100 days of grief

Mum and I eight years ago taking a breather after eating a boatload of street food at Broadway Market. She was always the most stylish of women, and could pull off literally any hairstyle.

The dream I had about mum began with the two of us sitting amongst a group of hazy faces at an elaborate Chinese restaurant. Sucking in my stomach desperately attempting delicacy with my chopsticks, I watched her: she was gently admonishing the manager for bullying a younger server. Typical mum behaviour. She suffered no fools, was endlessly kind, and often found herself lending her strength to others in times of need.

I blinked, and the the scene shifted. We were side by side on a bench waiting – for what, I couldn't say. Her face was so clear. She always had incredible skin and style and I remember feeling grateful I could witness her in sharp definition. I turned to her and said,

"Mum, I love you."

She responds, "Aiya, no need to say lah. I know."

I reply "I just wanted to be able to tell you while I still can."

I gently woke up next to my sleeping husband, pillow already stained with tears. Not wanting to rouse him, I gingerly hopped down from the bed to splash my face with water. We were spending a few days in a cabin in Hertfordshire, locking our phones away doing a digital detox and running away from the noise of the world. For a while I worried I wasn't crying enough, so the grief had a dash of relief: oh, this is what I should be feeling.

Alas my attempt at not disturbing Nick was interrupted by a sob I could barely stifle, so he groggily woke up to a very weepy wife. With a look of sympathy and alarm he then wrapped me up in a big hug.

Mum left us just over 100 days ago. A few weeks after the cabin, my immediate family (dad Kenny, sister Christine, cousin Yvonne) commemorated the milestone by arranging a small gathering of close friends and family at the central Kuala Lumpur columbarium where she's been laid to rest. Bleary-eyed I Facetimed-in to the proceedings at 2am local time, bowing to murmured Buddhist prayers, watching people who loved mum as I did, but differently, paying their deepest respects.

It's a strange experience, being so physically far away from where your broken heart resides.

The disassociation was the closest I'd ever been to astral projecting. I could see myself floating on the ceiling like a barely tethered spirit, a voyeur to my own life. Small talk with colleagues in the elevator, walking my neighbour's dog, sitting on a train with a tinny on the way to a friend's summer barbecue. When I did feel my body, it was riddled with chronic aches, tension in my lower back, neck, arms, skull no massage could fix.

My bereavement counsellor's name is Pauline. She is a woman with kind eyes and a softly concerned face. We meet most weeks now on a Monday morning over Zoom, and our sessions have covered an exhaustive map of my emotional spectrum. I've been talking to Pauline about the latest way I've been kicking myself recently.

How worried I am that the over three years of anticipatory grief before mum passed might have led to my friends frayed patience with my lack of reciprocity, (Have zero evidence of this to be clear – they've been nothing short of amazing.) How selfish I've been about the "me me me" of my own grief. How spaced out I was, and the ongoing physical pain. How I should be this or should feel that, and how I absolutely should be crying more, isn't it weird I'm not crying more?

"The thing is, mum's opinion was the one I cared about the most. It still is. I think about all the ways I wanted to make her and dad proud, and all the ways I disappointed her. It kills me that she can never tell me she's proud of me ever again."

The floodgates opened. Pauline gave me space to grieve and let it all out and boy, did I. Unfortunately for those closest to me and the various therapists through the years, I am not a pretty crier. At the end of the session I laughed and thanked her for getting me to my ideal emotional snotty destination.

Feeling this way about mum feels more like a gift than it does a curse. I have had the privilege of loving her and being loved by her for 31 years, and will continue doing so for as long as I live. Just need new places to put the love I still have – so, thank you, dear reader, for doing me the honour of receiving it on her behalf in this piece today.