Remember Me

Grief not only blurs timelines, it can also leave a magical trail of coincidences and subtle messages for us in its wake. Here Sue Pritchard shares her own experiences after the death of both her mum and dad.

I believe grief has time travelling talents. It has somehow mastered the art of blurring timelines, but does so with our best interests at heart.

I think it knows dwelling on painful memories doesn’t serve anyone in the long term.

Spiritually gifted people with a hotline to heaven believe this is how our lost loved ones want to be remembered – at their happiest and in their prime. So they give us hazy memories of those long weeks, days, and hours leading up to their deaths, helping us skim over the memories we most certainly don’t want to relive.

The same thing happened when my dad died 17 years ago. It felt a betrayal to hark back to his former glory days when his body was slowly shutting down, ravaged by an incurable and degenerative neurological condition called Ataxia.

After he died though, the only picture in my mind was of him on my wedding day in 2000. He was smartly suited, smiling with a proud twinkle in his eye, and glass (or two) of champagne in his hand.

And now my overriding memories reunite him with my mum, back together in the late 1990s, when they were both in good health and full of high spirits (particularly the alcoholic variety!).

Happy Memories

The picture which takes pride of place in my heart and mind, now hangs on my dining room wall, and was taken on a family holiday in Mexico. It was the last one we’d all take together before I set off on that adventure of parenthood as well.

This photo makes me smile, which is quite often followed by a sudden jolt of disbelief that both of my parents are gone. I’m now an orphan at 54 years of age. I know, I’m not exactly an orphan Annie, but it’s a label that pulls at your heart strings, regardless of your age.

They may no longer be in this world, but perhaps my parents are now time travelling elsewhere. And believing they may still be around in some other shape or form, explains why I get the sudden desire to message my mum, send a funny meme or give her an update on my book.

It’s something I couldn’t do for the past six months of her life because she was so ill. But now those blurred timelines of grief catch me off guard, before I remember she’s no longer here.

It may also explain why I’m unable to delete mum’s mobile number from my phone. I know she’ll never answer it again, but I can’t handle the finality of erasing her memory from my contacts. And it’s why her home number is still listed there under Mum and Dad.

A Year Of Mourning

Grief, I’ve come to learn, can be a subtle slow burner with less dramatic ugly crying. It’s those softer nudges from your memories that make you catch your breath, gulping down soulful sadness.

Sitting here, I’m looking at the Mamma Mia rose I bought in memory of mum. She took great pride in her green coloured fingers, an attribute I never really inherited. But this beautiful coral coloured rose has given me so much joy. The 20 odd blooms that burst out of bud are now lying as Pot Pourri offerings scattered across my house. And I’m so happy. In response to my loving efforts of watering and feeding, it is now budding again.

It may be a year of mourning, I thought to myself the other day, but what a good year for the roses too.

Mamma Mia. What a good year for the roses.

Not To die

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see mum and dad waving at me from their motorboat in this photo. It reminds me of the closing scene of one of their favourite films, Grease, when Danny and Sandy fly off into the skies in their car.

“Your mum and dad were the coolest couple in the '60s,” one of their friends told me at mum’s funeral.

Perhaps this is how they want to be remembered.

In fact, “Remember me,” were some of mum’s last words. I think she’d be quite pleased knowing her and dad have become little stars, shining their way across my social media pages, helping me catch that childhood dream of becoming a published author.

‘To Live in the Hearts of Those We Love is Not to Die’ is the inscription on my dad’s grave. It was chosen because it reminded mum of her own much-loved dad who, it now transpires, died on the same day she did.

As well as time travelling, I’ve come to believe, grief also leaves a magical trail of coincidences and subtle messages for us, lying in its wake.

There’s no time limit to grief.

And if you’re grieving, no matter how long ago or who or what it was, I hope this helps.

You’re not alone.