It’s two months today since I lost my Mum. It’s a funny thing saying that you “lost” someone. Like you put them down somewhere and forgot where they were.
I know now that I will never “get over” this. I am forever changed. I know that the days become easier to bear, little by little. I am getting used to Mum’s absence. I no longer look for her on the couch when I get home, but the loss and the grief are always present. Like the other day I drove past a coffee shop, and though it was one I’d never seen before, it’s name was a word Mum and I used sometimes when we baked. It was another stabbing reminder that she’s gone.
The Back Up Therapist says at the moment it’s like I have a gaping wound, and everything like that coffee shop is like ripping the bandage off and reopening the wound. Again and again and again. Apparently one day I’ll rip the bandage off and the wound won’t be so raw and gaping. At the moment I can only hope so.
I try to pass the time. Even pass it healthily. The Back Up Therapist says that will make things easier in the long term. Thankfully, for once, my inner-self knows she’s right. So I eat (relatively) well, get regular exercise, don’t drink or take pills. And I feel those wretched feelings.
But I still miss Mum. For all her faults – and this blog recorded many – we had a close and enduring bond – better in the last few months of her life than for sometime before that. To say I miss her feels like such a ridiculous thing to say. There’s a huge hole in my life where she used to be and nothing – NOTHING – can fill it.
A friend said recently that the thought of losing her Mum is more than she can bear. I thought so, too, and yet somehow I have managed to survive the last two months. It seems incredible, but I have.