Tag: loss

The Visit to the Medium

lizaaitken

‘Hot cross buns, hot cross buns, one a penny two a penny, hot cross buns’ she sang across the room almost in a whisper. ‘Is there something about Easter I should be thinking of, is it a message of some sort?’ the young woman asked the medium sitting patiently across from her. ‘The thing is I can’t seem to get the tune out of my head, it is like it is on a loop and I can’t think why. I mean it is only January for goodness sake and I don’t believe I have even seen one in the shops yet, surely we have to get through Valentines Day first’. She looked across the room at the spiritual medium she was visiting who was silently smiling over at her. She wondered if she appeared mad, what did she really hope to get from today.

Rosie had booked the appointment on the spur of the moment, she had seen the card on a shop notice board, it had jumped out at her. She took it off of the cork board and slipped it into her pocket hoping she wouldn’t be seen and scurried from the shop to the park bench, where she made the telephone call to Myra. The woman on the other end of the phone sounded friendly enough. She said in a gentle voice that interestingly she had just received a telephone call from a client cancelling an appointment, and yes, although she had been fully booked today this cancellation opened up a space at one o’clock. She went on to say that maybe it was synchronicity, it certainly felt like that to Rosie.

After making the call Rosie began to feel a little nervous, she hadn’t been to see a medium before and today she was going on her own. Why did she even feel the necessity, what was she hoping for she asked out loud.  She scrolled down through her contacts on her iPhone wondering who she could persuade to come along. Exhausting the list of hopefuls Rosie realised she would have to go it alone, she didn’t want to put it off now she had made the call she didn’t know if she would be brave enough again.

Myra was situated just off of Haydon’s Road, in a little cul-de-sac full of red brick victorian cottages. Rosie got there a little early and walked past the house looking up at the windows. The curtains were drawn against the sun at the front which sent a little shiver through her, would the house be full of the spirits of the dead she thought, would she be frightened. Rosie waited a little further down the road, propped against a garden wall until the time of her appointment. At 12.50 Rosie watched as an elderly lady left the house, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue before getting into a waiting taxi.

On arriving, she was shown into a small siting room, Myra told her she used specifically for spiritual consultations. The walls were painted white, but the room was full of colour. Everywhere she looked Rosie could see bursts of colour, from the crystals, ornaments, pictures and statues to the spines of the many books stacked neatly on shelves. A picture on the wall above the medium appeared to draw her in, the colours where quite overwhelming.  Rosie believed could feel the colours in her stomach, she felt a pull that she didn’t recognise. Surprisingly Myra herself looked quite ordinary, nicely painted finger nails, long blond hair and wearing a black dress with a scarf tied neatly around her neck. Rosie had expected something else, a gypsy maybe wearing silk, bangles and beads but Myra looked like anyone else, although admittedly attractive.

Hearing that Rosie hadn’t seen a medium before Myra had explained a little about how she worked. ‘I don’t give predictions my dear, I see and hear spirit and pass on messages from the afterlife’.  She paused a moment before continuing ‘I have had a lady with me all morning and I wasn’t sure who she was, now that you are here I know that she is here for you.  But first I would like to know what you hope to get from our meeting today?’. Rosie wasn’t sure, she had come on a whim after not being able to get the hot cross bun song out of her head, but now she was here she didn’t have a clue as to what she wanted from the session.  Rosie garbled out how she had the song stuck in her head, she didn’t know why.  In fact she didn’t really know what had brought her here today, she had just not been able to stop thinking about it and then the card on the notice board.  She fell silent feeling a little silly and out of control.

