Mum's birthday kicked the ball off for me. She would have been ninety on 5 January. I have been trying to write a post about her ever since. I want to honour her, but she was a manipulative drama queen. I have loved her, but I don't miss her. She was the ultimate mistress of catastrophe and drove wedges throughout the family. Attempting to unearth a memory of her unconditional love has proven to be rather problematic. And I can't forget that she left Dad to fend for himself when he had adored her for over sixty-five years.
I didn't see Mum at all in the last period of her life. I bailed out of Dad's ninetieth birthday celebrations in December 2014 as I doubted my resolve to deal with her. This decision provoked guilt and confusion and a lack of closure. Communication between us became harder and more strained. Then, shortly before she died, she rang me out of the blue.
I have pieced together her final weeks from the rest of the family. I knew she'd been in hospital for three months after a fall and had been branded a difficult patient. She had become terribly thin and claimed that her pain relief was ineffective. Hence, she was referred to a private rehabilitation centre.
Mum didn't like Eden much either. They wanted her to gain weight and she wasn't having that. Apparently, she left Eden with her pain relief still a work very much in progress. She was back in her unit, by herself, when she spoke to me.
I tried to keep the conversation light. I filled her ear with fluffy and uncontentious details of our lives. I regaled witty stories of the dogs and cat. I can still hear her laughter. When we finished the conversation, I felt as if we could start afresh. But then she died.
However, that is the most wonderful memory I have of her. Clear, unambiguous, uncomplicated mirth generated by the antics of our animals. That's the recollection that I will hold of her.
I have also weathered another anniversary of my twins' stillbirth. I was hit hard this year. Why? Fucked if I know. Too much alcohol, which loosened my tongue and uninhibited my behaviour. The ultimate agony - a fight as we were both angry. My retreat into a well of despair. And the long way out. I am still recovering.
I am hoping that January's final milestone - a miscarried baby thirty-five years ago - on 28 January treats me more kindly. I have to find ways to balance this crazy few weeks every year. And it is not as if I have to look far - I just need to focus on the daily comedy that is us - the Beverley Hillbillies.
Michael - the gentle, logical, practical, kind and loving man of mine - also supplies me with exquisite hilarity. Forgetting to tell me that dinner guests were unable to come until they didn't...arrive. Trying to work out why his shirt looked weird - his buttoning up was mismatched, so he resembled a village idiot for a minute. Chasing his tablets all over the floor before Stella consumes them. Leaving his breakfast muesli within reach of Stella's tongue. Playing with danger by leaving his thongs in Stella's line of sight...again. (There appears to be a pattern emerging here...) Complaining of cold and then sticking his feet out of the covers. Losing track of items as he's using them - the lid of Pip's dog biscuit had to be searched for this evening.
I have decided that I will be glad to see the back of January. And I need to embrace the calm of Jean-Luc Picard along with the bravado of James T Kirk. And to boldly go where we haven't been before.
Ladies and gentlemen - engage.
Live long and prosper...
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