Remembering my Mum

My mum passed away last night from cancer at the age of 68. Writing those words doesn’t feel real, as much as I know that they are. I want people to understand the person she was, as if somehow, the more people who know about her, the longer she will be with me.

Although both her parents were from the south, she was born in Manchester and then spent the first few years of her life in Germany as her dad was in the army. She loved to travel, living in Italy for a few months when she was in her twenties, something which she talked about fondly.

She said one of the best times of her life was when she was in her thirties. She went out a lot and did many of the things people do when they are younger. I laughed a lot when she told me about late nights and going straight to work after a party. It was so hard to imagine my sensible mum doing that. She rented a flat with a friend and had so much fun, making the most of all the free time she had.

She met my dad and had children later than most of the people she knew, having my sister Eve when she was 37 and then me when she was 40. In 1999 when I was five, we moved to York, where she spent the rest of her life.

We had a complicated relationship for a long time, as many children and parents do. There were months and months where we didn’t speak, not because we actively avoided each other, but I think because neither of us quite knew how to reach out. The pandemic, so cruel to many, was almost a gift. I had to spend a far longer period of time at home than I’d anticipated because the start of my master’s degree was delayed, and in that time we connected again.

By the time I moved to Leeds our relationship was far better, and we’d spend hours and hours on the phone each week. She always encouraged me to travel, and we shared a love of exploring other places. I told her about the beauty of the Amazon rainforest, and she told me about ancient arkeological sites in Greece that I had to visit. She understood my love of history and we would talk for hours about culture and religion and why the world is what it is today.

There were always books in our house. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t reading, or someone wasn’t reading to me. She astounded me with how quickly she would read, and often if I’d read a good book, I’d send her a copy and then we’d talk about it. It reached the point where I had to ask people on Twitter to recommend new books because she was reading quicker than I was thinking of new titles she might like.

She was shy but not unfriendly. She didn’t have a huge group of friends but the friends she had, she had known since childhood. She was very emotional but not impulsive or unpredictable. She understood me in a way that I didn’t appreciate for a long time. I was a complicated, often difficult child. And she knew that most of that was because I hurt, rather than because I wanted to be destructive. I could call her if I was having a hard time and she’d immediately know why I felt the way I did.

When I came out as transgender, she accepted me unconditionally. Her only concern was that I was safe, happy, and had supportive people around me. There is a kind of peace in knowing that she accepted who I am, rather than being left to wonder how she would have reacted. Knowing that it did not change her love for me is such a gift.

She was absolutely dreadful at using technology. She didn’t own a mobile phone and even when she was in hospital and my sister gave her a phone, she never knew how to use it. I’m not entirely convinced she knew exactly what an email was or how to use the on-screen TV guide. I was endlessly frustrated by this, but now it makes me laugh. My sister had to remind her to charge her phone, and insist that yes, the phone did need to be switched on, because no people could not get through to her otherwise.

She accepted death although she said she didn’t want to die. Once it became clear she wasn’t getting better she took charge of the situation, making sure my sister and I knew what she wanted to happen once she died. She requested not to have a funeral, telling me that they were so miserable, and she hated them. I love that she didn’t conform to popular expectation, instead doing what felt right for her. We talked openly about her death. We laughed at how my nephew asked if cremation is just like cooking a Christmas turkey but for a bit longer, but we also spoke more seriously about faith and the journey we must all go on one day.

Even in those last weeks she still made me laugh. She insisted that my sister brought hair removal cream to the hospital, and when she looked at herself in the mirror her first words were “oh god I look old.” She rolled her eyes when care staff spoke slowly to her, and stated that under no circumstances would she be sitting in a circle with the elderly people at the nursing home.

She faced death with dignity and self-respect. Most of all I am struck by her consideration for other people. She wanted to make sure that my sister and I would be ok, but she also ensured that everyone she came across was happy. She died on her own terms, in a room that brought her joy, and with those she loved. I didn’t ever hear her complain about her illness or wallow in self-pity. I would be glad if I had half her positivity and strength.

I’m sorry there wasn’t more time while also being glad that her illness wasn’t dragged out for years. She would have hated that. I will miss sending her books and telling her what I’m reading. I’ll miss talking about what we were both planning to cook that day. I’ll miss sharing ridiculous funny stories about my friends that probably aren’t that funny but that would make us both laugh. I’ll miss her knowing me, all of me. I’ll miss her encouraging me to go out with my friends but also giving me a lecture about not doing my laundry and politely enquiring as to whether I’ve actually done any work on my dissertation. I’ll miss her telling me about the beautiful places she has visited. I’ll miss the conversations we will never get to have, the space that is no longer filled, the way I will continue to move forward and face new challenges and have wonderful experiences that she should know about and get to be a part of.

She said to me that this was a journey she had to go on, that she must keep moving forwards. And so I too will keep moving forward, inch by inch, breath by breath. I do not know how I will navigate the years ahead of me that seem so endless in her absence. But somehow, I must, with the knowledge that if she were here, she would have offered me words of strength and compassion to guide me.