Author: motherwithoutamother

The question I probably get asked most regarding my mum is, ‘How old were you when she died?’  After that, ‘How old was she?’ The answers? I was 8. She was 39. People then give looks of sadness, sympathy, shock.  I  must of answered those questions what feels like a thousand times. 5th January 1990. A date in my history that is gut wrenching to look at or say.

2020. The year I have dreaded for some time. This year, I will turn 39. I will then be 39 for a whole year. That number, the number I hate will be with me for a year. I don’t want to be 39. I don’t want to be the same age as her. That completely f**ks with my head in all honestly. I don’t know how to process it. Then, next year I will be older than her. I will be older than my own mother and older than she will ever be. That makes me sad.

I don’t worry I will die at the same age, there are times that fear is there but it is rare.  What disconcerts me is that from the moment I turn 39, there are no more comparisons between me and her to be made. I feel like I’m about to lose her again in some way. I feel like I’m now grieving for what she has missed having me as her daughter over what I have lost. She didn’t see me grow up, go to university, graduate, get married. But the biggest pain for me, she hasn’t met my children. I watch my children with their paternal grandmother and it hurts and I feel guilty about that.

Since having my own children, the grief I have experienced for my mum has been overwhelming at times. In fact at times, it’s a physical pain. Some days I am stronger than others. Some days I think about silly memories and I smile.  Warm Weetabix (and I get most upset if anyone shows displeasure); Marmite on toast, jumping on her bed, snuggling in her bed during the hurricane that hit our seaside town in the late 80’s and literally thinking the windows would cave in any moment; the smell of her perfume; the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating; strawberry picking; me asking to keep the light on and her saying I was a ‘big girl now’; picking her up from a shift at the local theatre.  Other days all I remember is how poorly she was the Christmas of 1989 and the car pulling off the drive afterwards with her waving. That was the last time I saw her. These are the days I just feel sad.

What I do know is she loved me.

My mum, forever 39.

I read something today on Instagram along the lines of ‘when you become a mum you reconnect with your own and have a new found admiration for her and the struggles of motherhood’. I totally get that. She may not be here but I totally totally feel like I have reconnected with her. I look at her photo everyday and some days I smile, others I cry and others I just think you’re an absolute bloody hero! You did all this on less money, working nights when Dad came home and without social media to get support and encouragement from! Mum, you are amazing 🙂 

I’ve always known that 39 is no age to die but it’s really hit me recently because I now have friends that age. This weekend we are off to a friend’s 40th bash and it’s hit me like a tonne of bricks… my friends are beginning to be older than my mum. Really struggling with that one and need to get my head straight because this is set to be a really fun weekend, like a mini festival – family camping, music, games, wine, burgers and a rather nice weather forecast. 

My mum wouldn’t want me to be sad, I know that but the thought that it’s only a few years before I’m older than my mum really messes with my head. 

When I was told my mum had died as an 8 year old child, I didn’t understand. I vividly remember it but I had no idea how that moment shaped the rest of my life. It changed everything. It changed my relationship with friends (then and now), it changed my relationship with my father, it changed me. I somehow lost some of my childhood, I had to grow up more quickly than I should of done. There wasn’t the support back then for kids that there is now and here I am left with the aftermath of that in my 30’s.  One thing I have learnt though is birthdays should be celebrated- they are a big deal, they aren’t just another day. So I am going to try really hard to party hard this weekend and be happy! 

After a spell of positivity after I began this blog I’ve had a tough month or so. Really tough. The little one has allergies and we don’t know what they are. Rashes and reactions, numerous doctors trips and still none the wiser. Stressful. I want my mum. The older one is testing limits. She’s showing jealousy towards her sister and craving attention. I just want my mum, the one person who loves me unconditionally, to tell me that I’m doing an ok job because I don’t feel like I am. I don’t have many friends that I’m close enough to be totally upfront and honest with, maybe three or four. But still, as amazing as they are, as comforting as they are and as grateful for them that I am, they are not my mum.  My husband has no words anymore, he just doesn’t know what to do or say to help me. These emotions make me a not so nice person at times, I know that.

