Grief comes in unexpectedly
As my mother’s health improves, my grief seems to be receding. Sure, Mum may never get back to being the sparky, independent woman she has been all her life, but perhaps that matters less than we thought it did.
And watching over the last year the process of her gradual change, acknowledging how many personal mountains she has had to climb – not only losing her husband and her son, but having to move her home twice in less that eighteen months and make all the necessary personal adjustments – I appreciate her courage anew.
In her quieter moments, she remains an inspiration, and not for the reasons she might suppose: not for her physical strength, her purposefulness, her self-reliance, but for her resignation. Her stoicism, never her most obvious trait, is resurfacing in such a way that grief comes in unexpectedly. It pricks behind the eyes, occasionally overflows, but then it leaves again. And this has happened so much in the last few years, that I too am becoming more resigned.
I can’t pretend to understand the Whys of our situation. I can hope to make a small difference, and give my mother the hope that she will be heard, and that she will get better. I keep my fingers crossed, pray almost constantly, and hope for the best. Because when examined objectively, there has been nothing else we could have done that would procure a better outcome. The NHS – God bless it! – has proved itself a worthy champion of those in crisis; they have rescued my mother from death and from her habitual defeatism, they have given her the hope of a new lease of life as well as a long-overdue medical review, and today, they conceded that she could come home, after more than three weeks in their care.
So with the help of two members of staff, we packed my car this afternoon and drove home peacefully, and with gathering relief. There may be more grief to face, but at least we now have hope that we can face it on our own terms. Which is something else to be grateful for.
Thanks for listening.
Please share:
February 15, 2019 @ 10:34 am
Fran, you write with such sensitivity. This is beautiful. That kind of unexpected grief is something I’m familiar with: watching someone battle courageously forward can evoke tears as much as happiness. Thank you for sharing these thoughts.
February 15, 2019 @ 3:47 pm
Val, you comment so faithfully, and I am always – will always be – grateful. It is encouragement like yours that keeps my pecker up, that keeps me blogging. Thank you.
It has been very interesting to see how much I can do when my determination comes out of hiding. And I find, that the more I do, the more I have courage to attempt. (I never thought I’d live to see the day when I facilitated my mother’s early departure from hospital… But what is the point of getting someone medically fit in relatively benign surroundings, only to shunt them out of an acute bed into a social care facility utterly devoid of character or hope? I’ve never been in a more depressing place than the holding ward Mum ended up in. A single long corridor – very long – with rooms off. Nothing to do, nowhere to rest the eyes, and everyone in uniform…) xxx
February 15, 2019 @ 9:45 pm
Your care and concern for your mum are also very touching, Fran. Having read your book, I take my hat off to you for that. Bless you!
February 16, 2019 @ 11:30 am
Thanks, Val. Mum has led an immensely full life, and if I’m not careful I shall be her facilitator for all her projects, which are never ending. A salutory lesson. Have a lovely weekend. ((xxx))
February 15, 2019 @ 3:53 pm
I am happy that you have your mum home Fran and wish you peace and tranquility so that you can all recover and enjoy what you have now that may not be what you would have wished for but is precious nonetheless. x
February 15, 2019 @ 5:07 pm
Thank you so much, Diane. Absolutely, we are all working very hard to make our time together gentle and enjoyable. It’s amazing how much fun it can be to finally communicate truth, and have it understood and agreed.
I say, for example, that Mum has always rushed, been in a hurry, which might be part of why she sometimes feels anxious now that she finds she cannot rush at all. Perhaps the gap between what she used to do and what she can now just about manage, is what produces the anxiety. And she agreed that yes, that was probable. Then – amazing! – ordered a pudding and ate some, just for fun. It’s like discovering whole new parts of her that I’ve never seen before. So glad to see it. ((xx))
February 18, 2019 @ 11:00 am
I am not as strong as I was but learning to slow down does take a lot of effort. And eating pudding, just for fun, is a good sign.
February 18, 2019 @ 12:15 pm
Thank you so much, John. Your comments always go to the heart of the matter. It is wonderful to eat pudding, just for fun, isn’t it? We don’t have to finish it, after all. ((xx)) Slowing down brings its own pleasures, I find, not the least of which is increased enjoyment for the things I am doing now.