Thread: Mum's Eulogy

Three weeks ago today my mum's doctor told her that there was no further treatment he could give her.
He told her that he'd keep her at the hospital and make her comfortable.

That night she called my three siblings and I into the hospital and as soon as my brother arrived she blurted out "I won't be alive much longer".

Well, she was right. The following week was the saddest and most traumatic of my life.
We watched her die. And the youngest of us is only nineteen years old.

And so exactly a week after the news, she left us.

A week later, (A week ago) we had her funeral.
And now another week has passed and I still don't know how to feel.
But I thought it was time to get back to computerland (and feel a bit normal again), and I thought I might share with you the eulogy I gave at the funeral.

So here it is...



In Christmas 2009 I gave Mum a book full of memories that I had written down for her. She had been diagnosed, then cleared, then diagnosed, and cleared and finally diagnosed again. The book was written about a week after we found out about that final diagnosis.
And that was the one that took her.
I’d like to share with you a few of the things I wrote for her.

The first prompt in the book was ‘My earliest memory of you’:
I wrote - I remember one day when I got home from kinder, no one else was home, just you and me.
We sat on the couch in the living room and I sat in your lap. You cuddled me and called me your hunny bunny. I remember asking you to keep saying it. I have nearly no other memories from being that young, but something about that one stuck with me. It’s not hard for me to guess why.
I felt so safe and loved in your arms.
A little while later I remember asking you why everyone thought my friends in prep were so cute and why no one ever said it about me. I know now that I was a weird giant child, (and that was definitely why), but you told me that everyone must be crazy.
I even recall the look on your face the day I came home from school in hysterics because all the kids kept calling me Kath-uh-leen. And as I blubbered about there not being a letter ‘U’ in my name, you managed to console me without laughing. But I remember the half smile on your face.

Another prompt was –‘Things that remind me of you’:
I said that Getting lost always reminds me of you. Because whenever I do (which is often), I know you’ll be able to help me find my way. And if for some reason I can’t reach you, then my Melways will usually rescue me . And you’re the one that taught me how to use it. In fact, you taught me so much of what I know. You taught me how to drive. How to cook. How to sew. You taught me how to wash my clothes and brush my teeth and speak and walk and laugh. Whenever I do any of these things, it reminds me of you. When I look into the mirror and see bright eyes and a crinkly forehead, I think of you.

One of the pages in the book got me to write a couple of words that made me think of Mum:
I wrote: – Butterflies and hugs.
And then I wrote the reasons -
Your enthusiasm for everything has always been a source of great admiration, as well as amusement. The four of us can often find a reason to pick on you when you get overly excited about something goofy. Like the time you saw a Ulysses butterfly in Queensland and just about lost your mind with how beautiful it was. I can’t remember anything else from that trip except how much we teased you about it.
And a few years ago when you went to that weekend retreat and came back with this seven second hugs and kisses thing. You engaged us all in hugs that would go for seven seconds.
Then you started signing off all text messages and emails and facebook messages with S.S.H.A.K (the acronym for your seven second hugs and kisses). I remember when you first started doing it and saying to the others: “what on earth is ‘sshak?”


One of the other prompts was – I didn’t know then, but know now:
The most prevalent thing that comes to mind here is that you’re human. When I was younger, I never knew that. You were superwoman. You had all the answers and never made mistakes.
As I mature I start noticing your humanity. I notice mistakes and see the things you cringe over. Some big things. Some small things: Like the time you wrote “I couldn’t love you less” on my birthday card, when clearly you meant the opposite. And I confess I take a little pleasure in telling you about these mistakes. But that’s because I’m so grateful for them, for your human errors.
For knowing that if you’re not perfect, then no one is. And that has made becoming an adult a much smoother transition for me. And though there’ll be hard things in my future, hopefully marriage, and motherhood, if I just remember your amazing example, I’ll always pull through.

On the page with the heading -Important lessons you’ve shared with me – I wrote:
When I was young, I can’t remember how young (but we still had that white shag carpet), I was mucking around in your room... Inevitably, I dropped one of your little containers on the floor and out spilled a huge collection of baby teeth. I hastily cleaned them up as a few things started to dawn on me. Could the tooth fairy really be an elaborate hoax?
Later, I sat by your feet as you put make up on, and I said, “Hey Mum, is Santa real?”
Santa, and the tooth fairy, and God were intrinsically linked in my young mind.
They were my holy trinity.
You told me that I should believe whatever makes me happy. “So that’s a no,” I thought.
Later in life, when thinking about my beliefs, I remembered your words and decided that perhaps that was the perfect way to look at things. I believe what I believe now because it makes me happy.

For the prompt ‘Thank you for’ I wrote, Thank you for- being who you are. For always going above and beyond. For telling me you love me. For telling me I could do or be anything I wanted. Thank you for a lifetime of excellent advice. Thank you for never leaving me in doubt about whether anyone loved me. Thank you for being so strong and so brave. You’ve led by example. Thank you for smiles and hugs and pride. Thank you for beautiful gifts and a sense of family. Thank you for being so cool that my friends feel like you’re their friend too. Thank you for fine values and great food.
And I thank God or chance or fate or just dumb luck, that I got you as my Mum.

