From time to time I write about my mum's death here, and less often I write in a Word document on my desktop. In case you're reading here for the first time (context matters, right?): mum died very close to three years ago from an intentional morphine overdose. Needless. With needles.
The journey, for her (by her I mean her enduring memory, her legacy etc) and for us has been a torrid affair of the heart and soul. I know little about the Hows and Whys of her death, and her life, come to think of it. I used to thing that I understood it all, to a fine point. Not now. Of late, her death, her life, my life with her has become a whole catalogue of details that amount to only one reasonable item that I'd be prepared to put my money on. Less is more. The more I know, the less I know. The little I know is enough. I've stopped trying to understand.
I had a 'mum moment' on the bus a few weeks ago. J and R and I were leaving Tokyo after a bloody top rate holiday and I was sitting alone watching the road descend from the present to the immediate past; I love watching the road roll. I glanced up to see myself in the driver's rear vision mirror and I looked alive and happy.
Out of the blue I saw my mum's eyes in my mind. Just her eyes. They weren't still. They gazed at me but they were animated with her nature. Alive she had really strong black eyebrows and the bluest of blues. She had child eyes. You know the ones, those rare gems? That particular variety of eye is a beauty that everyone can see; child, adult, animal. Shape, size and colour don't matter; ideals of beauty don't count with the eyes. Hers were beautiful in shape and colour but most defining though was the child-likeness in them. I sat on the bus, rolling road, family to my left and watched her eyes. I was cautious at first.
When my caution burst, so did my own eyes. I sobbed. Sobbed. Painless sob. Relief.
The best thing about this vision of mum's blues is that even now, I only have to offer myself to see them some more, and there they are. I'm without conflict about these peepers. They are the real McCoy. In fact, I can see them now.
Without pain, without confusion, without suffering I've found my mother's blues and they're without pain confusion, suffering and most importantly judgment.
I don't know what this story means. I only know that I worry less for her and I feel a little freer.
2 hours ago
4 frank folks find it in their hearts to say::
that is really beautifully written.
i haven't been through a loss like yours so i cannot begin to understand how you feel, but i guess it feels good to let go of a bit of the worry...
Hi Christie,
I think everyone has felt what we all feel. I know that there is a huge shock-and incredulousness-factor with a mother taking her own life, for observers as well as us. But I've come to realise, as the confusion dwindles, that we all know how I feel.
You know when your child is tired, hungry, hurt, in genuine need of you and cries seemingly endlessly?
You know that the kid needs you and that they are unable to make any sense of how they feel. And as mum, you feel so responsible because you know you can ease the child's ill mood, feeling etc. You feel their heart, right? Remember how it feels to have to leave your child with someone unfamiliar (to the child) and the look of sheer empty hurt that their little faces hold?
I don't think we THINK we can feel our children's hearts, I believe we feel what they feel. This is a two way street.
When you look at your messy sobbing child, have you ever remembered the same feeling from when you were a child, and remembered being comforted by a parent? I don't know about others, but I remember the feeling clearly.
Losing my mother felt and feels like how our children feel when they are unable to fathom juggling too many of their (base) feelings at one time. I felt like how a 2 and a half year-old might feel when they cry because mummy is going (to the shop) without them combined with an empathy for her suffering that is like the empathy that we have for our children. To be honest I think we feel the suffering of our mothers all our lives; seeing your mum hurt hurts like hell.
And yes, thank you, I do have less worry since that moment that I wrote about on this post and I know that time just lifts the worry week by week, moment by moment; even writing this message to you brings ease.
Thanks,
D
It's hugely generous of you to say we all know how you feel.
I think you're spot on when you say that "seeing your mum hurt hurts like hell." I know I carry my own pain and confusion for my mum's past suffering, especially since she's tried to protect me from it by not revealing too much. The way you describe the feeling of losing your mother (distraught child combined with mothers' empathy) is just how I feel about my mum's pain and she is still alive. I'd like to have the courage to talk to her about it some day.
Thanks.
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