My life became a mission to ‘not end up like my Mum’
When Mum died, I felt a strange relief.
We’d been close. I lived overseas, and although I only saw her a few times each year, we talked openly about life and had the kind of bond I considered special.
The rush of freedom I felt when she passed was a surprise. Yes, her pain had stopped, and she would never have chosen to simply suffer on.
But it was more than that.
I was broken-hearted. Yet I realised in that moment I’d felt responsible for her happiness since I was a child. Now, that responsibility was over.
Then came inexplicable anger
I’d glimpsed it when she was first ill. Some of it was self-centered — I wanted her around for my daughter. Her sudden mortality made me confront my own. I thought our family stock was hardy; her illness messed with my sense of invincibility, my triumph over life. Why wasn’t she stronger?
Other parts of my rage were old. Why couldn’t she just choose to stick around? She’d always been a pacifist; leaving me to take on family fights. And here, once again, she wasn’t taking a stand – for me, for mine, for anything.
I felt guilty. My feelings were unreasonable. But they…
