Learning to say goodbye when it feels impossible

17 years to the day that I promised my mother I’d never drink again, she had a stroke.  October 9, 2003 has been a very memorable day since.  I never missed alcohol when there were far more important things at stake — like doing everything in my power to restore my broken (first) marriage — alas, it could not be saved.

But there we were at Mercy Hospital, the day after I’d had a complete mental breakdown, and the day of my father’s knee surgery that would see him pushed to his emotional limits many times over the following five months and more.

And now we find ourselves in the same kind of situation — in a hospital.  Mum’s health has never been first class, and yet she’s been the most gracious kind of person in all her frailty, always thinking of others, and having (we’d like to think) one of the best families going around.  Certainly, everyone loving their mother, Gran, and Great Gran without reservation.

As we come to grasp that Mum’s life is ebbing away — and it could be months, who knows — I can’t help but grasp at every thread of memory I can gain a hold of.

I’m fearful of regret for not doing or saying something now, yet I know that peace will find a way to deal with regret in the acceptance I can’t control everything.

I stay up, typing on these keys at 11:11PM, when I should be in bed.  Somehow, through bleary eyes I cannot sleep for all the thoughts of reminiscing I’m having as I lie there motionless, occasionally tossing one way then the other.

I think of the legacy this woman’s leaving.  A husband who is an absolute soulmate of 55 years — a pair basically inseparable, one so gracious, Mum, and one so gentle, Dad.

It’s going to be so hard on Dad, yet he will have the support of everyone, because of the legacy he and Mum have sown — everyone’s felt their love; only their love.  Which is kindness, and time, and encouragement, and wise words, and not interfering, just serenely letting their family get on with the task of life.

Mum has had such a deep impact on each family member, because she always had that invitation to enter each one’s lives.  She has constantly shown grace and approval to all and you just watch on and see every family member rise to the lack of judgement that could otherwise be there — but isn’t.

I think of the many hour-and-more-long chats Mum’s had with one of my daughters over the past 15 years.  Times when support was needed, and it was received.  I know Gran has been there in this way for all her grandies, as she has for all her sons and daughters-in-law, sisters, brothers, sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, sincere friends... everyone.

It was joked about over 30 years ago now when I was married first time, that Mum was like “Mrs. Telecom” — always so happy to be on the phone.  Connection with family has always been Mum’s sole purpose.  A matriarch we have all cherished and who treasured all of us.

I guess all this sounds pretty morbid, as if she’s gone already.  I can’t bear not to make the most of her while she’s still alive.  I cannot stop thinking about her, so writing these words is some kind of therapeutic release.

Mum, as you ask me to recite to you Psalm 23, and oh how you love to hear it read out, may those words of that Psalm of David ring out for your comfort, as you prepare to meet Debbie and Nathanael and other lost ones named and unnamed, and as you go to wait for those you love who will soon be called heavenward.