A letter to Lorna, my Mum, collated from thoughts, journal entries and observations as we approach two years.

As I’m writing this, It’s the middle of my Half Term and I’m sat outside a pub in Highgate Village. Not in the fancy bistro beer garden. On a slightly unkept garden bench, outside the front of the pub in full view of the variety of cars driving past, getting angry at the temporary traffic lights. It’s about four o’clock in the afternoon and the sun is blaring and the heat is intense but comfortable. There’s a stunning private school across the road, the type that could pass for a Church, along with quaint cafes and book shops further down the street. There are vans, jaguars, people carriers, and coaches. This is one of the main routes to leave London so people are probably finished for the day of work, going to see family or off on holiday. Either way I find myself fascinated by what the individual stories of these drivers are. Here I am, sat on this bench, writing to you. What thoughts are occupying these drivers and their minds?

You would like it here. Not just Highgate. You would like specifically where we are sat. You would have been able to have a cigarette, you would have liked that it wasn’t too posh despite the interior, you would have liked having a white wine in the sun. You would have loved me telling you a random fact or story about this place.

ou would have liked how quiet it is, a direct contradiction to the life that is 6 miles south of here.

As a close friend said to me, four days before you went into hospital and I explained how I felt bad that I watched YouTube whilst eating the sandwich you made for me, you would have simply liked my company. And I would now do anything for yours.

The day itself you would have grown to love. A prisoner escaped the police van as he was on his way to court and ran away. He escaped the police officers attached to the van and found himself on a train track. The trains were cancelled from Letchworth for the entire day. I had to be in North London for two things that day – haircut and therapy. There was a time at university when you came to London during a quiet Wednesday just to have a coffee with me. Weirdly enough, I think you would have liked to come with me and would have happily waited for me. The last-minute train cancellations would have been something you hated, and potentially enough for you to say ‘let’s go home’. But today, I’m imagining you trusted me and came in the car with me for the hour drive. Because this is the day you would have thrived in. No thrills, no pomp, no circumstance. No fancy restaurant, no busy park, no claustrophobic, heatwave ridden tube journey. Just us two, a pint and a glass of wine watching the world in front of us.

It’s coming up to two years since we last, truly interacted. I said many things I wished you heard in the ICU. But it’s going to be two years since you last kissed me on the cheek and gave me a hug. This fact is no easier to contend with as time goes on.

As I was sat on this bench, picturing you ‘checking in’ on Facebook, I wonder why the pain of missing you is still so acute. There is a catalogue of answers to that question that would be enough to fill multiple reading rooms.

The one I am thinking of today, at this bench, is your presence. Everywhere I am, every movement through this life and every change that takes place, it is your presence and the absence of it that is felt most strongly. Even on this bench.

Now, I didn’t tell you everything. We were extremely close and no one would have ever accused me of being anything other than a ‘Mummy’s Boy’. However, we hadn’t yet fully established that ‘adult child – parent’ relationship.

I would tell you about dramas and difficulties, but you, Dad and Thomas built up enough resilience in me to cope and navigate tricky waters. Despite this, you were always, **always there.** You were by far the most present thing in my life.

Dad was as well, but the way you divided the labour meant you were physically present, everywhere. You walked me to infant and junior school, worked as a lunchtime supervisor at my first school, always at parents’ evenings, always at basketball games, always organising something for mine and others birthdays, always making not just Christmas roast, but any holiday or bank holiday making into an intimate family occasion. Always telling stories, always offering a listening ear, always correcting when someone or something was wrong. As I got older, coming to London the next day when I said I was feeling homesick, making sure you save certain dinners for when I visit because you knew how much I liked them, coming and cheering at my graduation. When I came home after a difficult situation, you dropped everything to simply hold me. To put it simply, you just always showed up. This is what makes your sudden exit so inexplicably difficult and impossible to cope with.

Why can’t you show up anymore? Of course, I know why. But the consequence of you being the mum who stopped at nothing and sacrificed so much to show up for your family, does make this grief more overwhelming. There was nothing you could do about it either – you didn’t change, we didn’t fall out, you didn’t suddenly stop caring – you just couldn’t give us your presence anymore. People have told me about the essence of spiritual presence and I am well aware of the power and comfort one can pull from that. Yes, you are with me everywhere I go. I read the famous words of Clare Harner at your funeral which carries this message, and every time I look up and see clear blue skies and sunlight, I think of you. I was fortunate to be offered a promotion the day after your birthday, maybe you had something to do with it. This spiritual presence does and will continue to bring me some comfort, but it doesn’t change anything. This grief is so all consuming because of how all-encompassing your love was for your family and your determination to always show up.

I can’t begin to describe how much you would have loved the show Big Boys. Maybe you would have found some of the scenes a bit crude, but you would have laughed, you would have smiled and you would have wept. The final episode (spoiler) includes a heart-breaking scene where creator of the show Jack Rooke talks to his friend Danny in an imaginary sequence after the latter’s death.

I just want you to know, that after all this time that you’re still so present. It’s all the everyday stuff really… and I know somewhere, you’ll be cringing at all the earnest, oversharey sincerity of all this, but I just really miss you

I know you would feel smitten at the words that I have said about you, but you’d hate the publicity of all of the praise and love being on your shoulders. But Mum, you are and always will be present. I hate how you are going to miss out on however my life is going to work out. Within that monologue, Rooke mentions how it is little things like the price of a Tesco meal deal. Whenever I see some new scandal that Prince Andrew has found himself in, I think of you and how you would be eviscerating him. Everyday, your absence is felt, but it is also felt in the big moments as well. There are several milestones and events that you now won’t get to attend and it breaks my heart every day. However, please just know that what you have left behind, in me, is a purpose and a drive to tell your story and to use you as the hallmark for what genuine care and sacrifice look like. They say people die when no one speaks of them anymore, if that’s the case then it truly is my mission to ensure you live on for as long as possible.

A letter to you, about you, and your presence.

Chloe’s story