POOF PIECE No. 17: To Mum (and anyone else who lost their person)
On the 12th November, I completed my final drama HSC exam and got a lift to Campbelltown Hospital by a school friend who hugged me goodbye and sent me on my way to see my mother. A new, exciting stage of life was beginning, only to end minutes later.
I was escorted to room 35. I believed this was a good omen, being that my favourite number is 5, my mothers, 3. My mum had me at 35 years old and she, at that point, was 53. I entered the room to see my aunt’s, uncles and cousins appearing somber. The sentences I had only heard in films muttered to me over the sound of beeps…”Sandy, I think you should sit down.” Me being the drama queen said “No, I don’t want to”, until I was ushered to the corner chair within the stale hospital room. I looked over to my mother who already seemed lifeless, “You have a couple hours left with your mother. She’s not going to make it. They’ve tried everything”. And just like the films, I felt a haze come over me where I was emotionless. In moments of crisis I had always assumed I’d be the type to break down in tears, instead I couldn’t speak. I was frozen. I stepped outside of the room and sat on the floor in the sterile, poorly lit hallway with my head in my hands. My teenage self couldn’t comprehend what was being said.
My uncle brought me back into the room where he took me over to my mum to say goodbye. Everyone left the room. I forget what I said but that’s not important. What’s important is that I held her hand, her face and embraced her trying to mentally capture her smell and the feeling of her soft skin. I emotionally blacked out and was awoken by the tightest hug from my uncle which in that moment allowed me to release the tears I had been holding back. I felt equal parts devastation and safety. I knew that I would be okay. I wasn’t, but I knew I would be.
The combination of those numbers, 3 and 5 were no longer lucky but now remain my favourite. Because I had her. Now 16 years on, I feel incredibly lucky despite being unlucky prior. Even during her time being sick, I remember I would spend every night after school with her in bed, talking to her, asking about her life and I’m proud of myself (and how she raised me) to have been able to have the foresight that this isn’t going to end well and ask, “What will happen when you leave? What am I going to do without you?”. She would smile, grip my hands, look me in the eyes and say “I will always be there and you will be okay. You are a shining light and I’m so proud of you. Live life the way you want, and love fully and endlessly. I want you to find a man who is going to make you happy, friends who encourage and support you. I want you to strive for greatness and I want you to be excited about life”. She also would be candid and say, “I feel like I’ve been uninvited to the party I created”. This sentence remains with me. Because she did, in fact, create the most beautiful party filled with joy, love, spontaneity and excitement. Some of that left once she too left but it doesn’t mean that I can’t take the baton and carry it on in my own way.
So, Susie,…I know I have made you proud. Whenever someone tells me “I’m so sorry about your loss”, I remind them that I was the luckiest human to have had a mother who provided me with enough love that I became delusional (complimentary). As a child, you would shower me with love and compliments that live on within me and have gifted me the ability to achieve the things I have thus far. You showed me what it meant to live with patience, grace and humour. You taught me what it meant to love and to give love. I inherited every beautiful ounce of you that has allowed me to go forward and prosper.
You would bring me to your girlfriends houses as a child where I’m sure all they wanted to do was gossip away from children but, you kept me there. I would listen intently about your lives and how you’re all navigating them. Watching you respond, react and comfort those around you left me floored. You had a skill to make people feel safe, seen and heard. You taught me the art of communication and the act of kindness. You taught me to know that if something is uncomfortable, you’re able to stick up for yourself yet remain elegant. You showed me that you can show yourself fully and if one doesn’t respect that, you can and should walk away. Most importantly, you showed me that I am loved. That I will always know what it feels like to be loved and respected and anything less isn’t worth my time.
As I begin my 30’s. I feel secure. I feel confident and I feel content. Is everything happening the way I had pictured? Not necessarily however, I know I’m still at the beginning of my story and everything I deserve and work hard for will come my way. What I will tell you though is that I am happy. I have beautiful friends (now, family) surrounding me who I know you would love endlessly. I’m sad however, that I can’t share my life with you, I’m devastated that I can’t ring you to tell you how my work day was, share my wins and losses and tell you about everything. I’m sad that I can’t tell you about the people I’m dating or that I was dumped yesterday (poor timing, sir). But I know that you are here along this journey every step of the way beaming from above knowing that you raised someone who is doing what they love and who is exceeding expectations from those of my early years. But the gag is, you always knew I would succeed and so did I because you gave me the confidence and delusion to do so.
Mum, you are the greatest person I will ever meet and when someone tells me that I am your twin or when your sister Fran, dad, or Jen tell me that when they speak to me, they hear and see you will continue to be the most beautiful accomplishment I will ever achieve.
I’ll love you forever,
Your Sandy x