I think it's fair to say that January, as a month, is a tricky one. Christmas is all over and done with, the credit card bills are coming in, it's cold and rainy (and occasionally snowy) and it's the month when we're all hoping that our long overdue Christmas bonus will arrive.
But for me, and for my brothers, January is a particularly poignant month. And a difficult one. January 21st, to be precise. This January 21st marks the eighth anniversary of the death of our mother. Eight whole years. Four hundred and sixteen weeks. Two thousand, nine hundred and twelve days.
Each year that it's come round, I've dreaded it. Not so much the day itself but what it's come to represent. Another year without Mum. Things that were blurry memories suddenly come into sharp focus. I remember clearly when we all came home from the hospital, shell-shocked, wretched and disbelieving. Mum's clothes were still on the bedroom chair where she'd left them, her slippers by the door, her coffee cup on her desk, still with a remnant of coffee at the bottom. I kept that mug for years and years, untouched. I still have her favourite t-shirt, long since divested of her scent.
Mum died, age 54, of complications arising from the influenza virus. Half an hour after I'd brought her a fresh glass of lucozade, I went up to her room to find her, apparently asleep. But she wasn't sleeping. Those minutes that passed between my finding her and the ambulance arriving were the loneliest moments I've ever spent in my entire life. I was wracked with guilt for years afterward because I think I remember shouting at her as I was trying to resuscitate her. But she was gone. It was apparently the most random occurrence, as if God had lined up everyone in Oxfordshire and taken a pot shot.
And now, eight years later, I still remember the little things about Mum. It's a cliche, but she was my best friend. We'd snuggle up on her bed with mugs of hot chocolate and talk about everything. I remember her way of giving little signs - a secret smile, a wink, a quick squeeze of my fingers. I remember the way that she laughed, throwing her head back and clasping her hands. And the way that she stood, always with one foot on tiptoe. It's something I unconsciously do now.
People say that you have to wait two years after the death of a close one to feel even slightly normal again. I'm not sure that's necessarily right. I think rather it comes in fits and starts. One day I can be fine, and then the next I can feel as if I'm at the bottom of a long tunnel, looking up at blackness. Then the next day I'm fine again. It catches you unawares. There's a piece in one of my favourite books, describing a Mother's grief over the death of her daughter. She talks about how she keeps moving, and that way her grief streams out behind her, like a swimmer's long hair in water. It's only when she stops moving that it entangles her, and pulls her down. That struck a real chord with me.
But we move on, and continue to exist, because there is no alternative. I think about Mum every day, and miss her every day. I grieve for my future children, having missed out on knowing the best Granny there could have been. And, I get angry. Very angry. Occasionally with Mum. Of course it is not her fault that she had to leave us, but the fact is, she did. Grief produces all sorts of irrational thoughts, and it's learning how to deal with them that is the grieving process. in the beginning, I was overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. The man in a blue four wheel drive who found me, hysterical and screaming in our drive while the paramedics worked on Mum, and gently put his arms round me, telling me to just breathe, just breathe. The lady in Waitrose who put down her shopping, took me by the hand and led me gently out of the store when she found me, sobbing and incoherent, in the breakfast aisle, clutching a pot of Mum's favourite marmalade. And all the people who have confided in me their thoughts, their feelings, their grief at the loss of one of their loved ones. Although I am now part of a club I never wanted to join, it's a comfort to know that the other members are so friendly.
So, another year passes. I fight a little harder to keep the memories of Mum fresh in my mind, surround myself with pictures of her, and try to be the person that she'd want me to be. I know I don't succeed all of the time. But as Mum used to say, "it's the fact that you've tried that counts".
And I count myself lucky. For twenty-seven years, I knew a beautiful, strong, sparkling, feisty and brave lady, who I was lucky enough to be able to call Mum. And I would not change that for the world.
