Against the Dark

‘We are sorry for the death of your mother’

Oof.

My Mum died. September 2nd 2022.

She didn’t ‘pass away’, she died.

But ‘death’? Now there’s a word that comes with a sucker punch.

We have just returned from two weeks away in Italy. 

Utter bliss.

This was a long-awaited holiday, booked relatively late, the first ‘proper’ holiday we have had in many years. 

We paid for it from savings we had to ‘look after the house’.

Luckily, Louise Bourgeois’ phrase ‘I don’t work for the house. The house works for me’ has always lived strong in me – so the cracked window, falling down shed and broken blind will wait.

It had become increasingly obvious that we needed to stop.

We needed time to process.

We needed time to do nothing.

To think nothing.

To just be. 

We started in Trieste, travelled to Ljubljana (Slovenia), took an incredible coach journey – which the boys hated and I didn’t – to Padua (via a long stretch of coast and then across to Venice and back, admittedly with hours of motorways in between!). 

We spent a day in Venice, saw St. Anthony(d.1231)’s tongue and vocal cords in Padua! Experienced a heatwave in Bologna. Survived too much heat without AC but ate insane amounts of Michelin-starred food in Savigno. And ended up at the seaside in Pesaro.

One year without my Mum.

It feels like yesterday.

And it feels such a long time.

For anyone new to my blog, my Mum had had 8 brain surgeries in the previous 4 months and we had been holding vigil for 23 days – this news was not unexpected.

But when the hospital phoned to say my Mum had passed away (odd, I’m really against that phrase and yet there it popped into my head, so I’ve left it), I was taken aback they had phoned me. 

My sister was always the main port of call from the hospital – she’s a doctor and the oldest, it made sense – so why did they call me? 

I was confused, distracted. My husband had gone to work. I’d have to leave my son alone with this news. My brother was nearly here to pick me up to go to the hospital. Someone had to tell my sister and my Dad. 

There was no time to stop.

The others needed to know.

And I wanted to be at the hospital.

It was really important for me to see her there, in the ward, before her body was taken away.

I told my son and we hugged and cried. 

For a few seconds…

And I often regret that moment…

That I didn’t just give both my son and me a whole minute, or many minutes.

Lots more.

To stop and process the news together.

To breathe and to cry.

To release the months of agony and heartache.

Despite being the one in the family that would cry at anything – I found it surprisingly hard to cry after that.

What do you do on holiday?

Art, culture, read books, nothing?

When you are up against the clock on holiday time, you want to see the place you’re visiting, maybe you want to visit museums, eat the local food, experience the local culture, and of course – you’re on holiday – Do nothing! It can be a hard balance.

We started with art – saw some shows at the Mladi Levi Festival, saw the Giotto paintings in the Capella degli Scrovegni, went to the Peggy Guggenheim Museum and visited incredible Basilicas.

But mainly we ate amazing food, when we eventually reached the coast – hung out in sea or pool, and throughout, played cards.

Did you know it’s illegal to play cards in public in Italy?!

We didn’t. Until we did.

We weren’t arrested.

Just gently asked to put the cards away.

It only happened once – the putting the cards away.

Nobody else seemed to care.

Very lucky as, for me, playing cards was my drawing, my sewing, my creating.

Sitting still is my very worst enemy.

How do you do that shit?!

I am fortunate – maybe not so much him – that my son is similar, and had an equal voracity for card playing.

Two days before coming home my husband got a message telling him that one of his colleagues (aged 39, father of two) had been killed in a car crash.

It was 4:50 am – the usual time he drove to work to avoid the traffic on the A14 – and the other vehicle was an HGV, driven by a man with a driving ban.

There is no escaping death.

Even a holiday to process the pain and sadness doesn’t stop it happening.

Of course.

It doesn’t go away.

We process, we digest, we metabolise.

But it doesn’t stop happening.

Ever.

My desire to keep talking about it.

To try to normalise it in some way continues.

And to use a horribly clichéd phrase, all we can do is tell those close to us that we love them.

And hold them tight.