I was driving home from the studio yesterday, listening to a programme on the radio that Mum liked. (Hamish and Andy you are total idiots btw) I was thinking about Mum and I was mentally congratulating myself on the fact that I was able to think about Mum without crying.
I hadn’t been home for long when Veronica rang and told me about Amy’s joyful hope that her Nanny was not died. I have lifted the following text in italics, straight from Veronica’s post, Heartbroken
As we pulled into the driveway and parked, Amy looked at me happily.
‘YAY! YAY! MyNanny is not died! We go visit!’
I looked at her, with tears in my eyes.
‘I’m sorry sweetheart. MyNanny did die. We’re all still very sad.’
‘Oh.’ She said and went quiet.
When Veronica told me about her conversation with Amy I started to cry. I cried when I thought about Amy’s hopeful little face shining with excitement at being able to see her ‘Mynanny’ again. I am crying now as I write this and the need to hug my grand daughter is very strong.
I am also spending way too much time analyzing my grief, I tend to over think things sometimes. The tears aren’t as intense as the first week after the funeral and I am certainly not as vulnerable as I was then. Things that were said or done, that hurt me in those first weeks certainly don’t have the same power now. There is a fine line between sorrow and anger. I am also not afraid that I will start to cry when Mum’s friends ask me how I am, which is a relief because that was annoying, as well as slightly embarrassing.
I thought that I was travelling along nicely,that I had put the worst of the tears behind me. Obviously not. There isn’t a time-frame for grieving, nor is there any set way to grieve. I want to be able to write about my work but the words just aren’t there. My camera is getting dusty and my clay is going hard.
*************************************************
It is now much later in the morning and I am not feeling quite so sad.
Veronica and I are going down to Mum’s later on today to pack up some more of Mum’s things. It is an incredibly sad task, packing someones life into cardboard boxes. It is also a job that I find I am quite unable to do by myself. I just keep on wandering aimlessly around Mum’s house picking up her things and putting them down again.
Small things make me sad. The library book that Mum was reading that I keep on forgetting to return. A book of sudoko puzzles that I gave Mum when she was having chemo. Mum’s gardening shoes just inside the front door.
On a lighter note it is a sunny winters day up here today, the sky is a clear cloudless blue and there is some warmth in the sunshine.
Comments on this entry are closed.
‘and there is some warmth in the sunshine’ Could it be a metaphor for the stage you are at in the grief process? Poor Amy, such a big concept for such a loving little person.
Dare I suggest just doing anything with the clay and maybe take some random shots with the camera, if only to keep the rust at bay?
Hugs – and a large box of virtual super-soft tissues.
Take your camera and photograph your Mum’s stuff, while it is still in her house. Go room by room and create a memory book, for yourself, for your children and grandchildren.
No – I wouldn’t do what ‘river’ is suggesting. Keep some of your mom’s small things – things that mean something to you – and they will become treasures as time goes by and will hold her memories.
Packing up is hard .. very hard but once it’s done you will feel a lot better.
I had read Veronica’s post, and it even brought tears to MY eyes, how do you expect not to cry. It will take time, and a lot more tears before you’ll get over this loss. And picking up her things and see it in her house how she left them the last time she used them must be difficult. I can only try to imagine. I think I would take photographs too, and keep some of her belongings as a momentum. I am the proud owner of my grandmother’s whisk. It’s in my kitchen, and it makes me smile every time I look at it and think of her. Hugs dear xxx
I have nothing to contribute to this conversation, but wanted to let you know I am reading and listening.
I like river’s idea. If it’s too hard to look at the photos now, maybe someday they’ll bring a smile again. Just a close up of the gardening shoes on the front porch would be gorgeous; a simple statement, yet full of so much more.
Every time I get down on myself for something in my life, I think of you and Veronica and think “I’m such a jerk. I’m not grieving the loss of my beloved nan. Get over the little things.”
I’m sorry. I wish I had somethign profound to offer but I dont, so I’ll simply send you some ((Hugs))
biggest hugs ever hun
thinking of you
I wrote I think to Veronica about an old colander that was my grandmother’s that is dear to me. A photo of the gardening shoes sounds a poignant snapshot memory. There are no rules for grieving so none to be broken. A virtual hug of empathy today.
It’s just too sad sometimes.
What Mrs C said.