Up Front: Giving Me Grief
109 Responses
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What a stunning tribute Emma.
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Emma - you unwrapped a part of me that is right back there the day we all came together in Mum's little flat the day after she died. Expecting her to pop out of the kitchen, knife in one hand - mid-preparation for a meal - "Hello, love!" But there was this emptiness instead. Her book on the table where she'd put it. (My mother died very suddenly - so suddenly I couldn't get there, though I tried.)
So, Emma, my sincerest condolences. And thank you for writing this very moving post.
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That is just absolutely lovely Emma. We are currently going through a family illness, with a possible terminal outcome, and while I'm not the one sitting doing crosswords, the scenario you described really struck a chord (and started the water works). A secret chord even.
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing HallelujahArohanui.
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Lara,
Just waving away people saying "I'm fine. I'm fine. I just need tissues for a minute." What a beautiful tribute to your Mum.
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Craig Ranapia, in reply to
Look, can the human race find a cure for death already?
What a horrid thought - sorry if this is not the time or the place, but grief is a good and healthy thing. Wanting to wish away that all things have their time - and all things have their ending -- isn't, though it is so human.
When my Grandmother died, I got some rather triggering comments because my eyes were dry. I just couldn't see anything to cry about over a woman who had a long life, and a good one for the most part, but towards the end she was sick, tired and so desperately lonely. She'd outlasted her husband, all her siblings and most of her friends -- she was done.
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Beautiful beyond words (and what words). Arohanui
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Oh, Emma. I'm like so many of your friends here - I have tears running down my face, for you, for your family, for your mum, and for the beauty of your writing. It is a fine tribute, and it shouts loud and clear, this woman was deeply loved by her daughter.
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Then I came back home to Christchurch, and Mum, it was so hard.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I broke down. Such a lovely, tender, thoughtful piece Emma - thank you.
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I just love "You’d’ve" as a word, I try and use it whenever I can - probably causes generations of English teachers to cringe, but then also remark "well at least you got the apostrophes right"
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I so, so love this.
Purple suede spike-heeled boots. So awesome.
The boots, too, naturally. But I was thinking of your words, and the order in which you placed them.
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Like we always did, I’d get stuck two clues from the end, but you weren’t there to ask.
She is. You just can't hear her.
I have written before about my grandmothers, and the role they played in my life, and not a day goes by when I don't think about one or other of them. The tattoo I got yesterday was, to a large degree, inspired by them.
And every time I have been in a difficult position, anytime I've had to make a hard decision, it's their voices I hear*. Believe it's them, or not, or just my brain telling me what they'd say, but it's helpful. This year, while I've been depressed, I haven't heard them, and I've missed them.
She's there, not because she's physically in the room with you, but because you knew her and loved her, and remember her. She'll come back when you are ready.
* And yes, I did just say I hear voices in my head. Is anyone really surprised?
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sally jones, in reply to
clever and witty without ever being cruel.
A difficult balance indeed.
Very sorry to hear about your mum, Emma. You certainly have written a beautiful tribute.
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Lilith __, in reply to
Emma, I'm sorry for your loss. And I think your tribute is beautiful.
Craig, I understand what you're saying, but I understand Danielle's feeling too. I lost an uncle and an aunt within a few months of each other last year. They were both elderly and significantly disabled; I'm sure they didn't want to go, but I think life was holding less and less pleasure for them. It wouldn't be fair to want them to go on struggling, but it's such a big loss for the rest of us. I just hate that they're not still here to talk to and share with, with all their lifetime of experience and funny anecdotes and silly jokes. I don't like it and I still don't want to accept it.
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Hugs Emma, anytime you need one I'll send it ... and one on the way now because I need to hug you - even if only virtually.
Thank you for sharing your sadness.
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Wonderful, wonderful words, Emma.
I didn't know your mum but I shall be thinking a lot about her today.