Myra began to describe the woman she had with her, it was clear it was Rosie’s mum wearing the dress that Rosie alway saw her in, the green one with the cream spots and the lace cardigan. Rosie listened silently as Myra spoke of memories from her childhood. A tear trickled slowly down her cheek as she felt her mothers love and the words the medium said resonated throughout her very soul. ‘Your mother has a message for you my dear’ Myra said as she looked directly into Rosie’s eyes. ‘She want me to ask you why you don’t speak to her now she has passed, she wants you to know she is really here, that her love hasn’t died and she is with you every moment’. Rosie looked across at the medium, through her mother who stood between them in the small room. ‘I don’t know what to say’ Rosie whispered. ‘I see her all the time, standing by my bed, looking over my shoulder in the mirror and sitting next to me on the bus, but I can’t speak in case she disappears, you see she is in my imagination, she died last year’. Myra smiled gently ‘ oh you really don’t know you have the gift do you, do you not realise it is you mother you see not your imagination my dear’ she paused ‘Imagination my child is made up of the word image, you have to start believing in what you see’. Rosie looked up at her mother, standing in the room between them and for the first time since her mothers death realised she was still here.

There really wasn’t an awful lot more to be said in the session, the main message had come out straight away. It wouldn’t have been right to carry on with a reading they both agreed, well all three of them in some ways. Myra gave Rosie another card with the details of a development group, she told her it would help her begin to understand work with spirit when she was ready and Myra said she would be happy to talk to her if she had any questions. Myra told her she was very happy to have helped today, this wasn’t what she would usually expect on meeting new clients. Myra said ‘you never know what spirit have in store for you’ as she saw Rosie out.

Arriving home that afternoon Rosie put her key on her mothers trinket tray by the door and sat for a while reflecting on the days events, she thought back over the last year, realising at the same time her mother had been with her all along, she hadn’t left her at all.  Later Rosie opened the freezer looking for dinner options, she was starting to feel hungry. There on the top shelf was a pack of hot cross buns, frozen and forgotten. Rosie turned looked at her mother who was standing beside her ‘thank you for taking me there today mum, for putting the song in my head, for showing me the card, we won’t be needing her anymore but I did need to hear the message to really see you’.

Today is Good

lizaaitken

Today is a good day, this weekend has been good and that is because I have had to face up to who I am and what is actually happening to me. I got myself bitten by a bug on Friday, it seemed to give me an allergic reaction of sorts, and I have had a cough and flu like symptoms and felt generally unwell since.

I went for a walk around town yesterday with my friend, I felt poorly. She wanted to check out the charity shops for her Pride costume.   I suggested we go into the Martlet’s Hospice, vintage shop, it’s where you might find their special bits and as my friend pointed out, often a little pricier. I walked over to the sales counter and there on the necklace rail was one of my mum’s necklaces. It stopped me in my tracks, like seeing mum there somehow. I looked closer and found there were four of her necklaces hanging there, there was no mistaking mum’s style. I burst into tears and left the shop wiping my eyes as I left, as if it would be all okay if I got away.

I thought back and remembered taking a big bag of her necklaces down to the charity warehouse nine months ago, just after she passed away. As I handed them over I didn’t imagine I would see them again and if I did, quite what the impact would be. They weren’t the best, I kept those and have them hanging around my bedroom. One pearl necklace is wrapped around her ashes on the shelf, mum always wore a necklace, why should that change. Some others went for next to nothing on EBay, I really didn’t know what I was doing in those early days after she left.

I came home yesterday and slept on the sofa for most of the afternoon until I went to bed, I thought if I slept everything would be better, my bug, my emotions, all of me. I cursed that I would get ill on a Saturday, how typical and the sun was shining, I should be out.

Today is Sunday and it is raining hard.   It’s certainly not a day to venture out far, although I went out for the ingredients to make a nut loaf for dinner. Mum used to love my nut roast and I don’t believe I have made one since she died nine months ago. I haven’t baked a cake either, I only started baking in the last couple of years of her life and I haven’t had reason since. I told mum I cooked for her with love and by eating my food she would fill up with all the love I had put inside, whatever it might be.  Anyway I made that nut loaf, it’s sitting on the side for later and it looks perfect.

