Ten plus one years as an adult orphan
My sister from another mister and I were reflecting on Mum’s deathiversary the other day and we pondered how it had suddenly got to the Big Ten milestone. Only it wasn’t the (rather glamourous) tin anniversary; we’d glossed over that momentous juncture last year and had suddenly found ourselves in the steely Year Number 11. Quite apt that it’s the steel anniversary really, as I’ve never felt stronger in my grief journey. Scroll down to discover the 11 things I've learnt since losing my only parent.
I’d always imagined ahead to this destination as being a special but challenging moment to mark. I’d gather people together, Mum’s favourite people and mine, some of whom only know her through the stories I tell. Yet I’ve noticed as the years have passed that my preoccupation with her death has given way to exploration of her life. The life she lived, but also how she lives on in me. And my god, do I become the woman more and more as we rack up the digits on the calendar! In most ways for the better, and in other ways... well, I reflect on them to manoeuvre myself back into my own ID territory.
Deathiversaries are tough, especially in the early days of bereavement. However – I can only speak for myself here – they do get better. As I edge towards my forties (forty minus one... I repeat, how?!) I am entering a space in which I’ve not had her for nearly as long as I did have her. As an adult anyway. Eighteen years as a mother’s child... ten years as two adults navigating this crazy world together... eleven as an adult orphan, motherless but full of her presence in my mind, heart and this blog-book adventure.
With each relationship, whether romantic, platonic or passing, I’ve introduced them to my mum like I would have done IRL. They get to know her, and I chat to her about them in a way that makes her feel involved in my evolving life. I sometimes marvel at the missed milestones in my life. That she wasn’t around to see my big career change nine years ago. Fascinated that she never met one of my best friends, my brother from another mother, who I met seven years ago. The surgery in 2018 to restore my hearing, with Round Two just a few weeks away. That I moved from our home county and have lived in London for nearly ten years. That the world went through a pandemic! Like WTF?! (Having COPD, and us living in different counties, I often wonder how it would have went down.)
Life for the living doesn’t just stop still when people they love die. That’s not to say the bereaved are not like the living dead at times. We all handle trauma differently. My mental health has suffered immeasurably since Mum passed away but I’ve spent the past 11 years trying my hardest to self-soothe, learn and grow, enjoy life, sustain connections with special people, be present, kind, and have purpose beyond my own nose.
So in a nutshell, what ten plus one things do I take away from this time when me ma departed for other shores?
Bear your scars: It did get easier over time; ‘easier’ meaning less pain, less preoccupation. That does not make it ‘easy’. But I’m at peace with it and I'm proud of that. What happened happened and this is what my life looks like now; the bad bits but also all the good bits.
Immortal storytelling: I am glad I choose to keep her ‘alive’ by telling people about her. I will never stop doing this til the day I die myself. Parents are an important part of our history, so it’s ok to not let the death of a parent stop us from weaving them into our anecdotes.
Ceiling talk: I will also never stop talking to her. No long monologues anymore, and I don’t aim them at the ceiling. But I do still raise a toast to her when I’m on my own, and we still have a giggle at things we would have cracked up over.
Life is random: Unless you genuinely hate someone, even with changes to the connection, remember this: life is short. Don't leave arguments festering. Get over it, move on, you don’t know what life can throw at either of you overnight.
Helpful or harmful dreaming: I still dream about her, a lot. I learnt recently to place each dream into one of three camps – visits, metaphors, mental health. I thank the universe for the visits, analyse others, and cleanse my energy of the harmful nightmares.
Helping others helps: I don’t choose to help for that reason, but a byproduct is putting my past experiences and capacity for empathy to good use. Why be here if not to give back? I volunteer counsel, after – funnily enough – achieving the same qualification as Mum.
Grief tribe: I constantly come across people who have lost someone special and through talking to them I discover unique hidden worlds which deserve to be shared. I had no idea so many people would be happy to spend time opening up. It also means you are not alone.
Sole survival: Being a childless, partnerless, only child made becoming an adult orphan even harder. I cherish beautiful connections with forever friends, a blossoming stepdad relationship and small handful of extended family, and hope they know how much their love has kept me going.
People aren’t psychic: Well, they might be but let’s assume that most aren’t. I’ve had to force myself over time to not be afraid to tell people exactly what I need and what I don’t. It’s good for everyone. You can work out best next steps from there, even if it’s not what you hoped for.
Your journey, your way: Even now, my grief journey is still my own. No-one can tell us how to feel or behave, or how long each ‘stage’ should last. For me, acknowledging I still need therapy for it (as well as some other things) is nothing to be ashamed of.
In her shoes: There were many things I didn’t understand about Mum when I was growing up. I was frustrated by her choices. The past 11 years have shown me firsthand some of the struggles she faced, and she’s not here to say ‘Ha! Told you so’. So I smile inwards and go ‘Ok, ok’. I see her in a different light.
And I think ahead to Year 12... what will have changed between now and then? How will I feel? Who and where will I be? I embrace the adventure.
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