"To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others" - Albert Camus

As soon as we are born the importance of honesty and openness is thrust upon us. Don’t tell lies, they say. Share your toys. Don’t be selfish. We are encouraged to share all of ourselves routinely. Whilst doing all of this we are expected to find who we are as a person. At no point are we encouraged to take time out for ourselves, until it is too late and we are so over run and over stressed that we simply don’t have the time to regroup.

I used to be a ‘people person’. I used to believe strongly in needing other people to help you get through things and to make your life easier. Until I had to go through something that was entirely personal and that no-one in the world could ever get me through, even with the best of intentions. And I realised, that in that period of time, I was completely alone, and that factoring other people into my decisions during that time frame just made me more confused and lost. It got me thinking about the rest of my life, and how, in a depressing but somehow liberating way, no-one will actually ever know you at all. You can get really sad about that; incredibly sad, actually. That for all the effort you put into maintaining friendships, forging relationships, it's all for naught, because no-one will ever know the real you.

Now that seems a grand statement I’m sure, but when you actually think of your day-to-day life, the different people you encounter, the different social circumstances, the human being is never one distinct personality. We are incredibly three dimensional characters, social chameleons. We always change ourselves for other people, no matter how minute the change. The way we act in front of one particular friend - the things we’d say, the things we refrain from doing because of judgement - varies. But ultimately, we have one interest in life and it goes against everything we are taught is right, and that is self-preservation. 

It is the reasoning that drives all decisions made in life, and it made me think – is there such a thing as a selfless individual? Why is being selfish actually so bad?  It seems logical to blame all the bad things in life on being selfish, and these things are discouraged. But there are ‘good selfish’ decisions. And I don’t mean leaving an abusive relationship but forsaking your children a two parent home, or anything as drastic as that. It can be as simple as caring for a sick relative. Why do we do it? Yes, because we care about that person, and yes because society expects you do to do so. But also because we must do it, so we can say at the end of it that we did all we could. So nobody could find us wanting.  I don’t think of myself as a particularly selfish individual, but as I get older, I understand selfish action more and more clearly. I am more inclined to be selfish because, throughout your life, you must be your own best friend.  I don’t think there is ever such a thing as ‘knowing who you are’, because by the time you’ve figured it out, you’re already changing again. People are a fickle thing.

The only thing that keeps us from acting selfishly day in and day out is a guilt and morality. But, maybe we judge those who care little for other’s opinions on their actions too harshly. You have to ask yourself, I guess, who is really the fool? The person who goes about life exactly the way they want, with no regrets on any decision made. Or the average Joe, like you and me, who are constantly limited by having to factor in other people into our decisions.

I’m not suggesting everyone sticks their middle finger up to everyone else from here on in, because that would be catastrophic. But perhaps we all need to sit down once in a while and do something. Not because anyone else wants you to, but just for yourself.

Just be yourself.

This Woman's Work

Dear Mam,

It has been 30 days since I’ve seen you, and it still feels like you’re coming back. It feels a bit like we’re all pretending, and I’m still doing things at 100 miles a minute waiting for you to call me, or for me to have to come and visit you.

People keep telling me that I’ll go through ‘Phases’. Of being angry, of being sad, of missing you. I do go through phases, but not of different emotions. I go through phases of forgetting, and phases of remembering things in such painful detail that my heart feels like it’s going to fall out of my chest.  Most of all, I’m lonely. I’ve never felt lonely before because I always had you in my head, to worry about. You were always in there with my other thoughts, rattling about in my brain, always on my peripheral. A direct part in any decision I made, any place I went. And now I don’t have to factor any of that into it anymore. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it before day, but I’m wandering, looking for you or anything that reminds me of you because it almost seems as if you were never here at all. It used to do my head in, constantly trying to work around you, and now it’s like I’ve got too much of everything, and too little of the one thing I really need.

I think perhaps that’s what I struggle with the most. That someone can live for 52 years and fight as hard you did and there’s no physical imprint here. I forgot that even when you were 7 stone and struggling for breath, your character filled the room. You were such a big person really. And now there’s just a hole. Some days it feels like a physical one, right in the middle of my chest and I have to walk round with my arms around myself or I’m sure I’ll fall part.  I know that you live on in me and in my memory, but some days that’s not enough, and today is one of those days. 

And I don’t want you to feel bad either. I know you said sorry to me, I heard you loud and clear even though it was whisper soft. It felt like the loudest thing I’d ever heard in the world and I wanted to kiss you and shake you all at the same time because I knew what it meant. You were sorry for giving in, but you didn’t have to be. I’m sorry too, for getting so angry at the macmillan nurse and the Marie Curie nurse. It wasn’t their fault, but I didn’t understand why they weren’t helping you. I felt so sad and helpless seeing you in that little bed, and I guess  I needed to be angry or else I was going to pass out with the weight of what was really happening in that room. You were finally leaving me, because you had no fight left. You were always so strong, and so courageous. So adamant that you could beat anything, even when your body told you no.   I was and remain what you made me, and I was only ever so positive because you made it look so effortless. Just like when you pretended you weren’t scared of the dentist for 20 years of my life so I wouldn’t be. I’m sorry that I couldn’t pretend for you that day mam.  I was scared and I was selfish because if I was scared you must have been positively terrified. It was the first time you’d ever showed that to me. I wasn’t ready for it. 

