Day 2,279 in the Nanny June Care Home

The One Where My Head Unravelled A Bit

Having a head full of life stuff is manageable because, to be honest - my daily reflective thinking time is minimal; getting up at 6am or 7am most mornings and by the time my day finishes at 10pm, after working and parenting and dog walking and managing the house and the meal planning, cooking etc. … most nights I fall asleep with the children as soon as I cuddle up to them to say goodnight.

But I went on holiday this week.

Only to a caravan, nothing exotic.

And while most of my life duties continue this time there was inconvenient space for thoughts.

Big.

Bad.

Nasty.

Thoughts.

Nanny June is going to die.

Before that she will reach a miserable and hope destroying point where death will be a release.

My mind got chance to go down not just this rabbit hole but great warrens of death related doom. And because I am on holiday and wasn’t so tired, my brain unfortunately scheduled this activity for a couple of 3am sessions.

Then today, while one of my beautiful daughters was explaining in great detail her design for (I think) a hydro powered karaoke machine - all I could do was stare at her. Drinking in her sparkly enthusiasm at her own imagination. Her incredible and unique finite life force. We were outside, on a restaurant terrace, the sun shining. Her hair wet from the outside pool, her skin coloured from the sun, her belly full of ice cream.

And then out of nowhere I thought:

“My mum is dying.

My mum.

Is dying.

And with it will it come cataclysmic loss. I will be motherless. She will be gone physically.

A great abyss of grief will follow. Then when life recalibrates I am going to be ‘the mum’.

But then one day I will die.

I will die and leave this beautiful child, because I know she will always be my child. I will die and she will have to face the cataclysmic loss. The great abyss of grief. When she is so innocent and beautiful and doesn’t deserve any hurt or pain. I brought her into the world and when I leave it I will be leaving her too. And her siblings. Who will all live this death experience. And then one day.. because the cycle of life and death is utterly and brutally relentless… I can’t finish that thought because it makes me nauseous.

“Mummy!! You’re not listening! The machine!! It has a microphone actually IN the speaker”.

I am almost physically sick and the tears are sliding down my face.

“Amazing! Lovely girl that’s amazing. I love you.”

“Love you too mummy. Are you looking now?”

And there are no words to explain this moment. But it’s beautiful and painful and ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

But it's all finite.

Breathe. Everything is okay. Everything will be okay. Because there is more to life than this - we are part of a beautiful and incredible existence literally a part of time and space. That includes loss and pain, because the balance to that is birth and joy. And nothing can stagnate, it all has to keep moving - living and breathing and birthing and keeping the momentum going.

So this is me. Keeping (the momentum) going.