Maureen

I lost my mum way too early, before she was even 70. And I know it’s not a competition, some people lose their parents as children or teenagers; but for me I thought I’d have her a little while longer… we’d wasted so many years and were only really coming into our own in the few years before she was gone; those were the few years she was a grandparent.

Maureen Ann was born, one half of twins in February 1942 in Taunton, England. Her sister, my Aunt Gill, Gillian Diane still lives in the Midlands and uses such rich and wonderful phrases as ‘ey up mi duck’ and eats her sandwiches out of a cob! They were close and loved each other, in a way I guess only twins could, and proved this closeness by giving birth within 6 hours of each other 28 years later; to me and my cousin Ian.

They survived school together; the stories of mischief and mayhem seem to focus on Gill and since this story is not about her, I will move on swiftly… for after all who would want to hear about clothes being thrown out of a bedroom window, an untrainable dog or books being thrown into the River Tone anyway?!

Fast forward past her own stories of a Christmas Eve where she met her man, a job working at County Hall, a marriage and a miscarriage… and finally she became a mum. This was what she had always wanted, she couldn’t have been happier. But coupled with that was the strain of having lost a baby, the strain of being unable to have more and the strain of being a new mum. Life was not easy for her and as I grew our relationship became more and more volatile. If there were buttons to push, I found them; I learnt from the best though because she was so highly skilled at that herself…

But don’t get me wrong, she was my mum and I loved her. Interspersed with the bad memories are holidays taken in Blue Anchor at the caravan, picnics, having friends to stay over and being loved. She was generous to a fault and included everyone in her gifts and surprises, whether it was a new washing machine, a pair of earrings or a car!

But she really came into her own when she became a nan… she was the most kind, gentle and patient person. She adored my girls. She would play with the girls for hours, read to them, tickle them and love them. All the anger I had felt about our relationship over the years was hard to hold onto when she became a grandparent. Nothing was too much trouble, no game was too boring and no story was too repetitive for her not to be able to tell it over and over again… And this is the woman I miss.

I sat with her and held her hand as she took her last breath. Her man, my dad did too. I have never wanted something and not wanted it quite so much. She had had 18 months of illness, of being in and out of hospitals and she was suffering and struggling. But I wasn’t ready for her to leave me… I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

In the early days after she left I planned how I would better prepare my daughters for my death, how I would ensure I didn’t leave them alone not knowing how to cope. How foolish and naive, how do you prepare a child for the potential loss of their parent? But what you can do is make them know that they are loved and she did that… some days it might have felt we didn’t like each other much, but I always knew how much she loved me, even when she refused to show it.

I am not a person of faith… but in the early stages of grief you search everywhere for a sign, something to give a grain of comfort and I found mine in the shape of a ladybird. Ladybirds were her thing… on the morning of her funeral, I cut the last stemmed rose from my garden and brought it inside to take to her. It was the last bloom from a rose bush I had planted for her Ruby Wedding Anniversary in 2005 and as I was emigrating this was to be the last rose we’d have from that bush. As I carefully wrapped it in paper towel a ladybird crawled out and made me smile. The next morning, as I made toast for my girlies the ladybird was back and watching me… now I don’t for one moment think she turned into a ladybird, but for the longest time I took comfort in that sign.

This woman that I miss, this woman that wasn’t able to stay and see my girls grow into the amazingly, strong and resilient young women they have become; my mum is the reason that I feel the weight of November so acutely. This week she will have been gone 10 years; that’s 10 Christmases she has been missing, 10 birthdays her twin has celebrated alone and 10 years I have thought I heard her voice in a whisper or seen a ladybird that she sent me. 10 years is both a lifetime and a moment’s breath and I miss her…

Be kind, be gentle,

Denise xoxo