Just over nine years ago I was in hospital, heavily pregnant and deep in grief.
Baby Six number three (Little Bud) was almost here, my liver function was erratic and my Mum had died just three and a half short months earlier. My head was all over the place, my body was struggling and I was desperate not to lose this baby as well as my Mum.
In January just gone, our not so little bundle of energy and mischief turned nine. Little Bud is a testimony to my Mum: feisty yet caring, passionate yet full of compassion, daft as a brush but one who notices.
It is nine years since I gave birth to the first grandchild my Mum didn’t meet.
Little Bud’s birthday was another weekend filled with questions and thoughts that I want to ask her.
But I can’t.
The last few months have been full of days of missing her, even nine years later.
Time heals all wounds.
Her spirit lives on in you.
It gets easier over time.
Well, I concede there may be something in the thought that something of her lives on in me. I’d be thrilled to think I am half the woman my Mum was.
Every day that life moves on and things change is a reminder that she isn’t here any more.
I often wonder how different life would be now if she were still here. How much she’d enjoy seeing her grandchildren growing and changing. How she’d laugh at the parenting antics we get up to. How she’d thoroughly enjoy gloating at hearing my sister and I say the things she used to say to us as children!
I wonder what she’d say to my unanswered questions about how she parented us. I wonder what her advice would be to my parenting questions and dilemmas. I wonder what she’d think about our parenting choices.
My Mum lost her Mum when she was a similar age that I was when she died. I wonder whether she carried that wound the same way I do. Heartbroken yet hopeful. With a deep sense of anger and injustice. With a fairly constant sense of loss, even years later.
My Mum dying has been a life defining, life changing event that has shaped who I have become. I cannot imagine losing my Mum under different circumstances, as with Little Legs. Who has actually lost two Mums in her short life.
I wonder about her first Mum, her birth Mum. How is she feeling about Mother’s Day?
I will send pictures and a message to her second Mum, her foster Mum today. She has other children at home who will spoil her and love her. But I know she is still missing Little Legs today.
Grief comes in many forms, expresses itself in many ways and is unique to an individual. Trauma is tiring. It is emotional. It is life long. You learn to live with it as if its an unwanted companion or room mate.
I wrote a post about ten years ago on an old blog that is no more. I talked about how I carry the loss of my Mum in my heart always, my little pouch of tears.
Sometimes I almost forget about it.
Mostly it’s there, hidden away in the back of my mind.
But just sometimes it becomes overwhelming.
Ten years later.