“When smaller than her self”

It’s been six months since we lost our mum. To the day. The 19th is a date that will sting for evermore. But although I say six months, it was longer in many ways. Jackie Kay, in Darling, writes:

When smaller than her self,
she seemed already to be leaving


This line doesn’t reference dementia, but it describes the way Mum’s life was affected by the cruel disease we came to loathe. While it’s been six months since we lost Mum, we were losing her for a long time before that. It’s a horrible disease and the only positive I can draw from it was the opportunity I had to care for Mum in a way a mother cares for her child. The roles reversed. In life, we give back. Well, those of us who have been able to embrace that emotionally and physically difficult, but ultimately rewarding time, with a parent. Not everyone gets the chance to care in such a deep and meaningful way.

At the beginning of this month, my siblings and I took Dad, and Mum’s ashes, to Rathlin Island, to carry out Mum’s final wish. She wanted her ashes to be buried at my home on the island, where my dad was born and raised and where Mum and Dad enjoyed a plethora of happy memories. We created a memorial in the garden for Mum, beside my dear deceased grandson Tommy’s tree, and on a very emotional day, with lots of tears and a few glasses raised, we did exactly that.

I can’t begin to imagine how hard it was for my dad. Physically, it was a huge ordeal for him to even get home via two ferries and two car journeys. But after more than seventy years together he is grieving someone who was in so many ways an extension of himself. His pain runs deep, and life without Mum is incredibly lonely, even with us weans making sure he has visits and company every day. We can’t pretend that we make a dent in that painful void but we try and we will keep trying. We are lucky to still have him in our lives. He’s ninety years old, and he’s fought back from the brink on more occasions than I care to remember. What a man.

I began writing this about Mum, but it has merged into a story about them both, Mum and Dad, separated physically, but always joined in their hearts.

A funny story, one that helps lift me in moments of melancholy. When Mum was in hospital, receiving end of life care, she drifted in and out of the big sleep that prepares us for death. We sat by her bedside everyday, just in case she stirred and needed us. One day, close to the end, she woke, squeezed my hand and asked… “did you keep your promise to bury my ashes in Mullindress.” Well, when I told her she wasn’t dead yet, she laughed and laughed and laughed and I will happily listen to that sound for the rest of my life.

This is where Mum rests. We think about her every day, but anniversary’s seem more poignant for some reason. A stark reminder, as if we ever needed it, that we can no longer reach out and curl our fingers around Mum’s hand in comfort. But we can hope that she knows that our arms will remain forever outstretched.