7

The Midwife

She arrived on the 5^th November 1965, the youngest girl of 3 born to a reasonably wealthy family. Giving themselves to religion, they were traditional churchgoers with many values and morals.

And that part of the story stops there. Because I came into her life 26 years later. And although I’ve gathered enough information over the years to piece together her story from childhood, I’d rather tell it from now, reflecting on my own experience whilst trying to make sense of it all.

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I remember when I was younger, I would sit halfway down the stairs and watch her getting ready of a morning, wishing she could take me with her. And again when I was even younger, I became a permanent accessory to her leg, never wanting to let go.

I started the eulogy with attempted humour, I guess it was to soften the impact of what I was doing. A surreal moment watching her encased in a well carved wooden case, knowing that the woman inside was now just an empty shell packed in with some of her possessions; including the two inhalers she could never have lived without. The priest muttered words that had little meaning to me. The hymns that were sung were equally meaningless, as they would have been to her. She hated church.

The only part that mattered was ours. I spoke as if she could hear me, telling her how strong she was and that she would in some way live on through her 5 children. And I meant it. But I was also angry. Because she left us. Is it not selfish to give up on life and give yourself to the unknown serenity of death. Sometimes I think yes. Particularly when I need her. And so do they.
I’m not their mother, but I love them like children. And it hurt me more to watch them cry for her.

So it takes a long time to get over losing your mother. To some extent you never do. And people tell you that you’re strong for coping, when actually you have no other choice. And I would be lying if I told you that life doesn’t go on without her. You pick up the pieces and you move on. You remember her of course. But in time you don’t think of her everyday, you let her go. And you have to.

I do, however still think about what I’d say if I could see her once more. I imagine her healthy and glowing, beautiful blonde hair and even the eczema mark in the palm of her hand. Perhaps now I’d just tell her that I forgive her, for everything. And that I love her.

I remember we once talked about when I was much older and had my own baby’s, she would deliver them. I thought the idea was horrid at the time. But she should have been my midwife. No other will compare.