I have cried a buckets today, I watched ‘Long Lost Families’ where adopted children finally find their families. I have cried an awful lot today, it’s okay I need to and I think I probably need to cry more. I believe I have been in denial in some way, I just rushed ahead thinking if I kept my head full I would be okay.  I wasn’t used to caring for or worrying about me, mum did that.

The weekend Mum died, my stepfather had a heart attack and they discovered cancer in his throat. I collected him from the hospital and brought him home to live with me.  We attended mum’s funeral together, that was before he declined too much and needed her wheelchair. Everything was so busy, clearing mums flat, arranging the funeral and looking after Bill that I really didn’t have time to grieve properly. Then on December 28th, Bill died with my sister and I sitting next to him, trying to help. He had been happy with me, he was looking forward to the summer, but we knew all along it wouldn’t be long. His purpose disappeared after mum died, I think that the cancer just masked his broken heart. Then it was Bill’s funeral to arrange and I had to find work again. I hadn’t worked in nearly two years, caring for mum and Bill so I was in trouble financially. I put my head down and carried on with my life.

I talk to mum and Bill all the time, their pictures and memories surround me in my home, I am cluttered with them and I have never been cluttered before. There isn’t a day I don’t think about them, but I manage these feelings. There ashes sit side by side on my bedroom shelf, him with a tartan ribbon and mum with her pearls. I don’t think it morbid, it is comfortable, I am not ready to let them go yet, I will one day, I’m just not sure when.  Most of the time I forget they are there, well their not really.

I have been filling my life with nothingness for the last nine months, I have been trying to carry on, while at the same time feeling ashamed of myself for doing so well.   I have been filling the empty gaps so everything will be okay. My food cupboards and fridge are ridiculous, I constantly buy food and then throw it away. If I didn’t buy food for six months, I don’t think I would go hungry. I forever need new clothes and shoes and weekends away. I don’t say no often either, I’m always free to lend a hand, listen to a problem, keep someone company, no problem, of course!

I complain about being too tired to think, too tired to care, I feel more to the point. I think I have lost my passion, dropped it somewhere maybe. I work but have no interest really in what I do anymore, it is just a means to an end. I think I have lost the essence of me, who I am, I think I’m wrapped up in grief and denial.

So today is a good day, because it rained, because it slowed me down and because I cried. I know everyone grieves differently, I have been trying to grieve without grieving. I thought somehow, that if I carried on, it would just get better. I’m going to give myself more time like today, I’m going to face my feelings and give myself time. Today is a good day because I realised that my feelings won’t go away if I ignore them, they will get easier but I am denying myself if I don’t acknowledge the hurt I feel now. If I were to carry on like that I think I would be doing myself an awful disservice.

Losing Mum

lizaaitken

My mum died on Sunday 26th October at 23.00. The death certificate states she died the next day as the doctor took a while to get to her, he said he was sorry for our loss but he was busy.

I feel like I’m walking around in a different season or maybe in a different world completely at the moment. It’s not the same here without my mum, but nobody seems to know that, life goes on just like it did the day before she died. Everybody is moving far too quickly and I can’t seem to keep up, time is running away with itself while I am standing still. Life for me at the moment is like watching a movie, I can see what is going on but I’m not really in on the act, I’m sure the credits will roll at some point.

I have thrown myself into being busy, too busy to think, too busy to face anything I can’t face right now. I’m cleaning out mum’s flat with my sister, I’m sorting our mum’s stuff like it belongs to a stranger. There are moments when I pick up some clothes, a jacket or cardigan, and sniff at the collar like a dog looking for a scent. I want to breathe in her smell and feel safe within it again, I close my eyes and imagine she is there with me. But the moment passes and I continue sorting the junk from the jewels.

