The lack of signs from my mum is frustrating at times.
It’s been two years since Mum passed, and there are still big swathes of time where I’m searching for a sign from her. Especially in those early months, when I needed them the most. My mum was a quiet, gentle and non-confrontational woman, and I consoled myself that it would be fair for her to send me an equally subtle sign.
And in those early days, consumed by grief, I would be less likely to notice those gentle whispers from mum. Or I have forgotten them. Maybe I conveyed them to family and friends in conversation, and I didn’t write them down; always record them in some way if you can, for hope in those dark times. This is about a sign from Mum I received recently. It was subtle and yet obvious enough for me to notice, at a time when I needed it the most.
Mum was consumed by cancer, and we were relieved that she was gifted with a graceful and peaceful death at home, with the support of compassionate hospice nurses. I was not by her bedside when she passed. I was trapped in a huge holdup on the motorway when I received the phone call from the hospice nurse around 6.55 pm on 19th September 2024, that mum had peacefully slipped away a few minutes earlier. I had been driving my daughter to her father’s house, and now the motorway was still and silent, apart from a distant ambulance siren and the wind rushing through the trees on the motorway embankment. I turned to my daughter in the back seat of the car and told her the news and said: “Listen to the wind of in the trees, Nanna is flying free.” We both cried into the silence and stillness.
By the time I returned to my mother’s home to be by her side, over two hours later, Mum’s house was silent, apart from the sounds of my sister and the hospice nurses talking very quietly. I had never seen a dead body before; this was Mum, but not Mum. I had envisioned holding her hand until the end and weeping, but death isn’t like it’s portrayed in the movies. Loved ones often slip away when loved ones aren’t looking. My sister and the nurses were in the other room when Mum passed; I was stuck in traffic on a busy motorway. She did it her way, with as much dignity as she could muster in those final minutes.
And I am so grateful to have the memory of holding her warm hand as we looked out to the coast from Dartmoor back in July 2024, on our last drive to Dartmoor. I picked some wild purple heather for Mum, and she held it to her face in silent reverie; she was too unsteady on her feet to step out of my car onto the moorland grass and relished the connection with that little sprig. We sat in the front of my car and held hands for ages, and neither of us wanted to let go or drive home, because that would be the end of our last journey to Dartmoor. I can still feel Mum’s hand in mine when I recall that memory.
Not hearing from Mum for a long time, apart from sessions with mediums, which were very comforting personally, I began to accept the time that passed. From when she was three, Mum played alone in the meadows and woodlands near her childhood home. When I was a young child, she loved time playing with my sister and me in our garden. She taught me how to make daisy chains, about types of flowers and other plants, and she loved visiting flower gardens.
One of our last trips before she became ill was to visit Heathercombe Garden on Dartmoor in the summer of 2016. We immersed ourselves in the calming and vibrant surroundings, laughed until we cried (Mum had a great sense of humour) and had a cream tea. I imagined Mum had found herself in a similar garden when she had stepped into the void. Perhaps she was enjoying the beauty, being free from pain and earthly troubles, reconnecting with her family, and lost track of earthly time; how could I begrudge her that? Even though it hurt like hell.
I am gradually unfurling into my new life without Mum, noticing the wonders of nature and seeing the glimmers of magic as I had done before. And I realised that she had never gone away. Her warm, comforting voice was there whenever I struggled, faced a challenge and needed support. Now, I talk to her. I tell her my troubles, share my joys, ask questions about which direction to take and how to mother my children, and thank her for listening.
When I am consumed by the inevitable challenges that life throws my way, and, equally, when I am met with good news and good fortune, I look for the small signs. As I said, Mum was a quiet, gentle, kind, down-to-earth woman, so when I found a freshly picked daisy on my kitchen worktop the other day, in the middle of October, I smiled to myself and said, “Thank you, Mum”. I knew she was saying, “I’m right here.”
