I was fifteen years of age when my mother’s health started to decline. Mum moved more slowly; this was particularly noted following a fall. Her face looked older and drooping. She experienced headaches and her memory declined. As a family, we just attributed it to ageing, as scans and tests did not reveal anything until more than a year later. |
It was discovered that Mum had a benign brain tumour – “the size of a golf ball” is how the specialist described it. It was then we realised that the ‘fall’ she had was due to a stroke – possibly two – and that she had facial palsy.
Mum was booked in for priority surgery to remove the tumour and told by the doctors at the hospital that there was an 80% chance of success – success meaning survival. I didn’t want to consider the 20% chance that she wouldn’t survive, so I didn’t.
The night before going into hospital, Mum had body pains and she asked me to massage her body as she tried to sleep next to me. Massage was the usual way in which I supported my family members, and it was the cultural custom. I massaged her for a bit with resentment that she was interfering with my sleep as I had school the next day. She then apologised for disturbing me. I went to sleep sulking and in hardness.
The next morning, Mum hugged and kissed us kids before going to the hospital. Mum asked that we look after our sister (who had a mental illness), as if Mum knew she was not going to come back home. I went off to school. We received a phone call that evening from the hospital that she had not woken up following surgery and was still in a coma. It was not looking good. Upon visiting her in the intensive care unit (ICU) that evening, I could not recognise my mother. Her whole face and head were swollen with eyes closed and tubes attached to her body. I cried at this disturbing sight.
I went to school the next day (being in Year 12) and chose not to go to class. My friend sat with me as I cried, and I told her Mum was in hospital and in a coma. She comforted me. I wanted sympathy and comfort, but it didn’t truly satisfy – like an addiction that could never be met.
The day after Mum went into a coma, we had a family meeting with the doctor in ICU. He was cold and detached in how he spoke to the family. I labelled him “heartless” at the time. He said the ventilator that sustained Mum’s life needed to be turned off. He did not show care and treated my mother as a bed number. I was angry, and I resented this doctor for his entitled and uncaring manner justified by his status and position. They turned off the machine the next day, two days after Mum went into hospital. My mother’s passing was a big shock for my family, my dad and my siblings, her family (her siblings, her parents, relatives), and the community. There was a warmth, sweetness, gentleness, care, and generosity that Mum lived, and people missed that.
There were many relatives and friends visiting the home crying and offering sympathy. “You poor child” they would say. “So young and you’ve lost your Mum”. They would squeeze my arm, hand, or stroke my face as if I was a doll. Such ‘care’ felt imposing and suffocating and it demonstrated their entitlement as the adult and/or relative.
My good school friend came to visit a couple of weeks after Mum’s passing. She was processing this as well as her own issues. She gave me a hug and cried, and I comforted her. I judged her for this as I expected her to support me (despite claiming I did not want sympathy) and for her to reach out in a certain way. Such are the ideals we are fed and our discomfort of death and passing over. Looking back, my friend was in overwhelm in life and felt the kindness my mother always showed to her when she came over, so she was fond of Mum and did not know how to be.
At the memorial service, Dad, my seven older siblings and I wore black pants and a white shirt. It was the cultural custom to tie white cloth around the circumference of the head. There was such an identification held in this. It was a statement of “I am mourning the death of my family member”. To wear this badge was a cultural constriction placed on me that I had to grieve; there was no celebration of Mum whatsoever.
I did not recognise Mum’s body on the day of the memorial service. There was no life – only a vacated shell. When it came to Mum’s best friend’s turn at visiting the empty corpse in the coffin, the friend wailed loudly with emotion and turmoil, calling Mum’s name and trying to hug the lifeless body. It was as if she wore a badge of “That is my friend and sister – this is not fair”. She made it about her own grieving and was unable to celebrate her friend.
The next day was the church service and burial. At the cemetery, my nephew (three years old at the time) observed the coffin being lowered into the ground. He looked up at the solemn faces around him. He was repeatedly told Grandma went to Heaven. He innocently asked his mother “How can Grandma be in there (pointing to the box) if she is in Heaven?” His uncle, (my brother) explained to our nephew that Grandma’s body is in the ground, but Grandma is in Heaven. My nephew asked “Mum, why are you crying?” It didn’t make sense to this three-year-old that others were crying over someone when they believed she was in Heaven. It was a valid point and at this young age, my nephew who was naturally joyful was already being conditioned on how to respond to death and passing over. He was taught that death was a solemn affair.
