How the death of my mother has pulled rank over my life

With respect to a friend who posted this article to her facebook newsfeed, A Letter To The Motherless Daughters On Mother’s Day, (its content a little too schmaltzy for this Aussie), the action and article spurred me to write my own post.   

Granted the article’s author is still young, 26, and her loss acutely fresh at two years. So I’m not quite sitting in her space, even though, yes, I am a member of the club we've both been forced into kicking and screaming.

I am a motherless daughter and have been since my mother succumbed to breast cancer at age 52.

“Mum dying fucked everything up,” I said in a matter-of –fact tone to my Melbourne shrink. I had been seeing him sporadically for a few years so he knew a thing or two about my story. “It did,” he agreed.

The long and often painful road between then – losing her, five days shy of my 22^nd birthday, and now, turning 41 in July, has covered tough terrain. Wine has been a stoic friend. Cigarettes too (for the naysayers, I haven’t smoked in a while). Her dog, Walt, who I inherited at four and went onto live until he was 17.

Across the years, I’ve turned to these tried and true aids to numb the wound that simply won’t heal.

The challenge for real healing as a person is huge and something I’m only now tempted to really address.  But that’s another blog post.

Friends have helped. Reading, theatre, family, a PR career, yoga, travel, my faith…the usual things one does in life, have helped.

But through the bumpy course, there’s been a lot of destruction both to others and, as a natural by-product, to myself.

In the years since that out-loud acknowledgement to my therapist, I’ve been in a constant battle to win back myself.

Where the exterior often points to a bold and brazen warrior, the person inside is much more complex.  Aren’t we all? 

On losing my mother, a deep sense of abandonment wells inside that heavily spills over when later disappointments come.

“You’re a sensitive person too,” one of my best friend’s Juzi, has long held.

Yes, I am – but my coping mechanism across the years has been to cover this up, play strong. I’ve fought relationship battles wearing an impenetrable shield while spitting harsh words.

Age, wisdom and experience, have taught me one doesn’t win friends, lovers or favour, by being a bitch.  Instead, these days, I work very hard at being more agreeable. We all have our slips but I’m proud of how far I've come.

When mum died, I was thrust into an adult world probably a lot sooner than I was ready.  Being the only female in a nuclear family consisting of father and brother, without that maternal guide - saw me morph into a much more masculine version of myself.  This has never served me well. I’m working on it... less yang, more yin. But I will always be strong, and strong women can be alienating.

I haven’t had a mother to help navigate my adult life, instead turning to my aunties, female work mentors, and taking inspiration from female public figures: actors, politicians, authors, etc, which too has soothed.

More so, it’s been my friends, father, brother and sister in law, that I turn to. Their achievements and grace in handling their own paths and life’s events, encourages me because it is inspiring.

I didn’t marry or have children. I believe losing my mother had quite a bit to do with this. My life was no longer normal without a mother in it, at the young age of 22, so I didn’t place value on leading a normal life.

I didn’t feel pressure to do so either.  My dad and brother showed little interest in these things for me.  And throughout my 20s, while I paved a very successful PR career for myself, my personal life was often teetering the edge of firestorm hell due to residual grief. 

My mother valued work. She was pleased when I was working and wanted me in a good job.  She appreciated education.

I went to university for two degrees, and carved out a 15 year public relations’ career. I’ve often been motivated by knowing this about my mother. I know, in this achievement, she would be defiantly proud.

I’m travelling the world. Why not?  Be free now - for one day, we will be dead.

Looking death in the face of a loved one brings such perspective. Be curious and strive to live a full life. My mother’s courage has burned in me - all this time, throughout my many solo adventures, to India, Africa, Vietnam, USA, Europe, and more.

You can resent family. Mum has three surviving sisters. Each had children of their own, who now (many) have their own children. I look at my beautiful cousins still with their mothers and sometimes resent them.

My younger cousins in their 20s, don’t remember her which at times, can make me sad – but it’s practical, they were less than 10 at the time.

None of this is their fault and I’m sure on some level, me feeling resentful is a very natural response.

On Mother’s Day – not long after my mother’s actual birthday (27 April), I’ll just get on with it.  It’s a day you get through. Yes, it’s noticed and yes, it’s felt. The feeling uncomfortable and strange – amplified today where I could have very well had my own kids to celebrate with.

Yes, if mum were still around, life would be different. Not all good. She was a strong woman. There would be clashes.

She’s not here today, and yet, she is.  I’m still writing about her, remembering her, influenced by her – shaped my life around her - some 20 years on.

Photo: my school friend Sarah Willoughby, who I have known since we were 12, recently shared this picture with me. She was at her parent's house and found it. I don't remember it, but I can assume I'm 21. It wasn't long after this that mum died in anycase. I'm wearing my dad's suede jacket that he wore in the 70s. I used to love wearing my parent's vintage clothes. Mum was always a size smaller, but I could squeeze into a few things!