It’s my birthday today and, as anyone who’s known me a while can attest, I freakin’ love my birthday. Well I always think I love my birthday. The reality is I hate surprises so I’ve made it my life’s work to snoop, probe and sleuth before the actual day to discover what goodies I have. I’m also very particular, some might say high maintenance, so I am notoriously hard to buy for.
This is the first year for many that I’m up at sparrowfart. Not due to the delicious sense of excitement I had as a child/teenager/most of my adult life but because I am dreading today. It’s ridiculous I know. It’s just a day and you’d think I’d be grateful for every year I’m here, for getting old is a privilege. But this birthday is my first birthday without my parents.
No birthday message to wake up to, no overly sentimental card telling me how proud they are and how much they love me, no discussions about what I’d like for my present, no phone call to wish me a happy day. It’s a huge huge hole. Traditions and rituals which evolved over 42 years have just disappeared. And if there was ever a time we need the comfort of tradition, it’s this clusterfuck of a year.
The death of my mum was hard, but in many ways, I’d grieved her loss over a period of years before she died. Unbeknown to anyone, she was sick. She was fatigued, had random pains, wasn’t sleeping. We thought she wasn’t aging well and was paying the price for a life “well lived”. ok ok...given I’m being open here, she loved her booze, food, cigarettes and moving as little as possible. In reality, cancer was having a massive 90s style rave all through her body, so whilst her life style choices didn’t help, it was the cancer that was changing her. So in the years before she died, I came to terms with the fact that the mother I’d loved was gradually fading. When she actually died the hole didn’t seem as big. Or so I thought.
My grieving was also somewhat hijacked by my own diagnosis 2 months after Mum died. I went from sort of grieving for my mother to full on grieving for myself. I’ve written about how visceral my grief was after my diagnosis. What I haven’t really touched on is how it’s fundamentally changed many aspects of my life, mostly for the good. I will write about the positives another time as today I want to feel really fucking sorry for myself. However, in summary, my cancer diagnosis, really knowing loss and grief has made me less of a brat.
The death of my father this year has been bloody hard. I was always a Daddy’s girl/had daddy issues and he was my only parent left. Losing him has unmoored me. Although my relationship with him fundamentally changed (sadly not in a positive way) after my mums death and my diagnosis, he represented my anchor point. I still had someone who knew all the small things. What time I was born, what my first word was, did Mum really call the fishmonger Barry the Fish even though his name wasn’t Barry, where was this picture taken, what was the last name of my amazing English teacher at college, where is that recipe for Christmas cake etc etc. It’s like losing an encyclopaedia Britannia of your own life. And there’s no Google back up option. So many times I’ve gone to pick up the phone to call to ask one of these inane questions. These are the sorts of questions that are part of the tapestry of family life. Now his phones are all disconnected and there is literally no one left who can answer many of these questions.
I’ve cried more after my fathers death than I ever did for my mother. This has bothered me, I feel like I’m being disloyal to my mother, that I should grieve for them “equally”. (Honestly, I am a therapists wetdream). The big difference I think is, I’ve got the headspace to actually grieve this time. I’m grieving for BOTH of them. I’m not trying to process my own life changing news. Grief is a sneaky little fucker. It lurks in the shadows and then ambushes you in random ways and places. Recently I was queuing in the post office (an absurdly British sentence I always think) and in my boredom I was browsing the shelves. Ooh Zoflora-haven’t seen that scent before, Pot Noodles-wonder if they still taste the same, Andrex Classic Clean Washlets Moist toilet tissue...Boom. Tears snot sobs. My dad loved these and had packets everywhere. So yes, I’m saying moisturised bog wipes set me off. Random. The other day I was sitting on the sofa looking at my feet and I suddenly realised my feet are like my Dads. Whooosh. Tears snot sobs.
For me, it’s these things that catch me out. Whilst clearing out my parents house has been hard, it’s rarely bought me to sad tears (tears of laughter most definitely). I think I know it’s going to be hard so I emotionally steel myself. Being ambushed by a run of the mill item or a smell or a song on a radio is grief jumping out at you when you’re totally unprepared.
So today I’m going to practice some of this self care stuff. I’m going to walk Knobdog with Wingman and some friends, have a dirty takeaway fry up from the local greasy spoon, get a Christmas tree with Wakey & Pukey, stick some carols on and get smashed on mulled wine. Maybe not your idea of self care, but I’m guessing that’s why is SELF care. Referring you back to my comment about being less of a high maintenance brat, my pre cancer/pre grief self care would have involved champagne, spanking all my birthday vouchers in one go at Selfridges, a fancy dinner in fancy expensive clothes etc etc. See I’ve changed. Thanks cancer, thanks grief. I’m more whole now than I’ve ever been.
