It was a rainy Saturday in Leicester when my 22 year old self decided to get one Help with buying ISA at the bank – with what I believe is a record low deposit of £1.
I had been waiting for a few minutes, trying silently, albeit in vain, to wish away the emotions I felt rising in my face; heated my cheeks and filled my eyes to the brim with tears.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked the nice blond lady in the branch I visited. It was one of those questions that she clearly knew the answer to, but had she not asked, the clumsiness of fighting back my tears with a lump in my throat would have hung in the air like a stench.
“All right,” were the words I managed to muster, and we continued as if I hadn’t weirded out the energy in the room.
HSBC, unsurprisingly, has never been a place where I’ve felt this emotional – unless maybe I was checking my bank balance.
But there was something about doing a mundane but important adult task that reminded me of who I didn’t have with me in these moments.
My tearful haze lasted all day and while I couldn’t fathom the feeling then, I know all too well what it was now.
I was grieving – just 19 years too late.
I lost my mother to breast cancer when I was only three years old.
It was sudden, intense and devastated my entire family. It was especially hard for my brother, who was a few years older than me at the time, and my father, who was just 37.
I don’t remember this period at all. But this means that I also do not remember my mother at all.
Growing up with just my dad and brother has always felt extremely normal to me. Despite my predominantly male household, I was never denied anything ‘girly’ – my favorite color is still pink – nor was I forced to indulge football.
I had a lot to figure out for myself though – being a teenage girl isn’t an easy experience, especially when I’m trying to navigate through it without the consistent presence of a woman who’s already been through it.
And while this life I’ve lived has always seemed normal to me, I’ve always felt an emptiness and resentment for having to live without my mother; for not being able to contact her, for not being able to ask the little questions that give you insight into someone.
What was her favorite color? Or her favorite hangover food? Or even her go-to karaoke number?
Mourningfor me, has always felt like I was missing something I never got, instead of mourning someone who was always there.
And somehow this has always manifested itself in spontaneous crying in random public places. You would think I would have certain triggers like seeing something that reminds me of this loss – like watching a mother lovingly care for her young daughter – but honestly I think it’s completely random and often never good timing.
I devour the memories offered to me by the people who knew and loved her – the “did you know” and “did I ever tell you” stories from relatives.
Like the story of how she and my dad met (in a nightclub in Liverpool), or how she was a terrible driver and even crashed her car into a wall (which turned out to be a prominent landmark), or how there were hundreds of people at her funeral – because that’s how she was loved.
Although I never really knew my mother, she lives on in the people who are still here, who are generous enough to share their memories of her
They are stories I have heard thousands of times, but I enjoy each retelling.
Usually I’m told I look just like my mom, which is the biggest compliment I can imagine.
Apparently I inherited her long legs, her face and the ability to fall asleep easily on any mode of public transport.
And of course I am pleased to know that these parts of my mother are not gone, but with me.
But while I’ve always been told I’m the image of my mother, I’ve never reminded anyone of her personality. Her carefree attitude isn’t something I’ve been able to acquire – in fact I think I’ve developed more or less the opposite approach, constantly worrying about things I said or did weeks, months, years ago – usually cringing when I’ you too’ to the waiter after they say ‘enjoy your meal’.
When you’re grieving for someone important to you that you never really knew, someone you’re almost a shadow of, I think you’re trying to live up to the great impression they left on others.
I’ve always had a feeling sadness that I don’t have all of my mother’s personality traits. Would I have been a happier person if I had? A more beloved or accepted? Would my life be better?
I don’t think about my mom every day, but when I do, these are thoughts that have plagued me – even if it’s a pressure I’ve only put on myself.
In the end, I think it’s part of my grief that I’ve had to accept.
Sadness is inconsistent. It’s not linear, not only do we feel exceptionally sad immediately after someone dies before we never think about them again.
We can feel exceptionally sad, then good for a while, then completely awful again because one thing has reminded us of them.
And grief isn’t just about grief, especially if you didn’t really know the person you were grieving for. It involves a whole cocktail of emotions; confusion about why it happened to you, irrational fury to those it didn’t happen to, and the desperation of having to feel this all at once.
We could put ourselves on a pedestal to honor the memory of a person we never knew, just to feel close to them.
You may even find yourself crying in an HSBC on a rainy day for what seems like no reason at all. Then, when you’re in a much more stable place days later, realize that what you cried about wasn’t completely for no reason, but because of sadness.
Although I never really knew my mother, she lives on in the people who are still here, who are generous enough to share their memories of her.
Perhaps I will only know an echo of her, or the shadow of existence she had. But what I do know is that I was incredibly loved by her and brought into the world to experience it as just myself, and no one else.
And knowing that they (and all my relatives) would like me to live as I am – as authentically as possible – is enough reason for me to be content with not being exactly like them – and helps to understand what mourning is for me.
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