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Danielle, in reply to
Craig, I get what you’re saying in the abstract and might even agree with it, but then you get down to specifics and it’s all over for me. Once someone tells the story of that person that they loved and who is gone, I don’t ever want death to happen! So my ‘people who are allowed to die’ list is vanishingly small. It’s, like, Hitler and Stalin and Michael Vick.
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Oh, Emma. Heartbreak. Grief is a weight. And a wait. Take your time with it.
And I hope you keep talking to your Mum. For comfort, and because sometimes, she'll answer you. In your head, or in dreams, but she will.
I think I may have told this story hereabouts before, but:It was a couple of months after my father died, and a certain literary brouhaha had just broken. I'd dropped the boys off at school and daycare and was driving home with no idea how to start picking my way through the moral and practical labyrinth in front of me, in the few hours before I had to turn around and fetch the kids again.
I found myself saying out loud "What do I do next, Dad? WHAT do I do?"
Clear as anything, and completely unexpectedly, came the answer :
"Invoice for the work you've done already."
(Perhaps you had to know my dad, and me, and our respective levels of business acuity, to know why I was suddenly laughing as hard as I was crying.)
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You've cured my dry eyes and blocked nose, Emma, thank you. You've also been missed, during this break, and there was me thinking you were probably sunning it up.
Sorry for your loss.
RIP Audrey.
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Jacqui Dunn, in reply to
Love that story, just love it! Whatever it was, it happened, it was real. One of the mysteries....Gorgeous!
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Lovely thoughts, Emma. A pity my mother and your mother never met--she was a little Jewish lady who dyed her hair into her nineties and rang me, with coy allusions to boyfriends staying over, in her eighties.
arohanui
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I'm crying at my desk... oh that we could all be so eloquent in our greif.
My greatest sympathy for your loss, Emma.
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BenWilson, in reply to
There's no reason the mind can't cause us to see things during extreme grief and stress. It's probably a good thing, even, so long as it doesn't keep happening, it could help relieve the strain. I had two independent people approach me after my last funeral oration, saying they saw my Grandmother standing beside me, when I turned and spoke to the coffin directly. I got the idea to do this from a tangi I went to many years ago, it had a really strong impact on me, helping me remember the old guy as he was when alive. Clearly it had a similar impact on other people, perhaps startling their perceptions. Either way, it felt good, speaking to the dead directly. Emma has done this here, and it's much less dry and detached than an enumeration of one's memories of the person, much more involving to an audience.
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"This is where we really go when we die - into the hearts of those who loved us."
- a writer whose work I don't normally like -
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Jolisa, in reply to
Once someone tells the story of that person that they loved and who is gone, I don’t ever want death to happen!
Oh, I agree. And yet... we can't tell that story, in that way, until we know how and where it ends. And in telling such stories, we understand that some day, our story will be told in the same way. But not by us.
(There's some annoyingly convincing literary theory along these lines, mostly by Frenchmen: ' La finitude, it sucks, sans doute, but without it we are nothing, etc...')
So my ‘people who are allowed to die’ list is vanishingly small. It’s, like, Hitler and Stalin and Michael Vick.
The latter of whom, weirdly, just blew through our town on an 'atonement' jaunt, to a mixed hero's welcome plus massive scepticism. Maybe Pol Pot could keep his seat warm for him.
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Jacqui Dunn, in reply to
After my mother died, in one of the days before we finally left to go to our individual homes, my sister-in-law came and said "I dreamed of your mother last night!" She was elated. She'd seen Mum and my grandma, sitting in Kensington, having afternoon tea. (Mum was planning a trip away when she died.)
I remember looking at her in total dismay, feeling so jealous.
(I didn't dream of Mum for years, and then, when I did, they were very matter-of-fact, mundane conversations. But in my inner ear, I can still remember her voice, although it's many, many years since she died.)
Dad's cousin came up to me after his funeral (both parents died within two years of each other) and said she'd seen him standing behind his coffin. At that stage, all I could do was look blankly at her. I think I was a bit crazy when he died, as there'd been anger and recriminations surrounding it all.
But I see Dad all the time. He drives past in various cars. He passes me in the street. It's just something that happens. I don't worry about it.
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