Dear mum… just one last cup of tea

Hi mum,  

There's only one reason I'm writing this letter and that's because you're not here anymore. I don't think I've ever written you a letter before, cards maybe but not a letter. I think I might've pushed a letter under the door of the living room once when I was little; it was an apology for something naughty I had done. People don't really write letters anymore, people don't really say the things they want to say, until it's too late.  

Since you went things have been a little confusing. I'm not so sure of myself or my emotions anymore. I'm actually writing this on my phone at 3am in a hostel in Rishikesh, I'm having to cry silently so as not to wake the other two girls in the room. I woke up because I had a dream that you died. It seems funny to say that, because it wasn't a dream was it! but that's how my dreams go; you're there and then you die, I become hysterical and wake up and realise it was just a dream. These have been going on for a year now. I know... I can't really understand it myself.  

I struggled to get back into work after your funeral, I struggled to do anything to be honest. Besides get drunk and make poor choices. I really thought I was coping, everyone commented on how well I was doing, but I think maybe I wasn't so much, in hindsight. It's a strange thing is grief; a messy thing. I've decided that grief is the name given to what we become when we lose someone we love. So this is it now! I left my job, I know this would worry you... and I've come to India... I know this would worry you even more! But I'm doing ok here, I think. At least I'm getting there.  

There have been times when I've questioned the closeness of our relationship. I wonder if my reaction to your death or lack of reaction is a reflection of this. I've been so numb and cold at times. I remember the arguments we would have, that started out  as shared opinions until one of us blew up out of sheer frustration at the other. They were usually about politics- much of which neither of us knew anything about. We couldn't see eye to eye and your dismissal of my morals and values cut me like a knife deep inside. I wanted you to be proud of me, for who I am and what I believed, I wanted you to see that I was a creation of a younger you. The you who left home at 16 during the swinging 60's and moved to London, the you who jumped out of a plane to raise money for the samaritans; the charity you worked for, the you who embraced every single friend I brought home from nursery and school, regardless of race or colour, and loved them as though they were your own. You taught me everything I know about being kindness, acceptance… Love!  

I remember the things we had in common; we both liked to drink! I can recall many meals out with dad, him sitting there with disdain whilst we, both vegetarians, ponder over our options, egging each other on to share a starter, maybe even get one each. We would conclude that it would be more economical to share a bottle of wine between us than to get two separate glasses; we never were very good with money. "What wine would you like? You pick", you would say, "I don't mind, you can choose", I would reply. I've never known you to not be vegetarian, you never talked about it much, you were never one of those people who like to push your opinions on others, not like me, but somehow being a vegetarian just seemed to be integral to who you are, another side of your deep compassion. I'm smiling now as I remember a day a few years back not long after I started my journey into giving up meat, you came into my room to give me a book you had found in a charity shop, it was a cook book for Karmic eating. Encompassing vegetarianism with spirituality. It was perfect! My heart always breaks a little when I see that book on my shelf now.  

I could cry and scream and howl about how unfair it is, beg for you to come back. I'm not ready, you're not finished, we still have stuff to do and say and see. But I don't get to have you now, somewhere else does. Besides, I'm an adult; 31 and I have to get on with it. But I don't feel like an adult mum, I still feel like your baby, I still feel like I really need you here. There are people worse off than me; people, children who have lost their mothers. I've had it the easy way. But did you? There's parts of this story that I can't even bare to think about because it's so painful my mind won't let me explore there. They come in glimmers but my head just sort of blocks them out. Self preservation I guess. Like how afraid you must've been, knowing you were dying, all those days and nights in the hospital. How long did you know for? How long did you keep it from us, trying to protect us? How alone you must've felt... I wish I had opened my eyes and seen, I would give anything just to hug you and tell you it's going to be ok, the way you have done time and time again over 30 years of my life. I wish I could've at least given that back. 

