You feel cheated. Cheated because, selfishly, they're no longer there to support and comfort you. And angry for them, too, that they've gone too soon. Gone before they achieved half of the things they wanted to do. Gone because, while they were trying their best to fight it, the cancer hurt them. Scared them. Scarred them. Then consumed them.
Today it's thirty years since mum died of breast cancer at 55. She was diagnosed seven years before that--just before she was due to marry Bertie. He'd lost his first wife to breast cancer, and she thought hard about whether she should go through with it; whether it would be fair to him if things didn't work out. She was like that, our Jeannie. Putting other people first; worrying about their feelings. We talked to her doctors, went to the appointments. But no matter how much we thought we knew, the call that brought news of her sudden death, that grey February day, was still a world-stopping shock.
We hadn't talked about death. Didn't want to consider it.
I think she was trying to start a conversation about it one day when she was feeling rotten and the chemo and the drugs and the surgery weren't fighting as hard as she was. 'I'm sorry that things are...you know...not looking so good,' she said--thinking of us. I can't remember what I said. Probably told her not to be silly, not to talk like that. I should have been brave enough to hear what she wanted to say. But I wasn't, so I put the kettle on and told her the snowdrops were coming up. Not suspecting that, this winter, they would see her out.
And, so, I could have stayed angry, that she never met her grandchildren. Not just Juliet and Alice, but my sister's son Chris. She would have loved them so much; been so proud of what they've all achieved. Angry that not just mum, but two of her sisters lost their lives to breast cancer, too. Angry that I couldn't ever call her for a chat, for advice, to share my great news and the stuff that made me sad. But anger; like cancer, can consume you, too. So it's OK in short, fiery flashes, I reckon...but not good for you if it drags on.
Instead, I've tried to do some important, more constructive things to take the place of anger at losing my mum too soon. Firstly; I try to stay close and true not just to my sister, whose memories are so similar to mine, but to my extended family. Jeannie was one of nine: six girls, three boys. Two remain. All of her siblings, and all of my cousins, and their children--are fabulous, funny, precious people. We're spread across the UK, Europe, Australia and the USA now, so social media keeps us connected between meet ups. Every day, those messages make me laugh. And while breast cancer took three of the six sisters, a fourth smashed it. Beat it twice. Told it who was boss. She's over ninety now. And looks amazing. Yep, breast cancer, take THAT.
Next: I try never to waste a second. Time, like people, is also precious.There's nothing like losing a mum too early, and then having a few hair-raising health scares yourself, to make you want to grab opportunities; to be only with people who warm your heart, and to travel. Not someday.This day. I'm glad Jeannie got the chance to do that, through Bertie's work. I still have her diary from a trip to New York--she went on Concorde and managed to phone me, so excitedly, before they took off. She went to San Francisco too--a place I had to add to the list when I did some travelling of my own a few months ago. She, like me, last September, would have hummed the Judy Garland song from a fast moving trolley as she held on tight, down those hills.
So, thirdly, if the person you've loved and lost is your mum: try to remember how strong that love felt. Her unconditional, motherly love didn't falter, even through the teenage years when I screamed stuff at her that I regretted in an instant. Lied to her, too, like when she spotted a packet of 10 'More Menthol' cigarettes poking out of my coat pocket and I swore blind that they belonged to Carol (actually, we'd gone halves)....even though my coat reeked of (slightly minty) smoke. She didn't even really mind that I'd changed the 13% to 43% on the physics exam result on my school report before I showed it to Dad. She just reminded me how good I was at English, instead.
So even though mum's been missing for most of my adult life...I'm here, and I can live by her values,(OK...forging a school report wasn't our greatest collaboration....) and be there, instead, for my own daughters. I love to tell them, and tell the world, that, every day, they make me proud. I send them cornet money sometimes too. Bank transfers, mainly. And no, I never found any fags in their pockets.
How about you? Ever been loved that much, by someone who's no longer around? If you remember that love... feel lucky. But above all: pass it on.
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| One fabulous family: Jim, Vic, Tony, Jeannie, Sheilah, Bette, Rita, Marjorie, Joan. |
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| Alice, Juliet, me. |
Roy Williams 
