Seeing the Signs

My son, now 18, once asked me how you know if something is a 'sign' from a loved one who has passed.

It wasn't long after his best friend had died and, naturally, he was hoping for some indication that she was still around him. There had been some things that seemed obvious. We visited her parents shortly after her death and, when we were driving out at the end of the visit, a small blue butterfly hovered by his open car window all the way down the long driveway to her front gate. He looked at me afterwards, in awe, and said, "Mum, that was her." He had no doubt, and neither did I.

As the weeks passed, and he was probably looking for more signs, he asked the question above. How do you know? He'd seen the odd feather, or heard a song, or had a 'feeling', but nothing as clear as the butterfly in the driveway. Maybe he needed some reassurance that she was still around and that it wasn't just his imagination. Now, I'm no expert on these things ... like most parents, I'm left fumbling for the right answer when the kids ask questions like this.

In the end, I told him that if you think something may be a sign, then you should assume that it is. Can you imagine being a person in spirit, trying to leave signs for your loved ones, only to have them dismiss everything as "imagination"? I'm guessing that would be really frustrating. Of course, I'm also assuming that spirits are real, and that they get frustrated. Maybe they don't. Maybe they don't hang around at all ... but I believe they do. I've had visits from loved ones in dreams, in familiar smells, and even in wildlife, often at the times I've needed the most comfort - and always when I least expected it.

Maybe that's the trick. Don't go looking for signs, but accept them when you realise they may be there. I was watering my garden a couple of weeks ago, less than a week after losing my Mum, when a dragonfly landed on a plant near where I was watering. A very plain, brown dragonfly. Nothing really special about it, except for the fact that it wasn't in an area I'd normally see them. It sat there for ages, and after a minute or two I found myself wondering if it might be a visit from Mum. She knows dragonflies are a favourite of mine. I have no idea though ... I'm now in the position my son was in a couple of years ago, wondering what to believe and how much I can trust my intuition.

I seem to be coping with Mum's death better than I expected to. I'm back at work and life is getting back to normal. I keep expecting to fall apart, and I do have a weep occasionally, but I recover quickly. I have no trouble talking about Mum, or her death. Sometimes I almost feel a bit detached, but not like I'm in denial - if that makes sense. My sister has actually commented that she's the same. I think we did most of our grieving before Mum died - she was just so vibrant and seemed like she could live until she was ninety, the shock of learning we were going to lose her was maybe bigger than the reality of her actual passing. I keep saying it was down to Mum's attitude. Once she was able to be so accepting of her fate, we found the strength to accept it too.

Of course, it's possible a wave of grief will suddenly hit me when I least expect it and I'll break down in a blubbering mess at some completely inappropriate time. I guess I'll find out. In the meantime, we talk about her openly, we laugh about the things she would have found funny, and we'll accept any potential signs that may come our way ... because I'm sure she'll be around us for a long time to come.

My Mum

I've had a break from my blog for a couple of months, to focus on other, more important matters. Now I'm back to write, from a place of great admiration, about someone I will adore for the rest of my life:

My dear Mum ... who passed away last week after a short battle with cancer.

It was discovered in July and she was told, almost immediately, that it was at Stage 4 and in an inoperable position. She was scared, but determined. If there was any possibility of buying more time, she was going to give it a go. The doctors believed that radiotherapy might shrink it enough to give her a couple more years, so she agreed to try that.

She also wasn't afraid to try alternative treatments ... there were herbal remedies; teas and oils, as well as dietary changes. She made it known at the hospital that she was more than happy to take part in any clinical trials that were available. Normally Mum would quake at the thought of medical procedures and she was also mildly claustrophobic, so going into those big scanning machines terrified her - but she did it. She surprised us, but then, she always has. Witnessing her bravery and strength was a humbling experience.