My mother’s passing left a feeling of regret in how I had treated her the night before she went into hospital. I held this against myself in the same way that I held it against her keeping me up the night before going into hospital. I also liked being sad. There was a comfort and familiarity to it.
I remember a couple of months after my mother’s passing, looking into the mirror and seeing how my face had aged from harbouring sadness and crying each day. My young face showed lines that it had not previously contained. I withdrew more, shrinking inside, as people would say “sorry” in relation to Mum’s passing. The sympathy did not feel right and had to do with what was not resolved for them, more than anything. I wanted acknowledgment but I wanted people to be normal around me too. My expectations of others set them up to fail.
Mum’s passing left me feeling unsettled. I would dream about her at night. I dreamt that she came back to life, that she went away on a trip and came back and even that she was about to be murdered. I carried the shadow of sadness even in my sleep. I missed Mum’s nurturing and one of my sisters became like a mum to me.
It was not until almost thirteen years later, before turning 30, that I let go of the grief and sadness of my mother’s passing. A complementary healing practitioner intuitively asked me about my mother, not knowing that she had passed away. I cried as I spoke about the sadness of losing her. I cried about the uncaring doctor. The practitioner asked me, “How long will you be sad for?” and “When will you let it go?” These questions spoke volumes and that day I stopped mourning my mother’s death.
I thought that grieving showed I loved my mother, but it didn’t. It showed that I was not moving on, when my mother had. I let go of the sadness and grief, protection, and the name badge of the grieving daughter that I wore with it. I no longer tried to hold on to the memories or family ties. I no longer felt I needed to hide behind grief or mourn on the anniversary of Mum’s passing or visit her grave frequently. I stopped even remembering the anniversary of her passing each year. I no longer needed a photo of her by my bedside. There was no obligation or sense of owing anything to anyone.
I allowed myself to move on. I finally let go of the resentment held towards the treating doctor in the hospital – such poison in my delicate body. I started to nurture and parent myself. This was freeing and showed me how instantly we can heal and move on.
Today I see that my mother’s passing did not mean death as a final end but offered her a new beginning, a chance to reset and reimprint old ways of being, to break free of cultural and religious chains that kept her imprisoned in daily life. I now see that dying and passing over can be as beautiful as birth. I have accepted and let go of the passing of my mother and grief no longer has a hold on me.
This quote sums up what I feel about grief:
We do not need to carry grief.
To carry grief does not mean we love the person.
To carry grief does not mean we did not love the person.
It is just carrying grief.
– Deborah Savran, 2021
Annie, Australia
If you enjoyed this article you may also like to read:
Impermanence
Mum was booked in for priority surgery to remove the tumour and told by the doctors at the hospital that there was an 80% chance of success – success meaning survival. I didn’t want to consider the 20% chance that she wouldn’t survive, so I didn’t.
The night before going into hospital, Mum had body pains and she asked me to massage her body as she tried to sleep next to me. Massage was the usual way in which I supported my family members, and it was the cultural custom. I massaged her for a bit with resentment that she was interfering with my sleep as I had school the next day. She then apologised for disturbing me. I went to sleep sulking and in hardness.
The next morning, Mum hugged and kissed us kids before going to the hospital. Mum asked that we look after our sister (who had a mental illness), as if Mum knew she was not going to come back home. I went off to school. We received a phone call that evening from the hospital that she had not woken up following surgery and was still in a coma. It was not looking good. Upon visiting her in the intensive care unit (ICU) that evening, I could not recognise my mother. Her whole face and head were swollen with eyes closed and tubes attached to her body. I cried at this disturbing sight.
I went to school the next day (being in Year 12) and chose not to go to class. My friend sat with me as I cried, and I told her Mum was in hospital and in a coma. She comforted me. I wanted sympathy and comfort, but it didn’t truly satisfy – like an addiction that could never be met.
The day after Mum went into a coma, we had a family meeting with the doctor in ICU. He was cold and detached in how he spoke to the family. I labelled him “heartless” at the time. He said the ventilator that sustained Mum’s life needed to be turned off. He did not show care and treated my mother as a bed number. I was angry, and I resented this doctor for his entitled and uncaring manner justified by his status and position. They turned off the machine the next day, two days after Mum went into hospital. My mother’s passing was a big shock for my family, my dad and my siblings, her family (her siblings, her parents, relatives), and the community. There was a warmth, sweetness, gentleness, care, and generosity that Mum lived, and people missed that.
There were many relatives and friends visiting the home crying and offering sympathy. “You poor child” they would say. “So young and you’ve lost your Mum”. They would squeeze my arm, hand, or stroke my face as if I was a doll. Such ‘care’ felt imposing and suffocating and it demonstrated their entitlement as the adult and/or relative.
