This post is dedicated to a woman, and the legacy of her loss. My apologies for the sombre tone of this post, but it would have been my mother's 58th birthday today, and I feel it a fitting time to publish the post that I have been sketching out for a while.
She was a woman born into the 1950's role of femininity, a 5ft barely-there doll of a woman that lived and loved and, I feel, should be written about by someone.
In the words of James T. Kirk, "How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, wouldn't you say?" and I believe that remembering and sharing our feelings of those that have passed is a peaceful, accepting way to deal with death.
Janette was the daughter of Brynley Davies, a Welshman that served in the Navy throughout WW2,
and Mary Edith Davies, his wife who passed from a brain tumour when her daughter was in her teenage years.
In her lifetime, she gave birth to five children, developed a passionate love for poetry and listened to her Foster and Allen CD 3,650 times. She was fiercely patriotic and the Welsh national anthem was played regularly in our household.
The things that I remember most about my mother are little things, and usually things that make me smile in fond remembrance.
The way her skin was so amazingly soft as she held me against her when I was upset, the conviction of her words as she told me that I could do anything I wanted in my life, if only I applied myself; and the amazingly average food that was seasoned with bland, extra salt and overcooked meat.
I remember the day that she died so vividly. The friend calling me from the nursing home, telling me to come and say goodbye. My denial, my vehemence that it was all just another false alarm. The drive across Auckland in rush hour traffic, heart pounding with the fear that it might actually be the last time I spent with her.
Walking into her room, and seeing the faces of everyone gathered before I saw her; seeing the sympathy in their eyes, the resignation, the embarrassment at not knowing what to say to console the heavily pregnant youngest daughter of the dying.
They all shuffled out single file, leaving only my partner, my mum, and myself in the room. She was seated in her chair, the one she was always sitting in when I visited, dressed in that faded hospital gown.
I had to double check that she was breathing; the movement of her chest was so slight. Her eyes were closed, peacefully, as though she was already gone. I didn't know what to say, didn't know who this person was that sat before me.
So I sat, and I took her hand in mine, and I sang to her. I sang to her the song of a Welsh homecoming, and for a brief, precious second, her hand tightened in mine... The first sign of communication I'd had since I arrived. So I sat, and I held her hand, and I told her that I loved her. Then we left.
The nurses told me they would call me when there was any news; good or bad. A short time later, at 3am, the phone rang, and I knew. My mind blanked, white and silent, when they told me.
"I'm sorry. Your mother passed away a few minutes ago."
They asked me if I wanted to come see her now, or if I wanted to wait until morning. They told me that it was as if she had been waiting to say goodbye to me; hanging on to life until she knew that I would be okay, until we'd connected that one last time.
I mumbled something about coming in the morning, and thankyou for letting me know, and yes, I would be able to organise her possessions and make funeral arrangements. The dial tone kicked in, and I walked back to bed, fell into my partner's arms and cried, my grief pouring out hard and fast, a torrent of pain unleashed in wordless wailing.
Sleep came quickly, surprisingly enough. I organised her things. Her house, her will.
I went to see her, lying still and pale in that wooden box in a room in a place full of the scent of disinfectant masked by floral freshener. I kept waiting for her to breathe, for her chest to lift, for her to open her eyes, and tell me that everything was okay; that I wouldn't be motherless at the age of sixteen. That she would live to see my first child born. That it was all just some terrible mistake, and any minute now those things would happen...
But they didn't.
I remember her funeral. The people.
All of the people at her funeral, their eyes full of sadness and loss. I knew she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad. I knew she wanted us to celebrate her life... Though tears still fell down my cheeks as they played 'her song'; Sophie B. Hawkins', 'As I lay me down'.
I remember thinking that I wished I could take all of the pain that was held inside that chapel into myself, away from everyone else, away from the friends and the children and the brothers and sisters. That I could hold it, that enormous, unspoken thing that brought so many strangers together, and somehow make it something that only I had to endure.
Maybe that was because I couldn't feel anything. There was a void in me, and my emotions faded to grey like the end of an old movie.
I was on automatic, and I kept everything going like a well-oiled machine. Slowly, and with time, I began to feel again, regaining a new sense of self and identity as a mother myself.
And so, life went on, as it will. And really, that was the most important lesson that I learnt. Life goes on.
It's what we do with our lives, with every day, that counts in the end. My mother spent her life planning her death, being afraid of herself, of the potential of failure, and in the end, that's what I mourned the most; the loss of a beautiful yet unfulfilled life.
I understand now how important it is to go for those things you want, those dreams you dream, because you never know when and how the opportunity will be taken from you. In some ways, it's what my mother didn't do, as much as the things she did, that taught me about the value of challenging yourself, and of challenging others.
It was the profound impact that her death had on me that helped me to comprehend the complexities of human relationships, and led me to question how I would want to be remembered at the end of my lifetime, and whether or not I would have come to regret the decisions I'd made.
