The Kiss Goodbye

“One night while I was sleeping, upon a feather bed,

An angel came from Heaven, to tell me Mum was dead.

I woke up in the morning, to see if it was true,

Yes, my Mum went to Heaven, above the sky so blue.

So, if you love your Mummy, please do as you are told,

Because if you lose your Mummy, you lose a heart of gold.”

(The lullaby my Mum sang to me as a child).

I always knew that my Mother’s addiction to alcohol would be responsible for her death. It was fated; some would say it was written. I remember going to a Doctor’s appointment with her when I was 14. It was during that appointment that Dr Longhorn prophesized her end: “if you don’t stop drinking now Jackie, it will kill you; your liver is scarred and at the rate you’re going, you’ll be dead in 10 years.”

Exactly 10 years later, on the 27th of April 2010, she died. I was 24 years old.    

From a very young age, I realised that my mum wasn’t comfortable in her skin and so she turned to the drink to drown out the ‘voices’ that constantly tortured and tormented her mind and soul.

She suffered from schizophrenia, manic depression, severe agoraphobia, panic and anxiety disorder, and alcoholism. Her way of coping with her panic attacks was a two-fold process: she’d either hide from the world entirely, never venturing out of her flat, thus eradicating the possibility or, if she had to go out, she’d conquer her demons with the Dutch courage that the litres of white cider and handfuls of Valium gave her.

The most haunting memory I have of my Mum’s illness is this: she spent the last eight years of her life trapped inside her flat, deceiving herself with the safety she attached to the words ‘comfort zone’. She sat there, in the same place, in the same chair, day after day, watching the world revolve around her through the same windowpane.

Eight times she watched the winter months strip the pastel pink blossom from the cherry tree that grew outside. Eight times she watched the lukewarm rays of the awakening sun thaw the sheets of ice that clung to its barren branches. Eight times she watched the long-awaited shades of spring, the emeralds, jades, and greens she loved, appear in kaleidoscopic flashes. Eight times she watched the summer sun shower the landscape and then she watched eight autumns pass by in their solemn, funeral-like processions. And the only companion she had was the white cider that was killing her.

Her anxiety trapped her. Her fears paralyzed her. She was a prisoner of her mind. Her soul was bound by the shackles of her addiction. It stripped the life from her until one day she simply faded away like one of the many seasons she used to watch.

It was the 27th of April 2010. I woke up to a beautiful day. The sun shone through my window; the reflected rays bounced off my mirror showering the room with glittering light. I got up and called my Mum. I wanted to tell her to put the kettle on and that I’d be there in an hour but there was no answer. She must still be asleep. It was only 9.30 am. She never had to get up early as she very rarely went anywhere and besides, sleep was the only time she could be at peace so I decided to let her rest for a little longer and get myself ready.

I jumped in the shower and tried to ignore the feeling that something wasn’t right. By the time I had finished getting ready it was nearly 11 am. Surely, she’d be up by now. Her body would be crying out for the alcohol it so desperately needed for the shaking, sweating, and vomiting to stop. I picked up the phone and found her number, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to press the call button so I sent her a text instead “put the kettle on, I’m on my way!” I waited nervously for a response. All the while the ticking of the clock was getting louder and louder until it was booming like a drum.

I couldn’t take it any longer.

I grabbed my bag and made my way out of the house. Ian, her ex-partner, worked in the Tesco Express at the end of my road. Even though they hadn’t been a couple for a good 5 years, they were still very close, so I popped into the shop to see him. “Have you heard from Mum today?” It was another dead end. He hadn’t heard from her since yesterday morning. “She’s not answering her phone or replying to my texts,”. He tried calling her but there was still no answer. “Why isn’t she answering? What’s going on?”. “She’s probably still asleep Lorn,” My mind agreed with his theory; yes, she’s still asleep… but my gut instincts didn’t agree.

