Tuesday 4 March 2014

March 4th Missing you Day.



 Dear Mother, well Grandma actually,

       I have to call you Grandma because that is how I knew you as a woman, rather than as only a mother, my Mother. That is where the real you came out. Distanced from the overwhelming task of the day job, the housework, the bringing up of children and just surviving, as a Grandmother you came into your own.
You loved my children to the ends of the earth, or rather from your home town to mine as you travelled by train to look after them . I had my 'Thirty Something' moment and went back to work, filled with angst about losing my identity as a working woman. You played with my children , brushed their hair, sang to them and told them stories. You met me from the train, with giggling excited toddlers and we then went to the park to watch them play as we talked of adult things.We discussed each child in detail, imagining their futures, their potential. We swapped stories of working lives, you at Dr Barnardo and me at Marks and Spencer, you had developed young people and I was developing books for children. All rather poignant when I now look back. In my childhood, you would sit for hours with me whilst I was trying to gain my creativity badge for Guides, together we would stick pasta onto a board to make a picture of a cat. Later in my life I would sit in the kitchen companionably, drawing segmented oranges in tiny detail for my art O'level whilst you cooked the Sunday roast. I loved that kitchen table and now this is where I am at my happiest. My children, my Husband and I always seated around this magical table. Inherited from my Grandmother it has a generation of women immersed into its woodwork, all shelling peas, preparing Brussels sprouts for Christmas,with a gin and tonic and all putting the world to rights.

You are no longer with me in person, but you are in spirit and memory. Your words of regret, when the Oncologist gave you your prognosis ' Will I not see my Grandchildren grow up?' Prophetically saw the future. I now see the future with my eyes, but they are also your eyes, my genetic inheritance. I see your reflection in the mirror every day. It is not a copy, just a crinkle in the wrinkle of a smile. I want to tell you that your Grandchildren are beautiful, and talented and you would have been so proud, we talk of you often. Someone is never gone if someone else remembers them and we remember you always.

When you died, I was shocked into a silent scream. Silent for everyone else but for me it was over powering in its echo of loss. The emptiness resonated my every waking moment. There were not many sleeping moments if truth be told. I wanted to run from the truth but there was no where to hide. So I put my trainers on and started to walk and the amazing thing that happened was that I could talk to myself and to you, also I could cry right out in the open. I am not sure if you would have approved as you were always keen that the family keep its business to itself. But Mummy let me tell you a secret, when you walk, in training clothes no -one notices you, you power out your pain, your grief and you let your tears fall. When you come home you are exhausted but your family does not have to suffer your inner hell. You always said ,' Look after your family, they are the most important people in your life, they need you.' You also need them. Together, to work through the pain of loss we work to create something good. So I have moonwalked in my bra several times and guess what Mum, no one notices that either, it is just women together. I have raced for life, yes really astonishing when the most active I was as a child was racing to the blue barrel for  my weekly allocation of chocolate. And I have talked. You know how you used to say,' Never say anything if you cannot say anything good', well now I do. I say,'Lets fight for a future free from the fear of breast cancer.' I am speaking the unsaid fear that you did not share until it was too late for you. In your memory, I want to share, to help other women make a difference, to make other women's experiences of their cancer story a journey of survival.

So Mummy , all those stores that you told to me and my children, all those trips to the library to borrow books. I want you to know that I listened and now I am telling my own stories through my creative writing as I can see how powerful storytelling is and  I want you to know also that every woman who confides their secret desires, fears, sorrows and joys is to be celebrated. I took this picture as you lay dying, it was capturing a moment and establishing a connectivity that I can hold onto. Women talk with their hands, they touch and make wonderful creations. So thank you Mummy-Grandma for being you and making me what I am and together we hand down a powerful legacy to the children that we both told stories to.

with love

Your Daughter.




Previously published in What the Dickens Magazine and then adapted into a longer article for  Prima Magazine.




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