My husband asked me if it helps me writing about my mum. Yes and no. Maybe. I don’t know.

It’s been over five weeks since she left. Yes, that long already. It feels a lot longer to me. I’m ok and I’m not. I’m in a state of flux. I go about doing the daily stuff. I go for dinners with my husband. Walk. Watch TV. Read. Write. Sleep, not so much. Catch up on administrative blahs and other things that I have not bothered with for many years. We even went away for two nights to the East Coast. It was nice but I felt/feel sad. Not always. The sadness comes in waves. An underlying emotion that’s just there. I think it’s normal to feel sad. I love and miss my mum. She’s been a constant in my life. And, now she’s not.

There’s no moratorium on how long I should/can feel sad or be tearful or not. Actually, I think it’s wonderful that my mum is so loved and missed. It’s also very nice that I think of her as often as I do. It’s ok to miss her and feel sad. It’s also ok to be tearful. There’s nothing wrong in crying. I have a reservoir of tears just sitting on the ledge of my eyes. Waiting to spill out or trickle down. I try to hold them in as much as possible, don’t want to be conspicuous. That too is ok. 

I’m kind of waiting for my mum. I know she has passed. I know she was already at a stage that was very hard for her. My mum could not have coped much longer. I understand and accept all that. What choice was/is there?  What I meant by waiting was for a sign of some kind. Many years ago, when I was in university, my mum said she had dispatched  ‘pake chittes’ or tiny sparrows (the closest English translation I have) to let me know she was thinking about me, and watching over me. Every time I hear the tweets of ‘pake chittes’, even now, I’m reminded of my mum. That kind of a sign.

On the day my mum passed, nephew number 2 experienced an extraordinarily beautiful autumn-like day during a walk with his family in Australia. At home, nephew number 4 and niece number 5 felt uneasy that very morning, and sensed something was amiss. Me, nothing. My husband and I did a pony ride at the Terelj National Park in Mongolia. I kept saying ‘giddy up’ to the pony, which was what I said to my mum when we walked to and from her designated route in the condominium.

I wanted to relate my day’s experiences to her on Sunday evening. I had only just spoken to her on Saturday night when I updated her on the things we had done, and the food we had eaten. Thankfully, she heard me clearly. Phone conversations can sometimes be difficult due to my mum’s lack of hearing. She sounded happy. And, she reassured me that she was fine, and well-cared for by sister number 3. There was no sign of an impending doom. At least not to me.

As an aside, my mum was always interested and curious about food. Not because she was a big eater, she wasn’t. Her signature opening salvo was, ‘Have you eaten?’ Back when I was working, she’d ask me what food was served when I returned home from meetings. She did the same with my husband. For most of her life, my mum cooked, baked, and fed the family. It was her way of showing us she cared and loved us. But, for some reason she found it almost impossible to be vocally expressive or tactile despite being hugged, kissed and constantly told she was loved. Sister number 3 and I still laugh over her response to ‘I love you Ma’ which was ‘Thank you’ or ‘Thank you very much’. Hmm.

Back to waiting for a sign. Nephew number 2 has read/researched a fair bit about near-death experiences and after-life assumptions. He said loved ones, who have passed, may communicate with us in subtle ways. The common means being dreams and electrical objects. He also said reports indicated that some 10% of people who survived clinical death have had profound experiences of euphoria and powerful love – ‘on the other side’. Maybe, heaven. Not sure. Never mind. I like the image of a blissful place where my mum is safe, cared for and enfolded in love. Yay.

It would be great to receive a sign. Anything to connect with my mum. But, I’ve to admit I’m pretty dense like that. I don’t feel or see anything. I sit on her blue sofa every day. I speak to her every day. Nothing. Nada. Still, I’m hopeful. Fingers crossed.