for a photo. Of course, being my usual bashful self, I resisted time and time again. “But I’m not well!” she chided, attempting to play the sympathy card for once in her life.

Knowing that this was the game we were playing, I turned to her, and replied earnestly, “Mum, imagine if he’s here visiting a loved one, his mother perhaps, and all he wants to do is go unnoticed. What if it was me and I was a high profile media type visiting you? Would you want some stranger asking me for a photo?”

Without missing a beat she goaded, “…but you’re not famous!”

Mums are the only people who can get away with that kind of humour without it cutting deep.

Although it’s a club I never wanted to join, I have a membership card now. Soon the days will number three hundred and sixty-five. Then one thousand, two thousand, and so on. But she will always be my mum, I will always have a stockpile of memories and our friends and family will never forget her.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the new mums. Happy Mother’s Day to all the long-term mums. Happy Mother’s Day to those who don’t get along with their mums. And Happy Mother’s Day to those in the club no one wants to join. Luckily, our club is a pretty welcoming group, always ready for a hug. And gosh, we will need it today.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.

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At the writer’s request, please consider doing good this Mother’s Day by making a donation to the Multiple Sclerosis Society of South Australia, or a charity of your choice.

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Mikey Nicholson works freelance in media via Adelaide, South Australia. He’s written for The Guardian, The Drum, The Vine Online, and tweets from @Mikey_Nicholson.