When I look back on that day, the truth is, that deep down, I knew she was gone from the moment she didn’t answer my calls or respond to my texts. I just wasn’t prepared to believe it and so I let my mind grasp at straws and come up with a thousand and one reasons as to why she wasn’t answering, but realistically, no matter how much I wanted to believe them, I knew why… I could feel it…

It took me just under half an hour to walk to hers and with every step and every failed attempt to get through to her, the worry and panic worsened. Finally, I arrived at her block of flats. I shouted up at her window “Mum, open the door”. I ran up the two flights of concrete stairs, but instead of being greeted by her blue door with the silver number ‘16’ on it, I was greeted by a single solid board of wood. The alarm bells that I’d been trying to suppress now began to ring at a volume I could no longer ignore. What had happened here? Where was she? I tried calling her again, hoping to hear her ringtone come from the other side of the barricade. But it didn’t. I shouted for her again even though it was obvious she wasn’t there. But where else could she be? Her agoraphobia never let her go out.

In hindsight, when I saw the door, it confirmed what that part of me already knew… she was gone: but I still wouldn’t acknowledge it. I refused too.

I told myself that welsh Zara must’ve kicked her door down looking for me. The deranged woman had this crazy notion that I’d stolen her bike. Yes, I had a criminal record for theft and shoplifting, and yes, the whole estate knew about it, but no, I never stole her bike. She’d text me a few days earlier saying if I didn’t bring it back, she’d come to find me and give me a good hiding. She wouldn’t listen to me when I told her I didn’t have it. I knew who did: I told her as much, but the woman was deluded, from the sleep deprivation that comes with taking base 24/7.

That was the story I told myself. That was the lie that gave me the comfort I needed. Zara had come looking for me and smashed the door down and my Mum, scared and anxious, must’ve got her friend Mark to pick her up and take her to his. I didn’t have his number though so I couldn’t call him and although I’d been to his place a few times before, I didn’t know how to get there. As I walked back down the stairs, I knocked on Georgie and Tyler’s door to see if they knew anything, but they didn’t answer.

I began to walk back to mine. My head and heart arguing every inch of the way. I went back into Tesco’s and told Ian about the door, “Have you heard from her yet?” The answer was the same as before. I asked him to call Mark, but he didn’t have his number either. “I’ll go round after I finish my shift,” he said. Stressed and frustrated I bought 4 cans of Stella and hid them in my bag.

I lived in supported housing and wasn’t allowed to drink or take drugs. I was tested every week. Alcohol only takes 48 hours to come out of your system and because I’d given a negative test the day before I knew I could get away with having a drink today.

All the while the sun continued to shine in the azure pastures above.

When I got to the top of my street, I saw a police car parked on the other side of the road. I had a horrible, sinking, gut-wrenching feeling, but I continued to ignore it, telling myself that I was worrying over nothing. I’d not committed any crimes for over a month now so it couldn’t be for me. I picked up the pace. I wanted, no, I needed a drink. My nerves were shot, and I didn’t like the feeling I had.

All I could do was wait for Ian to finish his shift at 4 pm and find out if she was at Mark’s. I made my way to my room, holding my bag on the opposite shoulder, shielding it from the camera. As soon as I closed my door, I cracked open a can. Then I put some music on – ‘Nas, Surviving the Times’ – I needed a distraction. I lost myself for a moment in the rhythm of the song. I called my best friend Libby and told her what was going on. She was shopping but said she’d come and see me after. As I looked out of my window, I thought I saw her car parked a few houses down, but it couldn’t be hers: she’d just told me she was doing her weekly shop at Asda on the other side of town.

I was getting increasingly frustrated, so I did what I always did when I didn’t like the way I felt; I carried on drinking and I turned my music up loud. I downed the first can and opened the second. I knocked it back quickly. Then I started on the 3rd. I’d been back for over an hour now and I still hadn’t heard from Mum. The cop car was still there too. I called Lib again, but now she wasn’t answering!