The last page of the book had the prompt “Wishes for the future”
I wrote:
I don’t want this to be too heavy, or too hard. (Stupid final prompt). And my wish for the future is that whatever my future brings, you’ll be there for it. But, mortality is something I understand.
Sort of. And it’s a lot to ask someone to be immortal (though I know you’d try, if I asked).
Instead, I’ll say that my wish for the future is - no matter what happens, that everything you’ve taught me, everything i’ve learnt from you, will continue to help and inspire me every single day.


***

Before Mum died I made sure that I sat down with her and told her what I needed to say. Her disease was undoubtedly a horrible ordeal, but there is something to be said for foresight, and the chance to say goodbye. I told her I loved her, though that was hardly necessary.
I can’t imagine she ever doubted that.

I also told her that I’d figured out why she had to leave.

She was too good. She was so good. I told her she was the best Mum that’s ever been. And I admit that maybe I’m biased. But she was ever-encouraging, and always believed in us. She supported our every choice, and she shared herself. She loved us unconditionally. She was funny and smart, she took care of us and she let us take care of her.

I told her that it sucks that we have to live the rest of our lives without her, but maybe that what she’d given us is as much goodness as anyone gets in one lifetime. She’d given everything. She’d given us a hundred years worth of sweet smiles and sage advice and saying silly things. Of lifts to parties and beautiful holidays. Of cakes and recipes and milk bar days. Of hugs and text messages and goofy little facebook comments. Of birthday presents and putting up with sleepovers. Of Christmas breakfasts. Of little gifts for no reason and of home cooked meals. And though we’ll have to live the rest of our lives without all those things, we won’t have to live without her. The memory of all those things will carry through. And carry us through.

***

Now, I’d like to finish with this poem I wrote for her:

You left us on Friday, when we were all sleeping,
Then we woke and sat ‘round you, not one not weeping,
You prepared us though, Mum, before you left,
Made sure we’d be okay, and not too bereft.

The doctors, they told you, only a week before,
That you’d soon be walking out a metaphorical door,
and not to let it hit you on the way out,
Just kidding, Mum, sorry, I’m still joking about.

You left us so slowly, a little more each day,
So that by the end of it all we told you, “Okay,
You can go now, you’ve fought hard, but the battle is lost,
Be at peace Mum, we’ll be fine, we will not be cross.”

We have lost our dear mother, and what a mother you were,
My whole lifetime of memories are a beautiful blur,
Now it’s sad and we’ll slowly have to learn to adjust,
But you’ll forever inspire us, as we’ve just discussed.



Here's me and Mum back in 87.
And in 2009:

(((((hugs)))))

My heartfelt condolences, dear Fox. I'm so very sorry for your loss.

My sincerest condolonces, LaFox.

So sorry for your loss, Kath. I loved all of the prompts you wrote, what wonderful memories to share with your mom, those personal private ones between just the two of you.

I was dreading this after your message in the LM coffee shop and your absence from the site. So sorry for your loss. Your prompts were all beautiful.

Hi there, thank you for sharing this, it's really beautifully moving. Although I don't know you well, I had read on another thread that your mother was ill and I'm really sorry to hear about your loss. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

There are some beautiful sentiments and thoughts in those prompts, and the poem, too. My thoughts are with you at this difficult time.

I have been thinking of you. I love your memories, and your poem, especially your poem. That line about the door hitting you on the way out. You are loved so for it. I hope you see now, that she carried you through when you did not believe it, but you are beautiful and lovable and we all see it.
I am so sorry, Kath, even as I knew it was time.
This morning I learned of another friends mother passing, another mother having gone through a similar fight with cancer. Another beautiful light of a human being.
Your mother, and her's were surrounded by those that mattered most to them in the world. They will be so missed for so long, are so loved.

Hang in there, Kath. My sincerest condolences.

Thanks all.
This is my first serious brush with grief and loss and I confess I have no idea how to feel.
I think I was hoping posting this would give me some sense of... Something.

Or maybe just that everyone's lovely condolences would bring me to tears.
So far though, I'm still totally unable to cry or even feel sad.
I guess maybe it's all too big.

Everyone has their way of coping. The grief just hasn't hit you in that way yet. Maybe it won't ever. It might be too soon for this, but have you considered talking to someone about it?

Could be shock. It will probably wear off. But no two people are the same, you will just do as you do. I cried so hard and for so long when I lost my daughter that by the time I was done, I found I'd lost touch with other people's pain. It hurts to admit this, that it is only just now getting better, sixteen years later. I became stoic with everyone but my family. It is not all it's cracked up to be. Try not to do that. Maybe in time you can write a character based on her. I'd like to see that. Could even be an LM one day. 'Write your mother'.
For now, do you have a bike? I highly recommend getting out and about and letting your feelings come to you, rather than searching for them.

I am so sorry for your loss Kath. I am sending you and your family my love during this difficult time.

If you need someone to speak to who has been in this situation - I am a click away. *hugs*

I think I will take your prompts and write them for my mom.

Many sympathies. When reading your prompts I was thinking if only we'd done something like this for my Dad. (some know my Dad recently died - no more well- meant condolences required for me, people) But everything just happened too late - too much thought with hindsight.
Like you, I've never had someone close to me die before. I too sometimes felt flat, confused. My main emotion is terrible sympathy for him not having a life anymore and they way it happened.