Balham on the up

Soon after diagnosis my mum uttered the heart-stoppingly sad words  ”This isn’t my world anymore”.   Of course she wasn’t talking about Balham at the time but the life that was slowly being robbed from her, but as I wander around Balham today, taking surplus plates and old saucepans to the “Mary Portar-esque” charity shops I can’t help but be reminded of these words.

When we moved to Balham in the 1980s my dad warned that he would not see his children brought up in “this hole” (we were of course -  big words, small muscle as usual).  Prostitutes on the corner showing skirt for trade, children playing in the gutters (still not sure what was meant by this part of the story – like they were washing in the drain overflow or something).  Neighbours with tatty clothes and half-wild kittens they’d swap for cigarettes. Damp, white-washed concrete streets interrupted by the threatening graffiti daubed on the pet shop’s walls.

But within the tattered edges was a colourful, characterful place. The Caribbean market with its exotic fruits with unpronouncable names, the tucked away Asian supermarket throwing forth its dizzying spiced aromas, and  the flame-haired grandma selling flowers at the corner of the traditional street market,  calling everyone love and signalling to the deaf fruit-stall man that “Old Bert” was on his way and causing trouble again.

And now? Gone are the corner shops selling single malboroughs for 10p and liquorice shoe laces longer than your arm. Gone is the russet-haired flower lady, the site of her stall now occupied by tables of overpriced wooden toys and other superfluous, but mesmerisingly cute trinkets. (“objet shit” Mr Milk likes to call it).  Gone is the opera-singing homeless man at the underground station and the rainman postman who could recall a little too much about your personal mail. Replaced by artisan bakeries, glossy estate agents selling houses at unreal prices, asian-fusion eateries, Starbucks and Waitrose.

Where once was life in all its technicolour splendour, now are just subtle degrees of parlour grey. Cinammon and five spice replaced with hibiscus and lightly smoked turbot.  Whitewashed concrete and shabby edges improved by brushed steel and clean lines and poor old Bert edged out to make way for Richard and Miranda and cute little Angus.

Balham isn’t the same for me anymore either mum.  I think it’s about time to move on.

30-something orphan

Original sketch by Doodlemum

Today marks the 4th anniversary of my father’s death. It is also 5 months exactly since I lost my mum.  Two journeys, both with many more miles to tred.

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This week I locked myself out of the house.  Returning from a hard day’s work – forlorn, within an inch of my patience. Two tired children yelping and jumping at my knees like impatient, rivalrous puppies vying for  attention.  A childminder desparate to reclaim her family home, a husband tied up in another meeting, neighbours immersed in their own bedtime squabbles. My desparate calls unanswered – two, three, four times.

And as I stood on my own doorstep I have never felt so alone.

When you lose your parents, you cease to be someone’s child.  An obvious point, but in that subtle twist of perception is something more significant. The moment you are orphaned you lose the people whose primary role is to protect you.  Unconditional, instinctive, tribal. This is no comment on my loyal husband who I love dearly, or my sister who is truly exceptional.  Yet as peers, the needs of our own families must come first.  The selfless, unquestioning devotion is focussed on the children whose lives we have been entrusted to protect, nurture, bring to fruition.

And the truth is, my parent’s job was done.

Yet the vulnerable needy child in you is always there.  The infant yearning to be wrapped in its mother’s arms, safe from the loom of the bogeyman. We still crave to hear those words  “Don’t worry darling, I’ll sort it all out for you”, to hide under the duvet and to let someone else carry the burden.

But the truth is, the buck now stops with you.  There won’t always be someone else to come to the rescue.  And that can be a lonely thought.

hoarder

It turns out my mum had a few things hidden in her cupboard. Literally.

Ten oven cleaners, 5 spare toilet brushes, 20 mouth freshners. We’re still finding unopened bottles of the same toilet cleaner hidden in every new cupboard we open.

And she kept everything.  One-off shaped screws from a 1970s hoover.  Patterns for a dress with shoulder pads never dared beyond 1982.

Now my mum was as balanced as they come. Mostly. She was strong, capable, intelligent, practical. So this discovery has played on my mind ever since. Did my mum hide a secret obsessive compulsion? Did we have to move out of our first house not because my parents divorced, but because we could no longer see the tv through the piles of newspapers?

I mentioned this to a friend the other day. To my surprise she admitted that her mum did the same thing, and offered the following explanation. Our parents were brought up at a time when the war was not long over, where communism loomed from across the seas.  Where the full bite of commercialism had yet to hit. Where making your own clothes was the quintessential of cool. (Luckily we’re somewhat getting back to those days). Where if something was on special offer you jolly well ought to cash in and bulk buy, for you never knew when it might be on offer again.

