Until Then, Judith
Oh, hi!
Apart from the obvious silence that has plagued my blog for the last few months, it is strangely more difficult now to even begin to summate that passed time.
Buried deep within the silence here has been torrents of feeling, gushing perspective, floods of insight, and storming gratefulness. And within the water symbolism is much peace. Much hope. Much perseverence, and all of God's leading.
When mum closed her eyes on the 26th of May, 2019, just after the chicken shop in Wauchope closed at 8pm (I was sat in the waiting room at the palliative care unit operating purely from the emotional brain and craving some hot chips, wondering if I hopped in my car would I make it?), everything seismically shifted in my life. The silence was stupid. Through all of the heartache, all of the frustrations, all of the fallings-short, all of the unanswered questions and deliberations I shared with my mum over the last 27 and a half years, it had all come to a grinding halt. But in that space, at the same time, the silence was soothing. The suffering was over. The cries for her pain diminished.
As I drove myself home that night, I sobbed. The cool autumn air drifted into the car, waking me from a foggy hazed view of the road in front of me. I realised that in the face of all my training, all of my therapy with people who had lost a loved one, it was now my turn. My turn to be okay with not being okay. My turn to admit there would be days that I felt empty without her. My turn to correct myself in conversation with others when I spoke about my mum in the present tense instead of the past tense. My turn to reshuffle the plans of my future to accommodate her gaping absence.
Since June 2017, I have lived in the orbit of my mother. I packed my home and moved in to care for her. I organised my daily routine to keep her company whenever possible. I stopped cooking with garlic (boo hoo, right??) because her chemo-impacted taste buds and sense of smell could not tolerate the "stench" as she called it. I would kiss her on the forehead at 8:30pm as she lay to sleep and high tail it to the gym to fit in some time to move my sedentary lifestyle-impacted body. When we got the all clear the following February, I remember squeezing her hand in the doctor's office. I remember feeling attached to her as though we were one person. Celebrating the survival of a woman that had survived so much more. Then a couple of months later, the cancer returned.
I could talk endlessly about the treatment, I could talk endlessly about the disappointments of seeing it ineffective. I could talk endlessly about watching my mother's weight disintegrate and the shape of her spine protrude. I could talk about the delirium that set in days before her last breath, and how oddly comical it was to see a woman with no sense of reality determined to go home. But today, I honestly just want to talk about how I feel sad.
Sad that the wise and silly counsel she could have given me going forward in this life is now inaccessible.
Sad that one day when I look across and see my groom's face at the end of the aisle at our wedding, she won't be there grinning cheekily at my side, her arm in mine, and my father's arm in the other, as we walk that walk together.
Sad that the only thing she wanted was to see her grandchildren, and I couldn't give that to her.
Sad that when I need a real, solid cuddle in the face of life's inevitable disappointments, she's never going to be there to give one.
Sad that she cannot now meet the beautiful people I'm meeting, see the beautiful things I'm seeing and feel the beautiful feelings I'm feeling.
Sad that seeing my face in the mirror each day reminds me of the face she had all my life, and knowing I will never touch the softness of it.
And as I sit here, another voice speaks saying:
Let me turn your mourning into dancing
Let me take off your sackcloth and clothe you with joy. - Psalms 30:11
It is the voice of our blessed hope. It is the voice of reason. It is the voice of love. It is the voice of God.
And it says "you cannot possibly rid yourself of grief. I must do it. You cannot remove the mourning from your body, I must be the one to adorn you with my joy."
Two months has passed. And for the most part, I've been doing incredibly well. I've seen God do these things - taking the burden from me and giving me His easy yoke. Throwing opportunity after opportunity to serve Him, to dance rather than continue to endlessly mourn. To smile, to thrive. To be challenged and to challenge. To love. To dedicate my life to Him and His unfailing goodness. Whatever this future before me, whether I am saddened by the absence of my mother or brightened by the vivid memories I hold of her, I know my God is holding me close.
