Mothering without a Mama
I know you don’t think that you have the strength to read this right now. I know that your heart has been flung around like pizza dough. And I know that the prospect of the future just seems terrifying now that she’s gone. So I’ll go easy on you, mama, I’ll keep the revelations simple.
You’ll want to know if it gets easier to live without her, if you’ll ever get used to not hearing her voice every day. Would it upset you to know that the answer is yes? Your brain will filter out most of the most painful memories from those last two months, leaving you with images of birthday parties, blackberry picking and holidays. Some days you won’t be able to remember her voice, other days it’ll come through loud and clear. The pain recedes but the love remains. The love is enough. The love sustains.
Right now the grief that you’re carrying around is enormous, dizzyingly so. Any moment of solitude or quiet contemplation leads you right back to that sick bed, that darkened room, and so you’ve sobbed on pretty much every Underground line on the map. That’s ok. That’s healthy. That does stop, I can promise you that much.
Don’t be afraid of healing, it won’t take you any further away from her. She still occupies the same space, right up against the most tender part of your heart (she has to share that space now, but there’s plenty of room to spare).
You’re a better person now. Kinder. More thoughtful. Less rash. You see people clearly and you now recognise the invisible baggage that everybody carries with them. That living hell has made a half decent woman of you.
I’ll give you one bright glimpse of your future, mama. A sunny afternoon in April. A sticky toddler hand in yours. A song, long remembered from your childhood, and a hug so delicious that you suddenly understand the enormity of her love for you.
You can be a mama without your Mum, mama. You can be everything she was and even more.