Could this be it? Was my mum’s multibuying madness actually carefully crafted preparation?  Wisely covering all eventualities?

Was it less hoarding and more saving for a rainy day?

One things for sure, she clearly believed tomorrow might bring a whole load of bad bowels. I’m starting to think twice about what I hide at the back of MY cupboards.

Thank god for amusing dreams

I dreamt last night that my mum came back from a restorative tour of Europe looking really well and wondering where all her stuff had gone.

How embarrassing.

Impractical shoes and a mother’s voice

I didn’t used to be able to make a single decision without worrying what my mum would think, way beyond my teenage years and far into adulthood. It would drive me crazy.  I’d go to get a clean towel from the airing cupboard, and I’d stand there for 10 mins trying to decide which colour and length of fibre, what type – beach, hand or bath my mother would choose.  I’d hear her scolding me for losing my house keys because I would just never learn to put them in the same place.  I’d catch a disapproving whisper “not the liquid eyeliner, too harsh” when applying my make up or a low, amused chuckle when choosing between two sets of shoes that I knew my mother would think equally impractical. I’d replay ten arguments in my head as to why I had made that decision, or this decision regarding my children’s food/clothes/birthday presents, even though it was only in my own head that my choices were ever questioned.

I used to chide myself for it. Why couldn’t I just trust my own instincts? Why did my mother’s opinion on absolutely everything I did as a 30-something still matter? Why was it even more important than my own opinion? In truth I often didn’t even know what my own opinion was, my mother’s voice in my head was so loud.

But now I love it.  Where once it infuriated me, now it only makes me smile. It reassures me, a calming familiarity in a world that is otherwise so changed. Warm, tender, teasing. And it’s in exactly the words she would have used, in her slightly staid tones and with a scent of a New Zealand accent.

And I listen to it now, just as I listened to it then.  Because it’s protective and wise and it knows me. And now I get that.

Wash delicates separately

"Mother and young son walking and holding hands" by Sandra Speidel

Big Milk “Will you stop being sad mummy when her house is gone?”.

Me ” I’ll always be a bit sad darling. It’s a natural part of life to miss someone you love.”

Big Milk “But I don’t miss Grandma.  I just close my eyes and my body makes pictures of her. I get a different picture every day”.

Me  “And a Grandma is very special, and you must try to hold on to all those pictures. But a mummy, there’s something even more special about a mum. And grandma was my mum, and I was her little girl.  “

Big Milk “And you’re my mum, and you’re very special to me”.

Me (holding down tears) “Yes, and you make me very happy”.

Big Milk “And you know that I’m always here for you, don’t you mummy?”.

And now i’m sobbing into my pasta trying to retain some semblance of being the parent as I tell him just how proud I am of him.

I’ve always thought he got this from his dad.  A sweet over-sentimentality. I’m the strong one, the organised one, the one that tells him to get a move on and to wipe the snot from his nose. But a few days ago he put me straight.

“Me and you are the same mummy…….delicate“.

Yes I am my sweet sweet boy.  But I’m all the stronger for having you.

treasured possessions

“Check in the bureau” my mum whispers, barely audible. “Bureau drawer” she repeats, “might be worth something”.

Two weeks later I open the drawer in my mother’s bedroom to find a small box hidden amongst a pile of carefully folded knickers. A humble, tattered cardboard box belying the treasure within.

A month later and my sister and I wander nervously along Piccadilly, peaking into the shiny windows of high-end jewellery shops with impressive names. “Come on, let’s do it!” I challenge, and as we take a deep, nervous intake of breath we push the heavy door and a bell chimes our arrival.

A man in an expensive italian suit comes forward, flanked by a burly security guard. Glass cabinets glint in the corner of my eye as class oozes vapourously around us.

“How can I help you?” the man in the Italian suit utters, eyeing us with poorly disguised suspicion. “We were wondering if you bought or valued jewellery” I whisper. “Ok, let us see what you have” he generously volunteers.

The burly security guard steps forward and gestures for us to sit at a low table as the classy italian puts on some gloves and lays down a deep russet velvet cloth, smoothing out the edges with the back of his hand. As he takes out a small magnifying glass he motions for me to take out our offerings.

Stumbling around in my oversized, Primark bag amongst the nappies and breath freshner and pocket-size hairbrush I finally locate the old tattered cardboard box. Opening the lid surreptitiously, still hidden within my bag I select the best of my wares and lay it down on the cloth.

