I'm always astounded at how much time I let pass between blog posts. As I've written many times before, I think about blogging all the time. There's so much of life that I want to put down in writing, but I just don't. As I've also written many times before, it's in my daily journalling that I express my raw feelings about life and its beauty and strangeness.
Since I last wrote, four people in my circle have passed away: in March, it was Harriet Enus, the mom of my dear friend, Anton (whom I met at age six, in Durban). In June, it was a friend, Trevor Roberts, who died a few months after being diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. Trevor was also a friend I'd met in Durban, at age six. In July, it was Margaret Schultz, the mom of another dear friend, Sandi. My thoughts are with those families, as they grieve for their loved ones.
The fourth one, the one that changed my world fundamentally, was on 5 May, when my mom died, the day before her 95th birthday.
I could probably spend many years blogging about my mom and what she meant to me, and I hope to put as much as possible in writing, over time. At this stage, two and a half months after her passing, my thoughts turn to her every day. A friend asked recently how I was coping, and I replied that I thought about her in categories. I think about my mom as she was during my childhood, when she was my whole world. I think about her during my teenage years, when I'd started making choices that conflicted with my upbringing - like joining different churches, and getting baptised in a 'born-again' church. I think about her when I was a young adult, teaching, living on my own, my life filled with the drama of tempestuous relationships. I think about her when I was married and became a mom, how her love for her children automatically spilled over to her grandchildren. (My sister had her two children in the 1980s, and I had mine in the 1990s.)
I think about my mother in her senior years, before she was struck down by Alzheimer's. She was independent, taking public transport to Claremont on pension day, taking herself for a modest meal at Wimpy (sometimes taking a grandchild along), kept putting on and performing in concerts in her early 80s, and was a solid source of love and support for her family. No-one in my life has ever loved and supported me that much. She was unique to me. She loved us unconditionally.
When she became ill (diagnosed with Amnestic Syndrome in 2012, and Alzheimer's Disease, a year later), and needed to live in a place where she could be cared for 24/7, I had to be honest that I was not by the means - financially and emotionally - to take on that responsibility. My sister opened her home to my mom, which is where she lived for the next thirteen years, until her death, at home. My sister cared for her, with love, humour, and the expertise gained from her nursing career, and involved her in family events. I am acutely aware of what a huge undertaking that was and will always be grateful for that immense outpouring of love over all those years. It takes a kind of superhero to do such prolonged caregiving.
For the first seven years of my mother's illness, she spent every second weekend with me. During the Covid lockdown, she couldn't leave the house, and that lack of relief placed a huge burden on my sister. Around that same time, I was having online therapy sessions to deal with some long-standing issues, and one of the outcomes was that I needed to reduce the frequency of my weekends with my mom, in order to take better care of myself. When lockdown was over, I then had my mom with me one weekend a month. It meant a lot to me to be able to spend that time with her, while it saddened me to watch her condition worsening over time.
One year ago, when I downsized my living space, in order to cope financially (and work away the debt incurred by College of Cape Town not paying my salary for 6 months), I moved into an affordable place just big enough for one person. I budgeted to spend our monthly weekends together at suitable Airbnbs, which I thought we could turn into little adventures. At that time, my sister informed me that our mom's condition was such that it was no longer advisable for her to sleep out of the house.
I think about my mother when, despite having Alzheimer's, she could still sight-read, and play the piano. I think about her sense of humour that was evident until about a month before she died. I think about how, in that last month of her life, she lost her ability to walk, and all the ramifications of that loss. I think about how she could no longer swallow properly, and my sister had to feed her soft things like soup, yoghurt, and Ensure.
I think about the Sunday night my sister messaged me to say that Mom wasn't doing well, and that she had had the priest around to anoint her. I realised that things were very serious, and went there the next day, to spend time with my mom and my sister. From the morning, already, Mom was displaying the death rattle, which was unnerving to hear. I won't go into any of the details of that day (although I think about them a lot), except to say that she died at 22h15 that night.
There were quite a few things related to what happens after someone dies that made me feel alienated, but that's personal stuff I have to process over time.
Mom died on Monday 5 May, her funeral was on Friday 9 May, and her ashes were interred on Sunday 29 June.
And now, life goes on. But differently. I could never be my mother - she was unique, anyway - but I think both her children and her four grandchildren bear elements of her, which is a beautiful legacy. I will honour her by living as authentically as I can, opening myself to life and its energies, being loving and supportive to the people I hold dear, and always having music in my life.
