Goodbye

Not wanting to wish time away, but I won’t be sorry to put 2023 behind me. While it’s not all been bad, it’s certainly one of the worst years I remember experiencing. Rather than reflect on the good, and the not so good, I’m going to use my final 2023 post to share a summary of the speech I gave at Mum’s funeral.

It was strange to have just few minutes to sum up a life. I started with one of my earliest memories of Mum. She and my dad were running together on a beach. They were chasing each other, waving slippery green lengths of seaweed. And laughing a lot. Our family dog, Scooby, was with us. It’s a memory I’ve always cherished. Of young, carefree parents having fun.

Later, when my sisters had joined the family, we often spent summer holidays camping in Wales. My first sighting of the Milky Way was on a dark night in Wales, with Mum. It was incredible. A cloud of stars spread overhead. I suddenly felt a very small part of something unimaginably huge. Mum had seen it before, but one of many things about Mum was her unbridled enthusiasm for her interests. Seeing part of our galaxy stretch across the sky that night, it was as though it her first sighting too. We shared many of these moments during life. Bonded through the awe we felt for the world around us.

Home was a place to grow and have fun. It was a safe place for us, and the animals we lived with. In those days, one could pop to a pet shop, choose a three-legged hamster or half-tailed gerbil, buy it with pocket money and take it home. Mum would hasten us upstairs with our rodent friend, to set them up in a new house. It was a busy household which once homed 25 rats, several gerbils and at least one hamster. Not to mention cats, dogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, tortoises, stick insects, and more.

Animals outside were also cared for. These included visitors to the bird table, rescue birds who had permanent residence in the outdoor aviary, squirrels – one became so tame it would take food from Mum’s hands, and hedgehogs – some of them overwintered with us if they hadn’t reached hibernation weight. Somehow, animals in need would find us, and Mum never turned away from helping them.

Mum’s passions were many, and she encouraged my sisters and I to develop our own interests. Music, art, languages, maths, science … and reading. She adored books. As a young child, I thrilled to hear her read The Chronicles of Narnia to me. The text came to life so that I no longer heard the words, but instead experienced the book through the way Mum read. When I was older, I would read to her. I think all three of us worked our way through many double A batteries reading by torchlight at night.

Mum always came alive in nature. Even in her final months, spending time outside brought her back – to some extent. Her recognition of flowers, and pleasure in hearing birdsong or seeing butterflies remained particularly strong. In the care home, where she spent her last years, she was known as something of an encyclopaedia for her wide general knowledge, especially anything concerning natural history. She passed her love of and respect for nature to her children, and grandchildren. The ‘Ali’ stick remains an essential component of green bins in the family. A carefully placed stick to prop the bin lid open a fraction, allowing mini-beasts within the garden waste a chance of escape.

Not everybody in the world met Mum. But she changed the world for many. Children she taught. Animals she saved. And the daughters she raised. She was our biggest cheerleader … whether supporting us at school orchestra concerts, watching us play sports, or finding our way in the job market. She was our toughest defender … teaching us to use words and self-belief in facing everything the world threw our way. Mum wore her heart on her sleeve, spoke her mind, and was authentic.

I’ve wondered many times since she died on 7 November, what is a life? What remains? In Mum’s case, what remains lives on through her three daughters, and six grandchildren. Three strong, independent, and principled daughters who know our own paths and are not afraid to stand up for what we believe in. And grandchildren who are being raised in the same manner.

Mum called me her rock. I called her the Mothership. It’s a term of affection. Wherever I may have travelled in life – figuratively, as well as literally – wherever Mum was, would always be home. The call of the Mothership.

One of the quirks our family is known for is an inability to say cheerio quickly. Visitors need to leave at least thirty minutes for goodbyes, as they’re usually the moment when new conversations begin. With Mum, through Alzheimer’s, the goodbye took years. And we still weren’t ready to say a final farewell. As a child, you imagine your parents will be around forever. It still seems unreal that she’s no longer with us. But wherever she is, whatever does or does not happen next, the love shared between Mum and the three of us remains an unbreakable bond.

Here’s to health and happiness in 2024.
Happy New Year.