My good school friend came to visit a couple of weeks after Mum’s passing. She was processing this as well as her own issues. She gave me a hug and cried, and I comforted her. I judged her for this as I expected her to support me (despite claiming I did not want sympathy) and for her to reach out in a certain way. Such are the ideals we are fed and our discomfort of death and passing over. Looking back, my friend was in overwhelm in life and felt the kindness my mother always showed to her when she came over, so she was fond of Mum and did not know how to be.
At the memorial service, Dad, my seven older siblings and I wore black pants and a white shirt. It was the cultural custom to tie white cloth around the circumference of the head. There was such an identification held in this. It was a statement of “I am mourning the death of my family member”. To wear this badge was a cultural constriction placed on me that I had to grieve; there was no celebration of Mum whatsoever.
I did not recognise Mum’s body on the day of the memorial service. There was no life – only a vacated shell. When it came to Mum’s best friend’s turn at visiting the empty corpse in the coffin, the friend wailed loudly with emotion and turmoil, calling Mum’s name and trying to hug the lifeless body. It was as if she wore a badge of “That is my friend and sister – this is not fair”. She made it about her own grieving and was unable to celebrate her friend.
The next day was the church service and burial. At the cemetery, my nephew (three years old at the time) observed the coffin being lowered into the ground. He looked up at the solemn faces around him. He was repeatedly told Grandma went to Heaven. He innocently asked his mother “How can Grandma be in there (pointing to the box) if she is in Heaven?” His uncle, (my brother) explained to our nephew that Grandma’s body is in the ground, but Grandma is in Heaven. My nephew asked “Mum, why are you crying?” It didn’t make sense to this three-year-old that others were crying over someone when they believed she was in Heaven. It was a valid point and at this young age, my nephew who was naturally joyful was already being conditioned on how to respond to death and passing over. He was taught that death was a solemn affair.
My mother’s passing left a feeling of regret in how I had treated her the night before she went into hospital. I held this against myself in the same way that I held it against her keeping me up the night before going into hospital. I also liked being sad. There was a comfort and familiarity to it.
I remember a couple of months after my mother’s passing, looking into the mirror and seeing how my face had aged from harbouring sadness and crying each day. My young face showed lines that it had not previously contained. I withdrew more, shrinking inside, as people would say “sorry” in relation to Mum’s passing. The sympathy did not feel right and had to do with what was not resolved for them, more than anything. I wanted acknowledgment but I wanted people to be normal around me too. My expectations of others set them up to fail.
Mum’s passing left me feeling unsettled. I would dream about her at night. I dreamt that she came back to life, that she went away on a trip and came back and even that she was about to be murdered. I carried the shadow of sadness even in my sleep. I missed Mum’s nurturing and one of my sisters became like a mum to me.
It was not until almost thirteen years later, before turning 30, that I let go of the grief and sadness of my mother’s passing. A complementary healing practitioner intuitively asked me about my mother, not knowing that she had passed away. I cried as I spoke about the sadness of losing her. I cried about the uncaring doctor. The practitioner asked me, “How long will you be sad for?” and “When will you let it go?” These questions spoke volumes and that day I stopped mourning my mother’s death.
I thought that grieving showed I loved my mother, but it didn’t. It showed that I was not moving on, when my mother had. I let go of the sadness and grief, protection, and the name badge of the grieving daughter that I wore with it. I no longer tried to hold on to the memories or family ties. I no longer felt I needed to hide behind grief or mourn on the anniversary of Mum’s passing or visit her grave frequently. I stopped even remembering the anniversary of her passing each year. I no longer needed a photo of her by my bedside. There was no obligation or sense of owing anything to anyone.
I allowed myself to move on. I finally let go of the resentment held towards the treating doctor in the hospital – such poison in my delicate body. I started to nurture and parent myself. This was freeing and showed me how instantly we can heal and move on.
Today I see that my mother’s passing did not mean death as a final end but offered her a new beginning, a chance to reset and reimprint old ways of being, to break free of cultural and religious chains that kept her imprisoned in daily life. I now see that dying and passing over can be as beautiful as birth. I have accepted and let go of the passing of my mother and grief no longer has a hold on me.
This quote sums up what I feel about grief:
We do not need to carry grief.
To carry grief does not mean we love the person.
To carry grief does not mean we did not love the person.
It is just carrying grief.
– Deborah Savran, 2021
Annie, Australia
If you enjoyed this article you may also like to read:
Impermanence