Today, Maura, we said goodbye to you. One last time.
My wife’s mum. Our children’s grandma. A wife. A sister. An auntie. A friend. Counsellor. Nurse. Campaigner. Governor. Commissioner. Fierce opponent…
It’s a long list. And you were all of these things. With abundance.
To me, you were my mother-in-law. Which is nice, because I’m the only person who got to call you that.
And I want you to know it was not wasted on me.
So perhaps you can read this now, wherever you are. Or perhaps you’re already fully engaged in eternal bliss with your God, just as you told us you would be.
“Sod off. You’re boring me now.”
You see, the fact of you being gone makes no sense to us. Absolute zero. We weren’t ready to lose a parent. It’s not a thing we can form into a recognisable shape in our heads.
Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Because barely five weeks ago we were with you one last time before that damn stroke. (Was there ever a word that did less justice to its devastating impact than “stroke”, by the way?) We were full of laughter as we joked about Monty Python sketches (I’d misunderstood) and teased you about the football (you didn’t care). You’d called to say that the cat had brought you an unwanted gift – a sparrow pining for the fjords, you told me – and we came along to sort it for you. Of course the bird wasn’t okay. You laughed. It was bloody well dead! 23 June. 6.24pm. It was the last time you’d call me. It says so in my phone.
(Was this all a tidy metaphor for what was to come? I’ve asked myself this over recent weeks. The bird a portent of your own imminent demise? If you called, would we be there? Etcetera. “There’s nothing better than your nest being full, taking care of it”. Stop it. Of course it’s not portentous. Life’s too messy for that sort of thing. That’s not how it all works. Not really. And yet…)
I know this much: we had no hint of what was just around the corner for you – for all of us – just days later. I’m thankful that we didn’t know. Well…mostly I’m thankful.
But then we can’t help thinking at times like this that, if only we had known, we’d have lingered a little longer. Shared another joke. Just…been there. Reminding you that we all still need you. That we’re not done with you yet.
“Sod off. You’re boring me now.”
These recent years you weren’t well, of course you weren’t. Your body restricted but your mind still strong. Still prodding. Testing. For such an intensely practical and independent person, I can only imagine how much this pained you. Physically, of course. But emotionally, too.
And yet, despite those many daily challenges, you kept a good humour that was, frankly, baffling. I’d tell anyone who’d listen that I could not understand how you kept such good humour in such trying circumstances. I truly still don’t know how.
Through it all, you grew ever closer to us, finding new ways to mother those that you loved, and new ways to torture us all, too.
A little gift here. An inappropriate joke there. Here a little money to treat ourselves. There a phone call to share something new you’d found online. Pickled cabbage. “You can’t drive there and back in a day!” Bedroom fan. “Look after that ankle”. Kitchen tap. Tea and toast. More cables. Peter Pan Goes Wrong (oh yeah, you were absolutely right about that). Jewellery. Christmas puddings. “If we can help, we will, you know that”; utter relief. “What shall we have for tea this week?” “Get some rest”…
“Sod off. You’re boring me now.”
You were an ear to any question. An answer to our problems. You helped us. You know how. We know how. Thank you.
(You told me never to thank you again. But you’re not getting your own way on this. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.)
Mind you, when you gave your answers, they were not always easy. And you could be difficult. You battled through many a storm in your 74 years, but always with consistency, always from a good place. Your heading set to a North Star that was unwavering.
I fell foul of that at times. We had disagreements. But life is at least as messy and difficult as it is tidy and joyous. It’s not a fairy liquid advert. You taught me that.
So coming through some of those storms with you is something I’m proud of. Something of a privilege. Making it to the other side stronger is something I can hold onto. We all can. Because we all got there together in the end. It was not wasted on me. On any of us.
The best thing? Well you told me not long ago that you were happy your daughter was safe with me. And that’s all I needed.
Probably millions of words spoken over the years. Some in laughter. Some in debate. Light. Deep. Practical. Argument. Support. Consequential and not. It’s a long list.
But those few words – that you knew your darling daughter was safe – were everything to me.
“Sod off. You’re boring me now.”
You’ve been such a huge personality, the absence of which now leaves an awful gash in our realities. I sometimes wonder, did you even appreciate how loved and appreciated you were? I hope you did, but I worry that you did not. I got to tell you. But still…
Now I catch myself, and feel the past tense of these words cutting deep. That seems wrong. Just…too brutally real. We’re not done with you yet. Remember?
But here we are.
Thinking back again to that last time we saw you before that damn stroke just weeks ago, I feel pretty sure I remember the last words you said as we left:
“Sod off. You’re boring me now.”
I can be sure that those were your words, because that was how we’d often part when we left your house, or at the end of a call.
People who didn’t know you might well take those words entirely the wrong way. They’d misunderstand completely what was meant.
They’d be wrong.
Because you were never bored of those you loved. Those words were a micro-kindness (you were good at those). They were a very Maura way of giving people an out. So we’d feel no guilt at leaving and going about our lives, while you were less able to do the same these past few years.
That’s my belief. I think I’m right. But here’s what I know…
We were never bored of you. We loved you and we appreciated you.
We always will.
But then wait. There were always two more little words before parting. Never goodbye. Always just this:
Night night.
So that’s where I’ll leave it too – for now at least. You were my mother-in-law. And that wasn’t wasted on me.
But I probably am boring you now.
Night night Maura.