You couldn’t tell me that it was going to be alright that day mam, so I had to tell you. I know I was lying, but I hope you know what I meant.  I hope you knew that I was telling you it was okay for you to go. And that I’d look after Elly and Dad. And myself. I promise I’ll look after myself too because I know you’d want me to.  I know you hated leaning on me, but loved it all at the same time. I bet you even had a laugh at my expense some days for all the sleepless nights I gave you and all the dirty nappies. And all the fights that we had the year I was 17. I bet you laughed looking back on them, about how I was so sure that I was a big girl and ready to do it all on my own and without you, and now, here I am at 20, wishing you’d come back and help me out because I’m sodding useless at making decisions and crying in rooms on my own like a loon. What a catch I turned out to be, hey!

I wanted to tell you that I did well in that exam I thought I’d failed too. I rang my course tutor in your bedroom, and I was so happy that I’d done well. I know if I’d have told you you’d say “see, I told you”, in that way you always did, even though I’m sure after the great breakdown of second year A levels, you were never really sure of anything with me anymore. I know you were always proud of me though. You wanted me to do well in school, I knew that, but you taught me all about the real things in life that were important. Most importantly you taught me how to love myself, for who I am, and to be comfortable in my own skin. To be able to be proud of myself when I’d done well but also to call myself a silly idiot (or silly iriot, as you would have put it) when I’d done something colossally stupid.  I never appreciated that until recently.  Anyway, I hope you were listening and I hope I made you proud. I can’t promise you anything about the other exams though because they are looking to be really hard so just send a bit of your academic wisdom (har har,) on that day and I’m sure I’ll be okay.

I think that’s all I have to tell you for now mam. But I’m just letting you know I miss you. I miss our conversations and cwtches and your advice.  I’ll miss you every day from now till I’m 94, even when it’s irrational and I wouldn’t have had you anyway.

All my love,

Amy.

My Lovely Mam

 

There has been absolutely nothing physical that happened to make today remarkable, but I made a startling realisation: I am beginning to forget what my mother was like when she was ‘well’.   I guess it got me thinking about anyone who has ever watched someone die from a long, drawn out illness. On a day to day basis, you forget that there was ever anything other than this constant rota of care plans and thinking one-step ahead at all times, because you don’t have time to think about what you have lost. But on quieter days, perhaps when it’s just you and your relative in a big bed, drinking cups of tea in a companionable silence, you blink and rack your brains for what you did before you were needed for company. Before that person had no choice but to seek you out for help and assistance.

Today, the utter reversal of roles was made glaringly obvious. Prior to my realisation, I was looking through old photographs. Many of me as a baby, dressed up in silly hats and sunglasses, playing with my toys, new friends, my first holidays.  And then the more mundane ones; me in the bath, me sporting an unintentional chocolate moustache (Impressive, even if I do say so myself), me in the process of creating an artistic masterpiece. Although perhaps no more than a stray finger brushing back an errant strand of hair, or a guiding hand keeping the paintbrush on the paper and not on her wallpaper, my faceless advisor, teacher and  - above all – carer,  was my lovely mam.  

I closed my eyes then and attempted to remember feeling that vulnerable, and as the series of pictures progressed and I watched myself find independence in the photographs (Standing on my own two feet, starting school, eventually hopelessly encouraging my sister in our misdemeanours,) I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose it all over again.  You see now, as I watch her completely undone some days by simply finding the effort to brush her teeth, I find it increasingly hard to remember that this woman once had the gumption to stick up for her friend who got bullied at playtime or – ironically - that this woman’s day to day job was to help those with disabilities.  This woman fell in love, carried, gave birth to and raised 2 children and made a house a home.  Just like the disease eats her body, it appears to eat away at my memories of her. I guess my point is that we must make ourselves remember, because for me, if I was in her shoes,  I think the most insulting thing would be that people only remembered me for what I couldn’t beat, rather than all the things I had accomplished. 

My mother has never been a rocket scientist. She has never made a medical discovery that will save mankind. She hasn’t even been to America. But for me, she taught me some invaluable life lessons; most importantly, how to love myself, flaws and all.  And even now, at 20 years-of-age, if I am in doubt on any matter, the final word from Mam can always swing my decision. Because, although perhaps I don’t remember everything I should, I will always know how much of an inspiration to me she is.  Everyday, I see her fight and struggle just to be around for us, to keep things as normal as she possibly can.  Before all this, I thought true strength and bravery came from people rescuing others from burning buildings, siblings jumping into rivers to save other siblings. Although these events are by no means cowardly, I have come to respect that sometimes true bravery can also come from less grandiose circumstances. It is the courage to tell two scared daughters that everything will be okay and that life will go on, even when you don’t 100% believe it yourself. It is the quiet but resilient strength that comes from knowing your body is changing every day, and not for the better, but the decision to fight it anyway.  Sometimes, it’s something as little as a hand squeeze in the dark when you have no words for each other that will make the situation any brighter.

So I guess this is for anyone who’s ever lost anyone to anything, as vague as that may sound. Sometimes, we must look to the people we are attempting to support in order to support ourselves.

Thank you Mam, for everything you do, every day.