We stayed those final days in the hospital with mum, the doctor called for the family although we had been there every day. I sat on a chair at the end of her bed and watched her sleep. Those last few days she slept a lot, she was preparing herself for the journey ahead. The day before mum died, she said to the nurse she wanted to press a button and be dead. She had fought the cruel disease for eleven years until the day she wanted to die. Minutes before mum died I prayed for her, I prayed the suffering would end and she would pass over easily. I moved a bottle of spring water that was blocking my view of her lovely face, she told me off for disturbing her. I remember thinking to myself that she never told me off, we couldn’t really do anything wrong in our mum’s eyes.

We called for a nurse as mum needed her morphine injection. It didn’t help this time, she needed something much stronger to help. When the nurse went to get it mum started to pass over. It took minutes, but time stood still, minutes turned into something much longer as we watched our mum die. We tried to help her to go without us, we told her to go and that we would be okay. We told her we loved her and thanked her for being our mum. We were trying to tell her how much we loved her, we didn’t want her to go missing anything, we didn’t want her to forget. She knew we loved her, we didn’t have to say but we both needed to, we wanted to say it for the last time. I have worried since that I was on her deaf side and maybe she couldn’t hear me.

I don’t know the actual moment mum went and if some of those last drawn out breaths were just the body doing what it had done for so long. Were the lungs just responding as they always had while the blood slowed down on its final journey around her body. I don’t even know how she died, was it the lungs or her heart that finally gave up?

I’m not sure what happened right then, my body shook uncontrollably and I couldn’t stop my arms and legs from moving. My sister wanted to help me but also wanted to stay with mum. I didn’t want to be selfish, I just couldn’t help myself. My son said afterwards it sounded like a response to the shock. I’m not sure why I was shocked, I was expecting mum to die, I had prayed for her to be out of pain but I just couldn’t cope with the reality of it actually happening. Losing the one person who had loved me from the very moment I was born.

We stayed with mum for a while, she looked beautiful, she was always beautiful. The lines and the constant daily pain faded from her face and she looked at peace at last. We knew she wasn’t really there anymore, the body was just a vehicle but how we had loved that body, we had both lived in that body for a while. I told the nurses that my sister and I would clean and dress mum, but my sister told me I wouldn’t manage it, she told me to go. I sat in the family lounge while my sister got mum’s body ready for the morgue, she called my mobile to ask what mum should wear . I remember looking up the train times on my phone while I waited.

Three weeks later now and I haven’t cried properly yet, I’m frozen. I think I have put up a wall to protect myself, as I just can’t deal with the reality of mum dying, I can’t cope with it. I understand trauma a little and know this is just my body looking after my mind but I want my mind back. No, that’s not right, I’m in denial and what I really want is my mum back.

Watching You

lizaaitken

I am following you down the street, the cobbles make it harder for you to push the pram any faster, so it is quite easy for me to keep up with you.  As I draw closer I look down into the pram at your child, a beautiful bonny baby shrouded in yellow.  I’m guessing you had a girl, I know yellow could be used for either sex but she looks like a girl, there is a look of her mother.

You have two children now, I wonder is your family complete.  I suppose it is too early to tell, you are still so young yourself.  Your daughter with that lovely thick curly hair just like her father’s, holds tightly onto the pram beside you.  She is chattering away at the double as you walk towards the park, a happy family unit on a beautiful summers day.

You don’t know me although we have met a few times now.  We met in the children’s library when you helped me find the book I was looking for and we met again at the summer fete when I was helping out with the face paints.  I sat behind you on the bus last week and across from you in the café the week before.  It’s not strange that you see me often, it is a small village and you get to recognise most folk around here.

I’m going to the park too, the dog could do with a run and I will stop for a sandwich in the café by the children’s play area.  It would be nice if we were there at the same time, I know that is your ritual on a warm day like this.  I have some bread to feed the ducks should your little one like to do that, but we will have to see if you go to the lake today.

I like it here, it’s a nice place to live, lovely for the children to grow with the countryside all around them.  I hope you stay, it would be lovely for the children and wonderful for me.

It took me a long time to find this village but I’m happy now after a lifetime of sadness and regret.  I never felt complete before I came here, I’m not really complete now but I’m probably as close as I will ever get.

I watch you from the café, pushing your daughter on the swing.  You both laugh as she soars high in the air, high enough to give her a thrill but safe enough for you, how clever of you.  The pram is close by and your eyes constantly move from pram to swing, what a wonderful mother you are, how lucky the children.

I never had any more children after they took you away from me at 16.  It has been the most painful thing to me and although I did eventually meet a good man I felt that if I had another child it would be unfair to you.  It would be like replacing you and that would be impossible.  Frank and I divorced and he has a family of his own now, I’m happy for him.

I would never tell you who I really am, I know the people that brought you up are your parents.  They are good people and did a wonderful job, for that I will be eternally grateful.  I have observed the love between you when you wave them off from one of their visits.  I love them too in a way, like you they have been included in all my prayers.

I look up to see you entering the garden area of the café.  There is not a table, you stop to look around for a space to sit.  Lily, your daughter points over in my direction, yes there are spare seats at my table by the swings.   Today I have been blessed I think to myself as you sit.

For the Love of Mary

lizaaitken


The old man sits on the bench outside of the pub a sandwich left by a thoughtful stranger beside him.  This is his world, his bench and at this moment in time his very existence.  He is always there, whatever the weather and whatever the time of year.  He sits, one weary leg crossed over the other looking at the traffic on the busy road as if he might be surveying a beautiful scene and maybe to him it is.  The locals think they know him, wave and call out on passing. They leave him the odd sandwich or pack of tobacco and call him mate, although no one really knows him, where he comes from and who he was once.   The men that frequent the pub stop and talk to him on occasion, maybe while having a cigarette outside.  He welcomes the conversation but does not demand the attention, he is happy with the way things are.  Chitchat is light and flippant and it is rare that anyone really tries to understand the old gent.

He has been sleeping in the park for nearly two years now.  After Mary died he just couldn’t bring himself to stay in the house.  Not that he didn’t try, day after day he battled against the urge to run out of the door her body had been carried from.  He attempted to shop and care for himself but he had no idea how to do it as Mary had done everything for them both for over fifty years.  They had never had children, they had talked about it early on in their marriage but it never happened and as you did back then, they left it at that.  They were company enough for each other, the routine and daily rituals helped but it was the adoration that cemented them to each other for all those years.   Words were not always needed between them, they knew how each other felt, many an hour was spent sitting together in silence by the gas fire.  To live such a joyous life with the person you love is a blessing that is not given to many, he knew this and although alone in the world treasured the memory of his Mary.  He left the house on the day he realised it had changed, it was no longer their home.  The piles of dirty dishes, newspapers and flies around the rubbish had left the home beyond recognition, and if it wasn’t their home any more he wouldn’t stay.

The park was close to the house, he walked up the street sometimes to look at the boarded up and over grown home they had shared.  No one recognised him, that is if they had really ever known him in the first place being too busy to care in this busy city street.  He would stand for a moment, looking at the house, silently calling Mary’s name.  He walked into the garden once and sat with his memories, under the lilac tree turning the door key over in his hand, deep in his pocket, it was too much to bare and he left after ten short minutes.

He wore a long beard now, straggled and stained yellow with tobacco.  His once tidy department store suit hung from his body, stained and old.  An overcoat given to him by a kindly stranger outside the pub covered his shrinking frame.

They found him dead in June, on the bench outside the pub.  Kind words were said for the old man, although no one knew his name.  It was only the smell on the warm summer breeze that had alerted the bar maid to his death.  He was sitting as usual watching the traffic, a smile on his face and a picture of his Mary in his hand.  It was the anniversary of their wedding day that he died and like all those years ago at the alter, Mary was waiting for him.