Signs

In 2008 I lost my brother to cancer. 

It was obviously an incredibly sad time but I was glad he was in no more pain. His body was totally ravaged by a cancer that ultimately made him an unrecognisable shell. His death and how he looked had a profound effect on Laura. She made a lot of decisions, once her secondary diagnosis was confirmed, based on my brothers passing. She did not want the kids to remember her looking any other way than she did to them before she became ill. She made me promise that if it came to it, they weren't to see her if she went down that same path. She also didn't want to be at home when she passed as she didn't want the house to have the memory of her passing in it and she didn't want that to affect the kids in any way. In the end she needn't have worried. She didn't and she hasn't. 

Five years later, in 2013, I lost my mum to cancer too. The loss of my mum left me with more regret than sadness, and my sadness hurt. That's not to say I wasn't sad, I was, as my mum was a wonderful, kind, caring woman; a huge heart encased in the smallest of frames. I regret not telling her that I loved her more often than I did. I think the majority of us get that with loss, especially our mums. I wish she'd seen Aden but she passed away a year before he was born. I know she would have loved to see her youngest son with a child. I often see a random little grey-haired woman when out shopping etc, and it always causes me to catch my breath, but it also makes me smile. In the same way I always hear her voice chastising me for drinking milk from the carton. I feel her around. She's strong in my memory. 

In 2018 I lost my Dad to dementia. The loss of my dad was a loss of another kind. My mum was the hero of the relationship. It's best I describe it that way. I still cried at his passing and remember those few good times we had together fondly. Those times when we actually bonded and he wasn't the guy that sadly makes me feel disappointed in him. Still, he was my dad, I loved him and I'd like to think that I have learned from his mistakes. 

Last year, in 2021, I lost my oldest friend to cancer. He was an absolute legend of a human. I am fortunate to have had the same friends for the majority of my life and he was the very epitome of friendship. Again, I was incredibly sad and shocked at his passing but my heart is filled with love for him and it makes me happy to know that that love was more than reciprocated. He was a beautiful, extraordinary person. My life was, and still is, richer for having him in it. 

All these losses have taken their toll on me and hardened me to loss. When I look back at those losses, I struggle to recall how my grief manifested itself. I remember shedding tears, feeling sadness, loss and regret but I feel I recovered quickly, that I moved on and was able to replace the sense of loss with a memory of good times, shared experiences and unconditional love.  

But with Laura it is completely different. It was always going to be different for the obvious reasons. I struggle with it at its very basic level. How can she just not exist anymore? How can she just not be? It is a totally overwhelming sense of the irreplaceable. When I look at pictures of her my mind simply cannot comprehend that she just isn't here anymore. People say that she lives on in our memories, her actions, her legacy, and the children. I understand that sentiment fully and she does. But I don't want that metaphysical being, it brings scant comfort. The memory for other people will fade in time and they will return to a life without her like I have with those I've lost, I understand that too, it is only natural. But for me and the kids it won't. My mind struggles to deal with it all. I don't want to accept that I will never see her again; that I will never speak to her again or hear her voice or feel her touch. My brain simply won't accept it, so I think my grief is hiding behind that notion. One day I will have to accept it. I just don't know when. 

A Sign: Laura's tipple on a random bench

She often asked me if I believed that the spirit exists after death, that did I believe that she'll still be able to see me and the kids. She wanted to believe that she would always be looking down on us. It was a difficult question to answer honestly. I didn't want to lie and tell her what she wanted to hear. So I told her that if she asked me a month after my mum had passed, I would have said that I don't believe that there's a spirit that lingers but I believe that there's a place in the human psyche that keeps memories alive so steadfastly that we imagine that the essence of that person is there. I told her that I wasn't sure that there's a spiritual afterlife, but I do want to believe that there is a soul, an essence, that memory of her that me and the kids will keep alive forever. That she would always be with us in the fabric of our being. She will influence our decisions and she will always be in our hearts and minds. I know she ultimately wanted me to tell her that I believed that she would be able to communicate with us, to show us she was there, to show us that her love transcends death. It tore her apart to think that she would never see the children again. I promised her we'd look for signs. Those signs would confirm the idea that she would always be with us. Those signs might be subtle or extreme or simply a case of our minds bending something to meet with our deepest wishes but either way they are signs that mean to us that she is still here, or there, looking down. The signs would also serve to keep her at the forefront of our thoughts.

All I need is for my heart to overrule my sceptical head and believe that those signs are real because some comfort is better than none at all. And in the event that no signs are forthcoming, or they are so subtle that I miss them, I will continue to talk to her, both in my head and out loud, as I go about my day. That way she'll know that I'm watching and waiting and remembering should there actually be some substance to those signs.

I will always be watching and waiting. I made a promise.