Why am I not crying more?

My darling mum died just over a week ago now. I’ve noticed a marked difference in my emotional state compared to two years ago, when I lost my dad. Chiefly: much fewer tears!

Granted, the circumstances were very different. Dad’s death was a complete shock – he died with no warning, a healthy, active man in his late fifties. (Still unexplained, in case you’re wondering.) Mum’s death came at the end of a long struggle with cancer. Disappointment after disappointment. As her health declined over the last few months, it felt like we were losing her already.

But still, I’m confused and perhaps a little worried that I don’t feel more emotionally volatile… I have three theories.

Theory 1

That famous Wall that has helped so much is perhaps too strong for its own good. It means I’m bottling up my emotions. Blanking them out without actually dealing with them. Maybe I feel so numb because it still hasn’t sunk in. It’s unhealthy. And potentially dangerous – everything has to explode at some point, surely?!

Theory 2

Unlike Dad, we knew Mum’s death was coming. Maybe I dealt with it, and grieved, in part, before she actually died. Although I still miss her terribly, the agony and shock bit is over now.

Theory 3

Could it be possible that what I’m feeling isn’t numbness, but calmness? Mum is now at peace, and her suffering is over. Although I don’t see myself as spiritual or religious, a part of me likes to think she and Dad are somewhere, somehow, reunited.

The past two years have been terribly hard – not only has our little family been grieving for a father, a husband, a friend – but we’ve also been on a dark journey of cancer drugs, clinical trials, hospital visits, side effects and other related horrors. Perhaps what I’m feeling is some sort of closure. A bittersweet (mainly bitter, not so sweet) ending to our most recent troubles.

I hope it’s theory 3 anyway.


7 types of people you meet when you’re grieving

Any type of struggle or shitty time in life is going to put things into perspective. And for me, one of the things I’ve wised up about most is people.

My grief-tinted-glasses have revealed some pretty amazing results. Some people have been amazingly kind. Others have been painfully disappointing. Here’s a fun little summary of seven of types of people I’ve come across so far…

  1. The cheerful averter. These people are like rays of sunshine, coming into the house and chattering away about nothing in particular; knowing that often, the thing I need the most is to just be distracted from the painful reality of my mum’s death. Very conducive to keeping the Wall intact (see previous post).
  2. The awkward ignorer. Similar tactic, but VERY different execution. These people skirt infuriatingly around the bleeding obvious – that my Mum has passed away – and somehow their mundane chit-chat has the exact opposite effect on the Wall.
  3. The over-sympathiser. Some people treat me like I’m the one dying. Hushed tones, gushing compassion and morbid reflections. I know they mean well, but it’s really not making me feel any better.
  4. The weeper. Certain people come to offer their condolences and we end up spending more of the visit comforting them, than vice versa.  It’s easy to forget that my sister and I aren’t the only ones grieving. But couldn’t they have postponed the visit until their tears were under control?
  5. The feeder. One of my personal favourites. Somewhere between #1 and #2, this group may feel unable or unwilling to dredge up emotional platitudes, so instead channels its energy into another form of therapy – food! A highly appreciated silver lining to all this is the amount of delicious treats that tend to be showered on the bereaved family.
  6. The reminiscer. A sweeping generalisation, but I think most reminiscers have been through similar bereavements themselves. They know that while nothing can bring our mum back, one of the nicest things to do is to relive happier times that will keep her memory alive. This group isn’t afraid to talk about the dead.
  7. The professional. Some people are used to dealing with death at arm’s length (nurses, funeral directors, registrars, ministers, etc…). This is always useful, and actually comforting. I’m desperate to get the ‘life admin’ (or death admin I suppose) out of the way as smoothly and quickly as possible, so we can move on to properly grieving my mum.

I probably come across as a bit of a cynical cow. I know that 99% of people mean well – and it’s not their fault that death is such a hard issue to handle. But it’s actually fascinating to observe… have you come across any others?

Registering a death

There can’t be many places in the world where feelings can be so mixed as a Registry Office. Births, deaths and marriages – well isn’t that just the whole spectrum of life for you right there.

The Registry Office in Nevill Hall Hospital has seen it all many times over, including from our own family. Both my sister and I were born and had our births registered here. Death-wise, my father, grandmother, and now mother’s deaths were registered in the same little office. (Incidentally, the photo I chose for this post – with its host of golden daffodils – was actually taken by my Mum two years ago when she came to the hospital to register Dad’s death.)

On the bright side, few hospitals in Britain can be in such a beautiful setting. And, having requested a bilingual death certificate (English and Welsh), we were met by the very same Welsh-speaking deputy registrar as my mother had visited two years ago. He remembered her well, and also happened to know my maternal grandfather (Wales is a small place).

The hour we spent with the two registrars should have been exceedingly depressing. Ffion and I had come loaded with birth, marriage and death certificates; passports, driving licences and blue badges; and faced endless administrative questions to trawl through all the niggly details. But it wasn’t depressing. Thanks to the warmth, compassion and humour shown by the two wonderful registrars, we actually had quite a pleasant meeting. We reminisced about my parents, we exchanged stories about community matters, and we generally had a smile and a giggle.

I’m thankful that my family lives in a small town where everyone knows each other, and has each other’s backs. It’s the small things. Every cloud…