The living years

Yesterday was Mothering Sunday in the UK. My social network pages were full of love as folk wished their mums, dead or alive, a wonderful day. My guess is the ones who are still alive had the best days. The dead ones not so much. My mum, Neeltje Verburg, is in the latter category, having shuffled off her mortal coil nearly 22 years ago. Without wishing to sound cruel or heartless, my own grieving ended a few days after her passing, following a bizarre argument down the phone with her brother, my only uncle, who could not have been less interested. I arranged her funeral, quite the worst attended funeral I had ever been to (low single figures), and then carried on with life in the best way I could.

None of this should be interpreted as if I didn’t love my mum. Of course, I did. But she had suffered terribly with painful smoking-related conditions from her late fifties onwards and her final years were awful to watch. There are few experiences in life worse than watching a loved one suffer. Her death was almost a blessing. If you think this is me being heartless, you haven’t ever had such an experience.

I tried to remember her as she was when she was younger and healthy, but that didn’t work either, There was something desperately sad about a Dutch woman, who became a single parent, living in another country, with barely any friends and away from blood relatives for most of her life. And then a painful illness started to suck out what was left of her. It’s that which I remember about her. So, when people say, quite understandably, that they miss their mum every day, that isn’t me. I visited her every single week, at home in Portishead and then in her care home where she died, and there was no joy. Why would I want my mum, who would now be approaching her 99th year, to live in misery just because I didn’t want to let go?

Believe me when I say I have wrestled with my emotions about this since her death in 1999. I saw the sad and melancholy thoughts of others who were mourning their dead, in some instances those who died half a lifetime ago, and I wondered why I didn’t feel the same. After years of therapy, I gradually came to terms with the fact that was are all different. And I was able to convince myself that not wanting to cling on to a person who was in terrible pain had little quality of life did not make me a bad person.

Yet despite that, yesterday I did briefly consider driving to Brislington to the house in which she brought me up and later proudly bequeathed to me, only to see if effectively stolen from me when I was forced to escape a serious episode of domestic violence. (I know the person concerned occasionally follows this blog so this might just be the right time to undo a wrong and reimburse me for the bricks and mortar you took.) I know that hurt my mum and there was nothing I could do that would right that wrong. So, I didn’t drive to Briz. It was where I used to live, but it’s not my house anymore.

Instead, Mothering Sunday was just another day in lockdown. My major role was to ‘like’ other people’s celebrations on social networks. I hope everyone’s mum got the day they deserved.