Christmas Past. Christmas Present. Christmas Future? (My Experience Of Bereavement)

Member Name: nikkisly

Product:	My Experience Of Bereavement
Date:	16/12/01 (708 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: N/A

Disadvantages: N/A

Today, I've been making mince pies, as I have done every single Christmas since I was a young child. Mince pies were always my job at Christmas, because my mother was a terrible cook...

I pitied her. She irritated me with her helplessness, alienated me with her expectations and ideals, angered me with her relentless insistence on cleanliness and tidiness. Sometimes I even hated her. Yet, above all, I loved her, even on those frequent days when we didn't see eye to eye. She was my mother and, although I was approaching my fortieth birthday, to her I was still very much her little girl.

She would telephone to tell me that the weather forecast was bad and ask if I was wearing my vest. (I never dared tell her that I hadn't worn my vest since I left school!) She would send me teddy bears whenever I was ill and search high and low for my favourite lipstick when it was discontinued. As mother and daughter, we fought like cat and dog. Yet, together, as adults, we would enjoy hopeless and helpless giggling fits that only ended when one of us was on the verge of losing all bladder control and had to rush off in search of the nearest toilet. We were two very different people - she was feminine and ladylike, while I was a tomboy who would rather wear jeans than frilly dresses. She relied totally on my father to do everything for her - once, when he was away, she actually called out an electrician to change a light bulb at 10 o'clock on a Sunday night. I valued my independence too much to rely on anyone. She knitted and sewed - I rode horses and went fishing. Two different generations, two different people with nothing in common except a bloodline and a deep, all encompassing love. The sort of love shared only by mothers and daughters.

Christmas. My parents had come to spend the holidays at our cottage in Cornwall and it was as close to a fairy tale Christmas as you could have hoped. An open fire in the big inglenook fireplace, surround
ed by swags of fresh pine, berried holly and ivy and the glimmer of red and gold tinsel. A proper tree decked in red and gold, wonderful presents, sumptuous food and even snow on Christmas morning. Yet mother seemed tired and out of sorts. She'd had a touch of indigestion, she explained, and it had been keeping her awake at nights. Nothing serious...but, as I watched their car pulling off down the drive in the New Year as they headed home, I was struck by a terrible feeling that I would never see her again.

By February, the indigestion was severe enough for her to be hospitalised for investigations. Nothing serious, just tests, they said. On her first night in hospital, she suffered massive internal bleeding for which a cause could not be found. Test followed test - the only thing they could tell her was that she definitely did not have cancer and she clung to that statement in weeks to come. What they thought she had was a worsening of a disease she had suffered for many years. (It's called Ostler's Disease - it's very rare and it causes a weakening of the blood vessels.) Nothing serious. Mum, on the other hand, was convinced she was dying. At her insistence, Dad and I saw the doctor together and asked him to write "Do Not Resuscitate" on her notes. Privately, we both felt that she was being rather a drama queen but that was what she wanted and who were we to argue?

On her birthday in March, she was still in hospital. We drove up from Cornwall for an extended visit, seeing as it was also the Easter holidays. On the morning we left, I walked the entire length of our drive (about a mile) desperately looking for her favourite wild primroses and violets. It was, of course, far too early, but eventually I managed to pick enough to fill a tiny glass jar, which we placed on her hospital locker. We talked a great deal that day, saying the things that had been left unsaid for many years. Then, since she appeared tired, we left her
to rest. My husband, father and I went out for an Indian meal, laughing and joking as we ate about how she would never have Indian food in the house because of its strong, all-pervading smells. When we arrived home, there was a message asking us to call the hospital.

Mum's condition had worsened dramatically and was "causing some concern". The three of us rushed to the hospital but, by the time we arrived, Mum had lapsed into unconsciousness. We clustered anxiously round her bedside, stroking her hands and hair, whispering loving words in the hushed ward but I don't think she even knew we were there. Saddest of all was the little glass jar of wildflowers I had so carefully picked only that morning and which had bought her so much pleasure. In the heat of the hospital, the violets and primroses had completely wilted and died. It seemed like an omen.

I will never forget the hospital waiting room with its torn vinyl seats and chipped paint where we sat until 4.00 am. My husband read old golf magazines, I studied for a forthcoming exam and father simply sat, saying "Oh dear!" at frequent intervals and sighing a lot. We drank endless cups of tea brought by nurses who were unable to give us any news other than that Mum was "comfortable". Cold and tired, we came to a joint decision that we would be better off waiting at home.

The 'phone call from the hospital came at 11.00 o'clock that morning. My husband and father had taken our dogs out for a walk, so I was alone in the house and had to break the news to my father when he returned. To our astonishment, his only comment was another "Oh Dear!" quickly followed by "Shall we go and have a round of golf?"

My husband and I trailed round the golf course after him in a state of shock. When we got home, it soon became evident that father had decided that, in this case, ignorance was bliss and that acknowledging Mum's death
in any way would make it only too real. Friends 'phoned to ask how she was - his answer "Fine". Her bank manager telephoned to discuss a house they were in the process of purchasing - Dad told him that she "couldn't come to the 'phone, but he would get her to call back". The hospital rang for permission to do a post mortem. He put the phone down in total bewilderment and asked, "Why would they want to do that?"

