The Thing I Feared Most

When I was a little girl, I went through a stage where I was absolutely petrified that my mum was going to die. It consumed my thoughts, kept me awake at night, and had me hiding my tears because I didn't want her to know what was upsetting me.

I think it was sparked by a television commercial about smoking. It featured the Grim Reaper, and I'd never seen anything like it before. I'd never connected smoking with death, and my mum was a reformed smoker, like so many of her generation.

I eventually told her how frightened I was, and she smiled and said, "Amanda, don't worry. I'm not going to die."

Fast forward 35 years.

My mum died.

For me, grief is layered. It is complicated.

Mum was diagnosed with early onset dementia, so my grief began long before she died. I experienced anticipatory grief as I watched her decline. It happened so quickly. She forgot words and misplaced her keys, and eventually she forgot who I was.

Then came a diagnosis of stage 4 cancer.

Mixed in with the dementia, a global pandemic, and my son being seriously injured in an accident at school and hospitalised when she was end of life, I don't think I'll ever truly process all the layers of grief I carry. 

Four years on, I've finally let go of the "what ifs" and the endless wondering if I could have done more.

Two nights ago, I was lying in bed when the realisation hit me all over again.

My mum is gone.

She is never coming back.

Those thoughts always seem to find me in the quiet of the night.

I let the tears come and thought about her. Then I thought about that little girl who was so terrified of losing her mum.

I'm a grown woman now, with children of my own who are around the same age I was back then.

I wish I could go back and wrap my arms around that little girl and tell her that one day she would lose her mum, but that she would also be loved enough to carry that love with her for the rest of her life.

Maybe that's what grief really is. Not something we ever "get over," but something we slowly learn to carry. The ache doesn't disappear, but neither does the love.

I've been thinking about all of this for the past couple of days, and writing these words has brought a quiet sense of relief. It has also reminded me that so many of us are walking through life carrying things no one else can see.

If you're carrying your own grief today, I hope you know you're not alone.

Amanda xx