Mostly Fine Life

Numb

It’s been just over two months since we lost our dear Mum (another post is coming on this). That is such a strange thing to say … it doesn’t feel real, still. But here we are.

She should have had longer. A medical misdiagnosis took that from her. She went home from hospital, at her request, believing she had months left. We had six days. Six days instead of the time she was told she had to talk, to plan, to decide, to finish things in her own way … she had lists, she had thoughts and plans … but other things took over. She was scared. She said “I didn’t think it would be like this”. I had no idea what to do, or how to console her … I was her primary caregiver and felt completely helpless. I also thought we had time to work through some things. But no. That loss of time is something we are still coming to terms with. Generally, I just feel completely numb.

Friday, 30 January, would have been her 79th birthday. That would have made her live longer than any of her immediate family. Sobering, right?

Mum was very clear about her wishes, right to the end. Her service was to be a private one, for family and invited friends only. No “guests”. It was personal to her. Intimate. Her last hurrah. It was the last request she made that my brother and I could honour, and we did so with love and intention. Anything beyond her request was just inappropriate.

Every day since she died has been hard. I miss her daily chats. There is now noone to jibber jabber about the stuff of the day. And we had plans … simple things … lunch at a local cafe, icecream cone at the beach. All gone now. Nothing seems the same. Where is Christmas now? Or birthdays? Or any celebration? Mum was the reason for those things, and upfront and centre for them.

Grief can be lonely, and sometimes it feels cruel, because we feel robbed. But grief is also deeply personal. No one else gets to decide what it should look like, how it should be expressed, or when it should soften. Noone should intervene in that, presume or project on that. Let it be. No amount of “I know how you feel” will work. No, you don’t. I don’t know how you felt about your situation, and you don’t know how I feel about mine. A more empathetic approach might be … let me know if you want to talk, or if there is anything I can do to help.

My brother and I, we are private people. that’s how we were raised. Honesty, also, is prioritised. Assumptions and presumptions are ignored. Questions, asked gently and respectfully, are better. Silence, when that’s what’s needed, is better still.

This loss is significant. It isn’t something to share casually, or to step into without invitation. Our choice to take time to ourselves, to sit with things and work them through quietly, is not a rejection of others. It’s simply what we need. It’s acceptable. It doesn’t require explanation, justification, or intrusion. Losing our Mum has, quite simply, changed our lives … removed our anchor, and altered our futures.

And while this has been devastating, we don’t believe in endless doom and gloom. Mum certainly didn’t. She valued warmth, humour, perspective, and getting on with things where possible. We’re trying, in our own imperfect way, to hold on to that too.

Thank you to those who have shown respect, patience, and kindness. It matters more than you probably realise.