The next few days were a blur. Practically, we had a death to register and a funeral to arrange. Except that the chief mourner found it impossible to accept that his wife actually needed any of these services and had to be almost physically dragged from place to place. He was totally insensitive to anyone else's feelings, ringing up her closest friends and cheerfully announcing her death as though it was nothing more serious than a bad head cold. After every call, he would replace the receiver and say in puzzled surprise "She sounded quite upset". The vicar visited to discuss the funeral arrangements and, two hours into her visit, none had been made. Father had talked about anything and everything under the sun - his first job, his hobbies, and his car - as soon as anyone tried to discuss funerals he politely but firmly changed the subject. After three hours, we sent him off to make tea and quickly and quietly arranged the funeral without him.

We had no funeral clothes with us and had to shop for suitably sombre outfits. My father, in one of his few lucid moments, told us that we weren't to wear black, so my husband bought a light grey suit while I chose a navy dress with white polka dots and a navy blazer. Then we had the argument about the flowers.

Father wanted plastic flowers on the coffin. I couldn't believe his insensitivity and, within seconds we were screaming at each other. Horrid, hurtful, vindictive things, things that neither of us really meant, things that
should rightly never have been said. Looking back,with hindsight I now realise just how stressed I was. I had simply not been permitted to grieve and every fibre of my being was screaming in protest. I knew that things were not being handled the way Mum would have wished, but any attempt to talk to Dad resulted in a rapid change of subject. His shock and disbelief had necessitated all my energies being used in organising the practicalities - there was nothing left over for me, no time for tears, regrets or even a few private moments of reflectiveness, just an endless round of chivvying and cajoling. At the height of the flower argument, I stormed out of the house and drove to the woods nearby. Parking the car, I walked for miles, shivering all the while with cold since I hadn't even paused to pick up a coat. When I was certain that I was completely alone, I turned my face to the wintry sky and yelled at the top of my voice "How could you do this to me? How could you f*****g do this?" Then I flung myself onto the carpet of damp leaf mould like a toddler in a tanrum. I raged and stormed, kicking my feet into the ground, yet, even alone, I still couldn't cry.

I got through the funeral on a tide of anger. I inwardly seethed at my mother for dying and at my father for his inability to grasp the reality of the situation. He had lost his wife of more than forty years - but I had lost my mother and needed someone to at least acknowledge my loss. I was expected to support, to organise and to comfort, and, above all, to be strong. What I wanted - needed - to do was to curl up into a little ball and cry and cry until I had no more tears left to shed. And, more than anything, I wanted my Mum to comfort me as she had comforted me when I had cried as a child. My husband wept, my aunt wept, my cousins wept, my Mum's friends wept - that was allowed. Father, meanwhile, gazed stoically into the middle distance, his rigid back and stiff posture silently
exhorting me to do the same.

Only at the crematorium did I finally, briefly, get the chance to cry. I had asked my husband to read a poem (I've printed it at the bottom of this opinion, in case you get that far) and, as he struggled manfully to read it through his tears, something inside me seemed to burst like a rotten, stinking abscess. However the healing tears dried all too soon on my cheeks as I sensed my father's silent disapproval. I was, in his eyes, making an exhibition of myself.

Now, six years on, things are back to normal. Father recovered from his temporary insanity and is enjoying life again and making new friends. After six months of 'coping', I finally arranged to see a grief counsellor from CRUSE. (A voluntary organisation of trained bereavement counsellors who will visit you at home and allow you to talk about your loss for as long as you feel it is necessary.) They were a tremendous help, particularly as we approached the biggest milestone, that first Christmas without Mum. They told me that Mum would always be present at Christmas, if not in person, then in the memories of all the Christmases that we had created together and it's true. Only after that first Christmas did I finally weep. Christmas was - and is still - the catalyst. The time when I can look both back and forwards to happy times and, while quietly wishing that Mum was still here to share them, realise that she will always be a major part of our celebrations, even in her absence.

Next week, I expect we shall once again carry out some of the seasonal traditions that she initiated. I dare say we'll even laugh at some of the funnier memories, like the Christmas Cake she once made with the solid outer crust and liquid centre which collapsed in spectacular slow motion as soon as it was cut. And I hope it will be that way at every single Christmas to come - a time for laughing as well as for the occasional tear.

I have no st
rong religious faith to sustain me; neither do I have any real belief in life after death. Yet something strange happened not long after my Mum died. I gained my degree with the Open University and, with my husband and father, attended my graduation ceremony. I sat in the main hall with the other graduates, listening to the speeches, then just as I stood up to file onto the stage and collect my degree, I suddenly smelled my Mum's favourite perfume. (The smell was so distinct that several other people commented on it as we waited in line.) We arrived home from the graduation ceremony to find a single, perfect red rose lying on the doorstep of our house. It's colour and petals exactly matched the blooms on a rose in our garden. The one that marks the spot where my mother's ashes lie.

That rose has been dried and framed and this year, as every other, will stand at the base of our Christmas tree - in remembrance.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken
In the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

Anon.

Thank you for reading...

Summary: