19 years after her death, I’ve begun to miss my mum.
Sitting and endlessly waiting in the canteens of various London hospitals, I always knew she would die. I wasn’t sad, I never cried, it was just a fact, mum’s going to die. I was well aware that death was permanent, that I would never see her again. So when she finally did pass away in the intensive care ward of Central Middlesex Hospital, it didn’t come as a shock to me. What did however come as a shock was arriving home from school that day to find my beloved Bapuji (grandfather) crying as he opened the front door, white sheets covering the floor in the hall and the house filled with relations. Bapuji told me through his sobs that she’d died and that he didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.
As I ran upstairs to change my clothes I noticed an aunt I hadn’t seen in a while, I waved and smiled. I remember this vividly because it was only when I saw her give me a weak, pitying smile in return that I realised this was supposed to be one of those serious days, when grownups talk in hushed tones and I’m to restrain myself from running around and generally behaving like a 10 year old. Back downstairs in the kitchen I sat next to my 24 year old sister, she did something no one else managed that day; she told me things would be ok and that everyone would look after me.
Obviously my experience was very different from my sisters’, both were married and in their 20s by the time mum died. Even though she had been seriously ill since before I was born, nobody ever allowed themselves to imagine that she might not make it. They’d known her as a person, they’d confided in her, fought with her, had normal mother daughter relationships. Grief for them was what one would imagine it to be, along with that came the huge burden of now having to bring up a 10 year child.
Looking back on that day, I’m glad they didn’t pay me much attention. They probably didn’t know what to say, whether they should comfort me or leave me be, especially as I was happily playing in the garden all afternoon. I wasn’t suffering, they were. They knew how our lives would change whereas I expected things to go on as before-just without mum.
My childhood pretty much ended on that day as far as I’m concerned. For the next 8-10 years things were very bad.
Even in the depths of despair, when I’d consider running away from home, I never thought about my mum. She never entered my mind; happy memories never gave me comfort. I’m not angling for sympathy here, it’s just strange how in all those years I never cried for HER or wished she was back looking after me-being my mum. Sentimentality is not something we do in my family. There were no photos of mum up in the house, nobody even mentioned her, I guess I’d been well trained. There was one occasion at high school where I stopped speaking to my friend for a few days because I’d seen her hug her mum . It was only years later I realised that I had been jealous.
I’ve recently read some interesting articles on the subject of helping children cope with grief; a few well known child psychologists encourage parents to almost force their children to face the death of a family member. Maybe some gentle nudging to help the child acknowledge the loss isn’t so bad, but we all-even as adults deal with grief differently. I just know that however botched and thoughtless it may seem from the outside, I’m glad it happened for me the way it did. What if grieving had given me the excuse I needed to define my life by her death? I can imagine such a thing happening, me blaming all the bad times and every mistake I made on the fact that poor little Rani was motherless. That can’t be healthy either. I’m sure people have found a middle way, but I just don’t know what it is.
She was a great mother, I was lucky to have had her for those 10 years. I’d like to think that my sunny outlook and general optimism comes from having been loved very deeply in my formative years.
I have a few memories of my time with her, but they’re fading fast:
Mum setting the little table in front of the TV for me everyday after school. That was where I’d sit and have my tea with her while we watched cartoons. After an hour or so I’d meet my friends outside and play until dinner time. Mum would be inside cooking. I’d knock on the door and stick my hand through the letter box, asking her for money as the ice cream van turned into our road.
Mum dragging me home by my ear when I’d failed to come back in time for dinner.
I remember her meditating, dupatta (scarf) wrapped round her mouth so I couldn’t see her lips move as she repeated the names.
Mum gently washing my hair with the shampoo we were given when the school nurse found I had nits.
Translating my stories into Punjabi for mum as she lay in bed listening intently.
At the age of nine I was given permission by the school to accompany mum to Ealing Hospital every Friday for her blood tests- I would translate for the doctor.
Laughing at her when she’d occasionally put lipstick on. Rubbing the lipstick on the end of her finger and then passing the finger over her lips.
Laughing as she yanked out a stray hair from her chin.
Watching her change her clothes, seeing the huge scar going down her chest from heart surgery.
Making calls on my toy phone, ordering chapatti flour and onions from the cash and carry for mum as she lay in bed.
Being told I had to stop sleeping with mum because her fragile frame couldn’t cope with all my tossing and turning.
Listening to my dad and sisters beg her to go into hospital, mum crying and saying she can’t face going in again.
Seeing her for the last time, in intensive care hooked up to machines and wearing a woolly hat to hide her shaven head. I sat down by the bed; I hadn’t seen her in a while. She looked at me and asked if I was scared (because of her appearance), I said no. Then I was told to wait outside.
I had no claim over her; she was my mum for as long as it was destined. Those of us who believe in reincarnation agree that we have had many mothers, hundreds if not thousands of mothers. Where are they now? Do we miss them all? Do we even remember them? No. I find this incredibly comforting; she never belonged to me or anyone else. Grief is perfectly natural but putting her life into perspective helped me to understand how little I needed to grieve. As far back as I can remember, Mum lived with an air of detachment that her meditation would have helped to cultivate, she had come to terms with her mortality so why shouldn’t I?
This path, this belief, still sustains me. I still to this day have never cried for her. As much as typing out those memories moved me, I still can’t cry-even though crying is something I can normally do on demand. This is no achievement, it’s just a fact. The only change is that since I got married, I’ve thought about her more. I miss her, this feeling hurts quite deeply. I’m not entirely sure where it’s come from, but I have my theories. The trigger was the wedding gift my family gave me, my mum’s gold. In particular a beautiful chain that she always wore, it took a while for me to remember her wearing it, but I have a blurry recollection now.
I never missed her as a child, and it still isn’t the child missing her, this is a woman wanting to share her joy and love with her mother. When I was having a horrible time at home as a child it never occurred to me that I’d want to share my problems with her, but now that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been , I’m desperate to have her sitting close to me, listening to me talk about my new life and giving me advice. The thought of having children and not being able to share the joys and sorrows of motherhood with her breaks my heart. It’s all very self pitying I know, and I tend to shake that stuff off pretty easily, but this I can’t shake. I even cling to shy, middle-aged Indian women because they remind me of her.
Mum wasn’t there when I got married, standing next to my dad. I didn’t get to hold her one last time before leaving her house for good, something that all Indian women will understand. I wish she could meet Jez and see how happy I am. I never thought that these feelings would surface in me but they have and I’m having trouble dealing with them. This can’t be fixed, she’s gone, I suppose I just have to ride this wave.
Cool no?
