Goodbye Mamma 

I knew when I saw the Robin sitting on top of your grave waiting for us to approach before it flew of in the distance that this was sign for me that you were alright. 

I knew this day would come, but when it did it felt so sudden; we thought you were recovering in hospital, you’d rallied the day before and were out of the critical stage. The doctors agreed and said you were improving but then that evening everything changed so quickly, and you left us. You slipped away quietly, and you were gone. 

You had died. 

I know in my heart it was your time, after the last few days of pain and struggle.  I was grateful that it had ended for you but it didn’t make it any easier to accept.  I’d been steeling myself for years for this moment but in my head, we still had time, I still thought we had years ahead of us, so I didn’t react the way the others did with an outpouring of grief. 

My Shame 

I feel ashamed at the way I reacted as the rest of the family wept, I felt numb, and I left the ward straight away.  

It was only when I’d driven away that I realised that I hadn’t said goodbye to you. I returned to your bedside and asked for your forgiveness for letting you down and not doing everything that I could to keep you here. 

And now I don’t know what to do.  

The Quiet After 

The house is so quiet without you, I don’t hear you shout my name or talk incessantly about whatever we’re watching or doing until you tire yourself out and abruptly fall asleep. I didn’t really think about be alone, you were always there to talk to, to listen, and my person for advice and help with everything. 

I’m not sitting right next to you making sure you’re drinking your water or tea to ensure your hydrated. I don’t go to the kitchen to get your favourite mid afternoon snack, and bring back a warm doughnut and tea. I don’t wait inevitably for the jam to squirt out of the doughnut on to your top in your eagerness to eat it. 

The nights are worse. I miss watching you get sleepy before the carers arrive, I miss not being able to say goodnight and I love you as they take you upstairs. I miss doing the final checks before I go to bed to make sure you’re all comfortable and I miss the baby monitor, not hearing you gently snoring or breathing, or waking up in the middle of the night because something disturbed you.  I miss you not saying I love you to me when you’re half asleep in bed. The quiet is horrible. 

Grief Bubbles to the Surface 

It was only at your funeral that I let go, just for a minute, other than that it feels like waves of emotion keep coming over me bringing tears to my eyes, but no uncontrollable crying or outlet of grief like everyone else.  

I know everyone grieves differently but its making me question whether I really cared, which I know I did but my body not reacting like everyone else is making me question everything. 

The Smallest Things 

I keep welling up at the smallest things around the house -your weekly pill box still full, seeing your mug in the cupboard, your head scarf that I’d just washed so now it doesn’t smell of you, your brand new coat that you’d tried on but never had a chance to wear, and the empty backseat where you sat in your wheelchair correcting and driving me nuts with your backseat driving. 

I lost it when I realised I didn’t have a photograph of us together. I’d been so focused on making sure that all family visitors over the last years had a photograph with you before they left as a memento of their visit but I totally forgot to get ones of us.   

Then I found one of my earliest photos of us together on this journey. The plan had been to take a photo every month to have these memories, and just like me, the best laid plans I never took another monthly photo of us. And I’m glad I didn’t.  I realise now that it probably would’ve been torture to have all the photos showing your deterioration.

Instead, I have this brilliant photo of us, beaming and smiling at the camera and it makes me happy to look at it. 

Our Journey with Dementia 

You hear people talk about how dementia steals the person you love bit by bit, but it didn’t feel like that. Yes, you forgot my name but you still knew me – so much so that everyone who looked like me became “me” to you.  Yes, I still remember my frustrations, anger, the injuries, and the lack of freedom.  

We had our moments, where the disease made things difficult but I don’t think we experienced the lows that I read about. We learnt to deal with the dysphagia, the catheter, the sleepless nights, the constant vigilance, your worries and trying to keep you engaged.   

Maybe I’m looking back with a different lens now.

But what dementia really gave me was the opportunity to repair a relationship that had broken down with you. I believe something brought me home when you needed me, and I’ll be forever grateful that I got to spend more than 10 years of your life caring for you. It wasn’t easy but I’d go back there right now if I could.  

The Guilt 

My mind is full of guilt, questions and recriminations. I even question if I was the right person to have looked after you all these years. Did I do enough? Could I have done more? I have to keep reminding myself to stop these negative thoughts because there was nothing more I could’ve done.  

I have to keep repeating that it was your time, we belong to Allah and to him we shall return.  

Trying to Keep Busy 

I don’t know what to do with myself.  The first day was just numbness, not fully accepting that you’d gone, then the funeral almost the next day and then dealing with all the family and friends who came to pay their respects,  

But now, I have no purpose, you needed me and now no one does. My life revolved around your needs, your comfort, everything to make your life easier as much possible. 

I’ve spent the last few days cleaning, doing all your laundry from the hospital not knowing what was worn or what wasn’t.  Why can’t I remember what night dress you were wearing when you died? That’s been playing in my head for days. 

I’m trying to distract my mind by keeping busy trying to inform all the relevant bodies of your death.   

Thank goodness for the “Tell it Once” service that the government setup. It automatically notifies certain government agencies of a death so we don’t have to. But it doesn’t cover everything.

I hated have to call places and say that you had died without starting to cry.  Everyone has been so kind and gentle but it still horrible having to say those words, and every time I do, I can’t breathe for minute as the realisation hits me again.  

I Want to Remember the Good Times

I want to remember all the good things we experienced, your face when I served you weird food, your laughter when I danced around you, telling me off for doing things wrong when I tried to make samosas, you eating the food that I asked you to help chop for a recipe, learning to paint together, telling me you loved me as you fell asleep and so much more. I have to remind myself you left us when the time was right for you, and I know that you’ll be in Jannah reunited with your mum. 

Don’t Worry About Me Mamma

I’ll be alright. I know you’re at peace and that’s what matters. I’ll find my way without you.  

I’m away from home right now, away from the reminders just for a few days to get my head together. I finally have taken that respite break that I booked, it almost as if you planned that for me to get me out of the house.  

I know everything happens for a reason but it doesn’t make it any easier.   

I love you, and I miss you so much. 

Goodbye Mamma