My Mum died.
Her last breath of life left her at 9.37pm, 8th September. I held her hand and kissed her forehead as she left. I had made a "Mum" playlist of all her favourite songs I could remember. She slipped away listening to the song Could I Have This Dance by Anne Murray. It was hers and Dad's song. The next song that played was Over The Rainbow by Judy Garland. She would sing this to us when we were babies. And then to the grandbabies. They say babies decide when it's time for them come, to be born. My beautiful mother picked her moment to die. She had impeccable timing. If she didn't. It was one hell of an extraordinary coincidence.
I am heartbroken.
Bereft.
Distraught.
Grief stricken.
All the words and feelings and states of being that convey loss. Somehow it's still not enough. Two days leading up to Mum dying, I would go outside in the evening and look at the sky. Silently praying for a miracle. Each night I seen shooting stars...falling stars. I have seen more stars streaking across the night sky in the last couple of weeks, than I have in 20 years. Perhaps, I had just stopped looking up. It felt like the universe was making room for her. But whole galaxies of stars could fall from the sky and it would never be enough for Mum. Sometimes I wonder if her body couldn't contain her great, magnificent spirit any longer. I miss her immensely. My heart feels homeless. She was a great beacon of love and joy in my life. And now she's gone. Grief and love are inextricably woven together.
Much of this year there has been metaphorical shaky ground under my feet. Parts of my life crumbled away, by my own doing and decades long circumstances. Yet now, any semblance of stability I had started to construct, has been obliterated. Absent of direction. No compass. Anchorless. As a baby in your mother's womb, you're anchored via the umbilical cord. Mine may have physically detached. But energetically, I was still anchored to Mum. We had a very close bond. When I was born, I was three months premature, weighed 2lb 10oz. A week earlier my paternal grandmother had died, and my Dad was convinced that he and Mum were about to lose me too. But they didn't. I spent 60 days in the NICU. Mum would leave at 3am every morning and spend the rest of the day with me for all of those 60 days. She donated her breastmilk to other premmie babies in the NICU at the time, certainly saving some lives with her generous gift. In the days after Mum's death, Dad recounted the story of my birth and the days after.."She was a dedicated mother," he said. And she was. She was nurturing, caring, full of hugs and humour. Mum had a big personality. She could slice through any social pretence with a joke, often inappropriate. But it often put people at ease, some not so much. Those weren't the ones to worry about. She never understood people who didn't have a sense of humour. She would usually make a joke at their expense. Sometimes under her breath, sometimes to their face. It was never malicious. She was always light-hearted.
I miss her light-hearted joy. I miss her moments of reflection and seriousness too. Her advice and guidance. When she went into hospital, she knew she was dying. She rang me and told me so. I could tell from how she spoke, that she knew her life was coming to an end. It was devastating for me to resolve that, but I did, knowing that any devastation and heartbreak I was feeling was best set aside. I needed to be strong and find the courage to be with Mum while she died. So she felt held in that space. Fear had no place in her death, for her or me. It would do no one any good. She was a dedicated mother as she birthed me into the world, and afterwards, and I was a dedicated daughter as she died and I farewelled her to the next life. Maybe it's just one big silence. An end to all the things.
But never love. We are all here because of the love that came before us.
Love never dies. It endures through time and space. An incomprehensible cosmic anchor. She will always be a beacon of light. My shooting star bursting through the night sky.
I love you Mum.
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