I think about you all the time, mum. Often accidentally, for a split second forgetting that you're not here anymore before coming to my senses. There's so many things that I think to tell you or take photos of and send to you. Only you would appreciate all my animal photos and stories like I do. Did you see the dog that sat with me for a cuddle by the Ganga river on the anniversary of your death? Did you send me him? You would love all the scenery here, the skylines, sunsets, sunrises. We liked looking at them didn't we? Standing out in the garden watching the sky, that's one of the things we liked to do together. And the theatre. I loved our theatre trips. It didn't matter what we went to see, we liked being in the thick of London; I think it brought you back to your younger days. I liked hearing about those days, on these trips. You lived such an adventurous life before having us kids. I wonder what your hopes and dreams were back then. You used to say it was to own a farm in the country and keep lots of dogs... I hope you have a dog or 2 where you are now. 

I've done some shitty things to you mum. They creep up on me, usually in the middle of the night and the guilt grips my chest tightly and won't let go until the tears send me to sleep. There were the obvious things like shouting and screaming at you, storming out, just being plain grumpy. And then there were the subtler moments, the not being there for you when I should. I remember I came home one day and you were in the kitchen crying. You had just found out that an old friend of yours had committed suicide. It was around Christmas time and you were so upset for the family and your friend and what she must've been going through to resort to taking her own life. A week or so later you asked me to take you to the funeral. You didn't really know anyone well enough to go with and you didn't drive but you really wanted to go and pay your respects. I wasn't able to because of work, I think I might've taken time off over Christmas and needed to get back into the office. A feeble excuse, I could've made it happen, I should've made it happen. I'm so sorry for that, so so sorry. I told you I was sorry, a year or so later, you told me that it was ok and when I told you I regretted it you told me not to live life with any regrets.  I've made a promise to myself now that I'll never put work before my loved ones again. I wish I could take back all the crappy things I've said and done. I wish I could replace them with hugs and time, thoughtful gestures, conversations and kind words, the words I wish I could say to you now. But that's the funny thing about when we're alive, we use our limited time in peculiar ways.  

Things have changed since you left mum. Dad and I seem to be changing our lives beyond recognition, maybe it's easier that way, than to continue living the same life the same way, just with a gaping you shaped hole in it. Things changed so much I didn't even see them happen. We don't have family dinners on Sunday's anymore. I miss those, but I miss them with you there. Seems pointless now and kind of empty. I miss our old lives.  

I'm so sad today mum. I'm feeling so lost. I misplaced my diary the night before and became panicky, all my thoughts and feelings and dreams, about you, gone. It scared me. I found it in a cafe I had been sitting in and when I found it I cried and cried and cried. Sat in a cafe in rishikesh on my own crying, heaving, uncontrollable sobs. I don't really care how I look anymore, not how I used to. It all seems irrelevant now. My eyes are tired, sleepy and sore and I don't know where to go. I don't know where to go where I can just be tired, sleepy and sore and alone. They lied when they said time is a healer mum, time uncovers deeper emotions, time takes me further and further away from when I last saw you. Time makes everything more real, more raw.  

Thank you for the people you have sent my way since you've been up there. I know it was you, I know you helped me carve out the right team to get me through as best I can.  

On the way to see the Dalai Lama tomorrow. Exciting isn't it, although a bit cliche- backpacking around India in the search of answers when you and I both know that all I really need is to be tucked up on the sofa with a fleecy blanket, where you'll bring me in a cup of tea- you really still are the only one who knows how to make it exactly how I like it- and it's in my favourite mug. You won't know it but later I'll jot this moment down in my gratitude journal, these simple, perfect moments with my mammy. We will chat, I'll usually have one eye on my phone or on the tv but you don't mind, you're there and I'm there. I know exactly where you are and you know exactly where I am, completely at ease in each other's company. I remember the last cup of tea we had together. We had been out shopping then we went to the cafe with Dad. You paid. You bought me lots of things that day. You paid and you bought me lots of things because you knew you were dying. You knew and we sat there and we had our last cup of tea together. Do you reckon I could have you back now, just for 10 mins of your time, just for one more cup of tea together.