I keep telling myself ‘before she died, she lived’ but today I just feel angry that she died.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with birthdays, Christmas… basically any type of celebration. My own birthday has always been particularly difficult. I usually have some kind of meltdown at some point and I’ve never really understood why – until recently.  I think it’s to do with despite loved ones trying to make me feel special it was never enough because they weren’t her. And you know how it is, you often get mothers remembering the exact time their child was born and although I know that time, I’ve not had mine around to remind me of the ‘agony’ I caused her for hours on end that special day! As the old cliche goes ‘there’s no love like a mother’s love’. Instead of being happy and celebrating my life I have been mourning the loss of hers.  But as hard as it is to accept, I still have my life and I deserve to enjoy it and feel special on my birthday. As well as that, those close to me shouldn’t have to tread on egg shells worried about my reactions. So,  this year that’s exactly what I did and for the first time in years I thought of my mum on my birthday and I smiled.  I thought about how much she loved me and how happy she (hopefully) was on my birth day.

I recently read on another blog ‘until they died, they lived’.  This is so true.  Instead of feeling sad and angry I have started trying really hard to remember her life, not her death.  Otherwise what was the point of her 39 years on this earth? Until she died, she lived.

I’ve had a really positive week or so.  Long may it continue.

It’s been a long time. I’m fast approaching the age my mum was when she passed and that scares the hell out of me.  I vividly remember the day my father told my 6 year old brother and I that ‘Mummy has gone to heaven’.  I remember not really understanding what that meant.  We were a ‘church going’ family. When people die, they go to heaven. Or actually as my almost 4 year old bluntly told me recently, “When you die mummy, you go in a box so your mummy is in a box.”  In many ways, she’s right. She is in a box. (Actually she was cremated but I’ll save that explanation to a four year old for another day… I mean year). But she has been ‘boxed’.  I have a box with ‘mum’ things hidden away…photos, jewellery, pictures I drew her, plastic ‘tut’ I gave her but she lovingly kept. For years I accepted this. She was sick (cancer); she didn’t get better; she went to heaven.  I put on a front. I pretended that this was ok –  that I was ok.  I was teased at primary school because I didn’t have a mum. Some friends weren’t allowed to come and play at my house because my dad was a man bringing up children on his own  – god forbid. But we got on. We had to and I, on the whole,  have happy memories of my childhood. As for heaven?  I’m still not sure I believe that true.  I like to think she is watching over us though, all these years later. I have to believe there is something after this life… I just have to.

My name is Louise,  I’m soon to be 36 and I am the mother of two beautiful girls aged 3.5 years and 7 months. My mother died when I was 8, she was 39. It still brings tears to my eyes to say that. I have struggled with the loss of my mother hugely since the birth of my first daughter and even more so since the birth of my second. Why? I guess that I now understand how much she loved me and what I’ve actually lost; more so… what she’s lost. Up until I was a mother myself, I didn’t get that. I was sad, I missed her but I didn’t ache the way I do now. My intention with this blog is firstly a release for me but more importantly, in the long term, I want other mothers who have lost their own mother to know they are not alone and hopefully find some comfort and understanding. Friends and family try to understand but they don’t. They get it wrong without even realising a lot of the time and that is to be expected. Life goes on, people shouldn’t need to think about my feelings every time they open their mouths should they?  I have felt so angry for such a long time now that my children will never know their maternal grandmother; that she wasn’t there to be excited about becoming a grandmother or breathe in that newborn smell that is irreplaceable and mostly that I can’t turn to her when I need her. That is (perhaps rather selfishly) the hardest part.  I don’t find being a mother easy. I find it hard.  I love sleep and don’t get enough of it; I don’t have the patience that I thought I had and I don’t have anyone to base my mothering on because the memories are fading.  I am making it up as I go along and hoping for the best. I do have people around me who care and are willing to be that person that I turn to but I don’t want any of them, I just want my mum. Today wasn’t the best day. The big one tested my tolerance levels to the brink and the small one screamed alot and I couldn’t call the one person who I knew would just listen….but…

This is a new beginning.

A mother without a mother.  Adore being a mum, miss mine.  3 years in as a mum, nearly 30 without one.