Unfortunately, nothing worked. The downhill run was steady and she had to make the transition from "I'm going to fight this with everything I've got," to finding a level of acceptance. She did it though, with good grace and a big dose of practicality. Even before she accepted that nothing would work, she started getting things in order - just because it was worth being prepared for the future anyway. She assured us there was no 'bucket list' and that if it was her time to go, then she would be okay with it. Her life hadn't been perfect, but there had been much happiness along the way and she didn't have anything left she was desperate to achieve.

Mum enjoyed studying star signs and she was a typical Gemini; expressive, social and adaptable. All her life, she adjusted to whatever situation she was in with very little complaint (and she found herself in some pretty tough circumstances at times). When she was younger she was quite shy, although there was a feisty streak when it came to protecting others. As she grew older she got in touch with her gregarious, outgoing side and made friends wherever she went. When we were ringing people to inform them of her passing, it felt like we were dealing with a fan club. I don't think she knew just how many people genuinely loved her and would be affected by her death. Her entire neighbourhood seemed to know who she was. She breezed into their lives, their homes, or their shops, with her loud distinctive voice and people were always happy to see her. She had a genuine interest in learning about others and could talk to anyone, anytime, for hours on end. She gossiped and flirted with everyone and her sense of humour was legendary; if there was potential for innuendo, or inappropriate comments, Mum took advantage of it.

Her whole attitude was youthful, she walked with a spring in her step and she would pull up her friends if they were going on about 'young people today'. She thought young people were great and deserved a lot more credit than they get. The suburb she lived in was multicultural, and she loved that about it. She had good relationships with all her neighbours - Asian, African, Islander, Aboriginal, Muslim and Christian alike - and very little patience with anyone who didn't bother getting to know people themselves before judging an entire culture.

Nothing meant more to Mum than her children (and grandchildren). She hadn't had much of a home life when she was growing up, so she worked to make up for that when she had a family of her own. She worried far too much about us; her imagination would run away with her if anyone wasn't home when they said they would be. She could be critical and had a tendency to look at the negative, which drove us mad at times, but then she'd suddenly go all positive when we least expected it. Just when we'd think, "Oh, Mum will never go for that," ... yes, she would. The line between parent and friend was very thin, mostly due to that youthful attitude I mentioned earlier. Sometimes it was more like having an older sister than a mum like everyone else's. She wasn't strict and she liked to talk through issues with us, rather than tell us off. Our friends loved her, and she enjoyed getting to know them, often becoming their confidant as well. There was no criticism of the music we listened to - she gave it a fair listen and enjoyed a lot of it herself. She gave advice, whether we wanted it or not, but also asked for our opinions. She spoke openly with us about everything, there was no subject (honestly, NO subject!) off limits. We often joked that she had no filter; it wasn't unusual to feel utterly embarrassed by something she'd said while we were out in public, because she had a tendency to speak without thinking. She was quick witted, and bitingly sarcastic at times, but very attentive towards her friends and loved ones. If one of us had a problem, Mum would try to fix it for us - whether it be financially or just offering to ring whoever was causing the issue and sort them out, even if it was a government department! We were always having to remind her that we were old enough to do that kind of thing for ourselves.

Her children came first, always. Even at the end. We were prepared for a vigil of hours - or even days - by her bedside but, once she knew we were all with her, she passed away quietly while we were having a giggle about something. No fuss. It was like she didn't want to drag it out and make it harder for us. We were a bit stunned, but more relieved that it had been quick and painless for her.

They say hearing is the last sense to go when you are dying. It was beautiful, and perfect, that the last sound she heard was her children sharing a joke. That sense of humour she raised us with has helped us a lot, both in the lead-up to her death and also afterwards. When we were sitting with the funeral director, giving the details for Mum's death certificate, the question of her occupation came up. My sister smiled at the woman filling out the form and said, "I don't suppose we can put 'Socialite'?"

Mum was one of a kind ... but we are all like her in various ways, and we know she will always be with us in some form. There is no doubt that we will miss her terribly, but we will support each other and get through this together.

That's how she raised us.