I didn’t feel like blogging today.
I didn’t feel like doing much, to be honest. I didn’t feel like lying and telling people I was okay when I wasn’t or responding to texts. I definitely didn’t feel like working with my eyes puffy and a lump in my throat.
And anyway, who’d want to read about me being sad? Or worse, angry?
I forced down my cheese sandwhich. Grief has a funny way of making everything taste like nothing. This morning I wondered if, almost six years after losing my Mum, I could still be ‘grieving’?
Today I’m incredibly sad, because today would have been my Mum’s 50th birthday. Bonfire night- she used to say she came into the world with a bang. I miss her everyday, and I think about her every day. But some days, like today, are a little bit harder than all of the others. They’re the days when I read the letters she posted to me at uni. They’re the days when I feel jealous of the people who still have their Mum, despite myself. They’re the days when I tell a story about her, even the happiest ones are tinged with a sad undertone now. She’d hate that.
I started thinking today about what we might do today, if things were different. We’d probably be at a spa, somewhere fancy that I couldn’t really afford (I’ve saved because she’s worth it – you only get one Mum) and it’d be too fancy for us and they’d be asking what kind of tea we wanted like anything but a builders would do. They’d give us champagne but Mum wouldn’t really like it and we’d shop in the afternoon, like the time we sacked off York University open day for a session of window shopping (that wasn’t window shopping). There’d be a party tomorrow (everyone’s at bonfires tonight) and loads of people would come (my Mum was very popular, she had this thing about her where people just liked her. She lit up the room, not just because her eyes were always sparkly.) I’d get drunk and be sick and feel rough all day Saturday and we’d get a big chinese that night and drink tea and leave the washing up for tomorrow.
Instead, I’ll take my lovely Mum some flowers. I’ll escape to works’ toilets and cry and dry my eyes as best I can and my friends will knowingly pop a brew on my desk. A cuppa, strong but milky is sometimes the only thing to do. I’ll be angry and sad and jealous. I’ll be tired of feeling like that, but resigned to the fact that once you lose someone, you’ll always be grieving.
I diidn’t feel like blogging today. I neearly didn’t post this. But sometimes, things need to be said.
Be grateful. Don’t waste time with those you love.
And if you feel moved by this post, maybe you could think about donating what you can to the Marie Curie hospice in Bradford who looked after my Mum in 2009 when she lost her fight against lung cancer.