Sian shares her experience of grieving her mum, who died when she was twelve, and learning to talk about grief more openly.
I was twelve years old when my mum died of leukaemia. I am 28 now and still vividly remember the things I would do to hold on to her memory. One of my slightly more neurotic rituals was deleting calls from other people from my call log so that her name wouldn’t disappear. I’d call her voicemail so I could hear the sound of her voice singing through the phone even when she didn’t pick up. I would read old texts asking what I wanted for dinner, and fall asleep wearing one of her old t-shirts.
I did each of these things, very privately, every single day for months. A double-edged sword in many ways, because I knew none of it would bring her back. But I took some small comfort in completing those rituals anyway, because for a fleeting moment, they made me feel close to her.
For the longest time, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my mum at all, except to my dad – and even then, sparingly. I struggled to speak to close friends about the depth of my loss or even my happy memories for many years. I refused to speak to a counsellor until I was 20 because I couldn’t do it without bawling.
Grief is a lot to keep to yourself, especially at such a young age. Back then, my grief felt all-consuming; I couldn’t concentrate at school, and I was shy and retiring to such an extent that it would shock anyone who has only ever known me as an adult. Although I have always been someone able to find the right words where others might struggle, I could not and would not articulate my grief.
Recently, I read Florrie Evans’s beautiful blog post about her mother, and was struck by her reticence when it comes to posting online in her memory, because it felt so familiar to me. For years, I would flinch at even the mention of the word ‘cancer’ when it cropped up in documentaries, and well up at anything approaching the sentimentality of a John Lewis advert. I was frankly perplexed as to how others I knew could do something as soul-baring as writing about the loss of a loved one in Facebook posts, and god forbid, Instagram.
The thought of broadcasting my grief to others terrified me for a number of reasons. Like Florrie, saying the words out loud, or writing them in black and white, made me feel like I was reliving my loss for all to see. I was equally concerned that the depth of my feelings would frighten other people – particularly those I had just met – because I never felt like there was an appropriate conversational segue to explain that she had died whenever the topic of family came up.
I was reminded of those old rituals back in January, after my dad sadly passed away after a long battle with cancer. Like with my mum, I can still hear his voicemail ringing in my head. I’ve clung on to one of his old jumpers, and I have pored over old messages and photographs. But somehow, the thought of posting on Instagram or writing a piece like this no longer feels gauche and exposing in the way it did when I was younger.
When I reflect on what has changed, I remember that my dad was, in many ways, my confidant. Talking to him about my mum gradually became easier over the years. Conversations with him eventually made way to talking to friends, partners, therapists – even strangers with whom I share this awful thing in common. It never occurred to me before that they might not run for the hills.
I even felt compelled to write and deliver my dad’s eulogy in front of a crowd full of people. Granted, I avoided writing it until the evening before, but when I did, the words poured out of me with such love and ease that sharing some of the most personal anecdotes about our life together felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Today, I remember both of my parents loudly and often. I remember that no man is an island, and that people are generally kind —and it has made me feel less alone and more loved than I ever have before.
Sian Bradshaw
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