"Live every day as if it were your last, because one of these days, it will be."
She was a woman born into the 1950's role of femininity, a 5ft barely-there doll of a woman that lived and loved and, I feel, should be written about by someone.
In the words of James T. Kirk, "How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, wouldn't you say?" and I believe that remembering and sharing our feelings of those that have passed is a peaceful, accepting way to deal with death.
Janette was the daughter of Brynley Davies, a Welshman that served in the Navy throughout WW2,
and Mary Edith Davies, his wife who passed from a brain tumour when her daughter was in her teenage years.
In her lifetime, she gave birth to five children, developed a passionate love for poetry and listened to her Foster and Allen CD 3,650 times. She was fiercely patriotic and the Welsh national anthem was played regularly in our household.
The things that I remember most about my mother are little things, and usually things that make me smile in fond remembrance.
The way her skin was so amazingly soft as she held me against her when I was upset, the conviction of her words as she told me that I could do anything I wanted in my life, if only I applied myself; and the amazingly average food that was seasoned with bland, extra salt and overcooked meat.
I remember the day that she died so vividly. The friend calling me from the nursing home, telling me to come and say goodbye. My denial, my vehemence that it was all just another false alarm. The drive across Auckland in rush hour traffic, heart pounding with the fear that it might actually be the last time I spent with her.
Walking into her room, and seeing the faces of everyone gathered before I saw her; seeing the sympathy in their eyes, the resignation, the embarrassment at not knowing what to say to console the heavily pregnant youngest daughter of the dying.
They all shuffled out single file, leaving only my partner, my mum, and myself in the room. She was seated in her chair, the one she was always sitting in when I visited, dressed in that faded hospital gown.
I had to double check that she was breathing; the movement of her chest was so slight. Her eyes were closed, peacefully, as though she was already gone. I didn't know what to say, didn't know who this person was that sat before me.
So I sat, and I took her hand in mine, and I sang to her. I sang to her the song of a Welsh homecoming, and for a brief, precious second, her hand tightened in mine... The first sign of communication I'd had since I arrived. So I sat, and I held her hand, and I told her that I loved her. Then we left.
The nurses told me they would call me when there was any news; good or bad. A short time later, at 3am, the phone rang, and I knew. My mind blanked, white and silent, when they told me.
"I'm sorry. Your mother passed away a few minutes ago."
They asked me if I wanted to come see her now, or if I wanted to wait until morning. They told me that it was as if she had been waiting to say goodbye to me; hanging on to life until she knew that I would be okay, until we'd connected that one last time.
I mumbled something about coming in the morning, and thankyou for letting me know, and yes, I would be able to organise her possessions and make funeral arrangements. The dial tone kicked in, and I walked back to bed, fell into my partner's arms and cried, my grief pouring out hard and fast, a torrent of pain unleashed in wordless wailing.
Sleep came quickly, surprisingly enough. I organised her things. Her house, her will.
I went to see her, lying still and pale in that wooden box in a room in a place full of the scent of disinfectant masked by floral freshener. I kept waiting for her to breathe, for her chest to lift, for her to open her eyes, and tell me that everything was okay; that I wouldn't be motherless at the age of sixteen. That she would live to see my first child born. That it was all just some terrible mistake, and any minute now those things would happen...
But they didn't.
I remember her funeral. The people.
All of the people at her funeral, their eyes full of sadness and loss. I knew she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad. I knew she wanted us to celebrate her life... Though tears still fell down my cheeks as they played 'her song'; Sophie B. Hawkins', 'As I lay me down'.
I remember thinking that I wished I could take all of the pain that was held inside that chapel into myself, away from everyone else, away from the friends and the children and the brothers and sisters. That I could hold it, that enormous, unspoken thing that brought so many strangers together, and somehow make it something that only I had to endure.
Maybe that was because I couldn't feel anything. There was a void in me, and my emotions faded to grey like the end of an old movie.
I was on automatic, and I kept everything going like a well-oiled machine. Slowly, and with time, I began to feel again, regaining a new sense of self and identity as a mother myself.
And so, life went on, as it will. And really, that was the most important lesson that I learnt. Life goes on.
It's what we do with our lives, with every day, that counts in the end. My mother spent her life planning her death, being afraid of herself, of the potential of failure, and in the end, that's what I mourned the most; the loss of a beautiful yet unfulfilled life.
I understand now how important it is to go for those things you want, those dreams you dream, because you never know when and how the opportunity will be taken from you. In some ways, it's what my mother didn't do, as much as the things she did, that taught me about the value of challenging yourself, and of challenging others.
It was the profound impact that her death had on me that helped me to comprehend the complexities of human relationships, and led me to question how I would want to be remembered at the end of my lifetime, and whether or not I would have come to regret the decisions I'd made.
"Live every day as if it were your last, because one of these days, it will be."