Without reply the cool Italian beckons me to continue, and I nervously lay out all the precious items from my mother’s box onto his cloth. Slowly, in exaggerated motions he lifts each one up in turn, draws it to his magnified, glassy eye and turns it over, before laying it carefully back down. He repeats this procedure with each piece in turn.

When he is finished he looks up at me and says slowly and with emphasis  “There is nothing for US here”.

And I am left to scrabble all my mother’s jewelery together as the burly security guard opens the door for us to fall out like scolded, impudent urchins.

It turns out that the clusters of diamonds my mother stowed away for safekeeping are merely modest studs of marquesite , the gold only plated, the semi-precious stones nothing but coloured rock.

Lucky that I can hear my mother chuckling as loudly as my sister and I giggled that day.

A genius even then

I came across this sorting through my mum’s things. It was a card I sent her one birthday. If you can decipher the writing (and I admit it’s a bit of a job) I’ve no doubt you’ll be dumbfounded by the sheer creativity and humour of my 12 yr-old self. My mother’s name was Rosemary, but growing up her brothers called her Roan. (In fact my eldest bears this as his middle name).

Anyway, the first alien is building up his nerve to introduce himself to Roan, who he’s taken a bit of a fancy to. He’s heard she’s quite clever, and suspects she’s got high standards. So he’s nervous, and getting a bit of advice from his alien friend, Bleep. Unfortunately Bleep does one over on him at the end. Sucker.

Where did this come from? Absolutely no idea – it is wonderfully random. I suspect it came at a time in my adolescence when I was pretty desparate for my mum to meet someone, anyone (even someone not of this planet, apparently), who would take care of her. Unfortunately It wasn’t to be.

The house is full of this stuff. Through all the heartache it’s these kinds of memories, blasts of irredescent sunlight, that keep me going.

That, and remembering just what a genuis I was even then. ;<)

Thanatophobia

A couple of years ago I went through a period of acting a bit strangely.

I’d been in the middle of a third life crisis for a while , and I think in hindsight I was also struggling after becoming a mum the second time round. Little Milk had been testing to say the least – “a big character” some might say. “A frickin lunatic” I’d proffer.  Off the career ladder and looking after pooing/screaming kids 24/7 and I found myself asking “is this it?”. Somewhere in the midst of all that soul searching and quizzing and introspection the subject of my own mortality came up, as if it was the only major milestone left I could think of. Not exactly rational. But I was hooked.

I just couldn’t stop thinking about what it was going to be like when the time came, how it might happen, and when.  I also became unhealthily fixated on obituary sites. Now if you’ve never visited a site like “Gone too soon” (my favourite) let me explain. They’re a chance for people to write memorials to the recently deceased, or to commemorate the anniversary of an old passing, or to mourn the loss of a baby born pre-term.  The title is a clue to the fact that most of the deaths are unexpected, sudden, shocking; due to illness (usually cancer), accidents (fires, car crashes) and a really surprising amount to murder. Many are described in horrific detail and many put to music, most commonly “Every breath I take” by The Police. Needless to say they are heart-wrenching, deeply upsetting and reflect a horrible part of life that you usually try to ignore.  That is, evidently, unless you are me.

For a while it was all I thought about, and it scared the shit out of me.

Thankfully there was some forced intervention this obsession slowed and I got on with living.

In any case, when my mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer I was a bit worried to say the least. I expected my fear of death to my dragged up again and to find myself rocking back and forth in a darkened room, curtains billowing and Police on the stereo at full blast.  But I didn’t, and I haven’t.

Actually I’ve been pretty sane. In fact I was thinking today, it doesn’t scare me anymore, the death stuff. I think the thing is, the more you cope with, the less you fear. It’s somehow easier to put it in perspective and be stoical. Now I just find myself thinking – “Either there’ll be nothing and I won’t know any different (in which case, duh, get over it), or I’ll get to see my mum again”.  And that last bit just makes me smile. Wouldn’t that be something.

Thanatophobia “An intense fear of death”.

Next post: Not about death. I PROMISE!

Sad

I want to be a child again, running around without a care in the world. My mum there next to me, cooking dinner with her pinstripe apron, smirking at our antics. What i wouldn’t do to be back there, 8 years old, snoopy jumper, ankle socks. The snowman is playing on the small, white plastic tv, and my family house like a cocoon around me. What I wouldn’t do to be back there, happy, content, safe.