It’s been 10 days since I found my Mum. I am feeling a lot better than I was in the first week. I spoke to my brother today and he echoed my own feelings when I asked how he was doing.
“Yeah… better,” he said, and he sounded like it.
He was a lot brighter than last time we spoke. He’s lost his mobile phone (this happens often), so at the moment I can only speak to him on a Thursday when he visits my Dad. He is more resilient than I thought – I have worried about him every day since Mum died.
As for me, I am still restless at night, although I am very firm about not thinking about what happened. I simply put it out of my mind and focus on anything else. I know well that mulling over things in the dark is the absolute worst thing to do, as I spent so many hours of my life doing it over my miscarriages, hospital treatment, and the births of my children. There is nothing you can do to make anything better at night, so the best thing is not to give the thoughts any leeway. Thinking of what I saw and the last conversations we had could turn into something that would haunt me forever.
The nights aside, I am doing okay. My Mum was so dreadfully sad and so unwell that I think there probably wasn’t much that could have altered the course of events in the long run. I am still going to make an official complaint to the NHS as I do believe that her treatment in the last couple of months shortened the time she had left, and that her symptoms were sidelined when they should have been investigated. However, all they can do is maybe apologise (if that), so I don’t care for the outcome, only that I register my voice.
I’m in the midst of all of the practical things that you have to do after death. Funeral arrangements, notifying distant friends and relatives, sorting through possessions. I have removed four car loads of stuff from Mum’s flat in my seven-seater. Every bag and box packed by me and brought down in the lift. Two car loads I recycled. Two car loads I brought back to our house and distributed the contents in piles upstairs, in the loft, and under my desk. There are at least two car loads still to come, plus all her furniture which will have to be taken away as I cannot store or use it.
This is the third death that I have personally cleared up after in the last few years and I can tell you that sorting out what is left of someone’s existence takes hours and hours and hours of your time, most likely spread over months. The older I get, the less I like stuff. Having too much of it in the house makes me feel chaotic and overburdened. I have inherited a huge collection of things from Mum, who was a bit of a collector. It has reinforced my already solid commitment to minimalism. We can’t take anything with us when we go. All we do is leave it to someone else. Every piece of paper, every letter, every document, every diary, photograph and trinket – it all gets seen by someone when we die. Our life is laid bare, our secrets (if there is physical evidence of them) outed.
As long as we have the basics – utensils to eat, somewhere to sleep, something to keep us clean, access to good food, the luxury of an interest or hobby – what else do we really need? Life is better lived than collected.
I will most likely set a date for the funeral tomorrow as I am seeing the funeral director that managed my Uncle’s funeral last year. I liked him a lot, so I’m glad he will be looking after Mum.
I feel like I cannot grieve in peace, or sort my own thoughts out, until everything is dealt with. The stuff, the endless stuff, the funeral, the ashes, the paperwork. It will be months before I can put this behind me, just as it was with Eric and my Nan. I feel resentful of the administrative burden of death.
Getting our lives in good order, and ridding our homes of unused and unnecessary possessions will make for an easier time for our loved ones when we go, whenever that time may be. I certainly hope that when my time comes, my affairs and belongings are simple enough that my children can deal with them without excessive pain and aggravation.