Ever since I was a child my biggest fear was losing my mum. I mean no disrespect to my dad who was and still is a phenomenal father. I was seven when I had my first panic attack. In class at my desk, amid a cacophony of squeals from my peers, my sole focus was the realisation that one day my brilliant, beautiful mum, Christine – my first love – will die. In an attempt to calm me down my teacher got me to rest my head on my desk and shut my eyes for a bit.
Just over a decade later, when I was 19, the fear threatened to become a reality when Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. That was around the time I started seeing Dee,* a holistic and integrative psychotherapist. Mum underwent extensive treatment and went into remission for a decade. By the time the cancer came back it was aggressive, and its objective was undeniable. It had spread to too many organs to list. The shock was insidious. Over time, drops became a stream, which became a wave greater than any masterpiece Hokusai could conceive. The thing I had feared the most was actually happening.
The oncologist told us it was anyone’s guess how long Mum would last. And so began three years of watching my favourite person in the world slowly fade away. I couldn’t fathom it. Mum was smart, vibrant, hilarious. She was always immaculately dressed, whether she was going to a party or Sainsbury’s. And no matter how sick she got she never slacked. And she loved music, from her native Nigerian artists to country classics to Drake. One of her favourite songs of his was ‘Digital Dash’. She’d always tweak a particular line: ‘It is what it is what it is.’
Mum’s prognosis became a regular topic of discussion in therapy. I spent an inordinate amount of time expressing fury at her fate. Words like ‘why’ and ‘unfair’ and ‘she doesn’t deserve this’ were popular fixtures. I mourned all the milestones she would miss: helping me pick a wedding dress for my hypothetical big day; advising me with my future children. I knew I’d miss her everyday guidance especially. She always seemed to know exactly what to do.
One response from Dee silenced the angst and the anguish: ‘acceptance’. As the treatments stopped working and Mum’s health rapidly declined, Dee helped me face the fact that nothing I said could stop the inevitable. There was no sense to be made of Mum’s prognosis.
In her final months Mum was able to find acceptance around her own fate. I had befriended Kim** at a City Lit class and she revealed that she worked with the grieving and dying. ‘There’s no such thing as death,’ Kim said. A couple of years later Mum said she wanted to meet her, having become increasingly fearful of dying. After we’d spent a couple of hours talking with Kim, back in the car Mum seemed quiet. I asked her what she thought. ‘D’you know what, Sarah? I’m not scared anymore.’
The significance of the word ‘acceptance’ didn’t sink in for me until after Mum died, in October 2016 – a few weeks shy of her 58th birthday. Despite the years spent mentally preparing myself, the grief felt like nothing I’d ever experienced. But my sessions with Dee gently enabled my thinking to shift. She taught me that instead of focusing on the pain of my loss, I had the power to hold on to Mum’s love for me and the love I have for her.
I must admit, once I allowed the message to get through it was an enormous relief. I realised how exhausting it was fighting something that could not be defeated; how draining it was to focus on the injustice of it all. Now I honour Mum’s life through small gestures that remind me of her. Her favourite colour was purple and she loved getting manicures. So every October I paint my nails a different shade of purple each week.
This month marks 10 years since I heard my mum utter my name, and I still miss her desperately. I know I always will. But today my grief is more like a jagged scar. I can function normally with it most of the time, and it doesn’t cause the same excruciating pain as the original wound, but it’s a permanent reminder of the tectonic shift. And it’s fine. It has to be. Because, as Mum would say: ‘It is what it is what it is.’
*Real name not used.
**Consent has been given to use real name and details.