The alcohol was starting to work, I felt a little better. It helped me to believe the lies my head told my heart and ignore my gut instincts. It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the skies were blue, all was still, the air was warm. I wanted to go to the park. I wanted to sit in the sun. I wanted to drink more alcohol and more than anything I wanted to smoke a spliff. Yes, that would show up in my next test but at that moment I didn’t care. It was only a bit of weed. At least it wasn’t heroin or crack or base or cocaine. “Why is everyone ignoring my calls today?” I thought as a flash of anger rushed through me. I opened my last can and took a long swig. I wanted it to continue numbing the ominous feeling that emanated from my gut.

I was halfway through the last can when there was a knock at my door. Damn it! “One minute” I replied. I tipped the rest of the can down the toilet as quickly as I could before stuffing it in my bag with the other empty ones. If I got caught drinking, I’d be thrown out. I grabbed the chewing gum and put two in my mouth before answering. It was my support worker, but she wasn’t alone. Libby was with her too.

“Just in time,” I said to Lib, “I’m bored out of my brains!” She just looked at me with genuine concern, “What’s going on?” I asked. By the sombre look on both of their faces I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Then my support worker voiced the dreaded phrase that no one wants to hear, “Take a seat, Lorna, we have something to tell you”.

I knew what they were going to say but I was still in denial, I was still deceiving myself. I remember thinking that told they’d seen the cans in my bag when I got in. They’d called Lib because she was my emergency contact. I was getting evicted. I didn’t want to sit down so I asked her to get on with it and tell me what was happening. She looked at Lib who said, “I’ll tell her”. My support worker nodded. She came over to me, took both my hands in hers and said, “I’m so so sorry Lorn, I really am babe, but I need to tell you something… it’s about your Mum… she passed away last night”.

I was stunned. I felt sick. The room started spinning. The ground beneath my feet began to melt. My legs started shaking, struggling to hold me up.

“No, she didn’t,” I said. Lib’s soft yet deep brown eyes were filling with tears. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. My gut had been right from the start. My Mum was gone.

My whole world suddenly shattered; I think I fell to my knees. My heart, like a glass mirror, shattered into a thousand shards. Lib hugged me tightly, it was like she was trying to hold me together before I broke into a million tiny pieces. “No, no, no” I sobbed, “I can’t lose my Mum… I need her…”

My support worker spoke softly, offering her deepest condolences, before informing me that a policeman was waiting to talk to me. She disappeared for a minute before reappearing with him. Why did he want to speak to me I wondered? I soon found out. Someone had to identify the body. “I want to see my Mum,” I said through floods of tears, “please… please take me to see my Mum”.

When I look back on that day, the next few hours are a blur, with only a few moments of clarity. Libby came with me. I was (and always will be) grateful for her support. We both got into the back of the police car, ironically, it was the first time I’d ever done so willingly. Then we made our way to the public and forensic mortuary at Flax Bourton.

As we drove through the winding country roads lined with hedgerows and punctuated with oak and silver birch trees, the realization dawned on me that I needed to inform the rest of my family. With shaking hands, I scrolled through my contacts list until I found my Granny’s number. As the phone began to ring, I tried to compose myself. It was the hardest phone call I’ve ever had to make.

My thoughts were interrupted as her soft, yet strong Scottish accent said “Hello”. I took a deep breath. “Hi, Granny. There’s no easy way to say this but Mum passed away last night”. The line went silent. It felt like an eternity passed before she replied. “But I spoke to her last night and she sounded fine”. I could hear the shock and disbelief in her voice and my heart broke again but this time it was for her. I can’t remember the rest of the conversation but when the call ended, I began to cry once more. I still had to tell my little brother. And Ian too.

I was still in shock when we arrived at the mortuary. I needed to prepare myself so I asked the officer if I could have 10 minutes before going in: “Of course you can” he said kindly. There I stood, the sun burning brightly in the strikingly blue abyss; wisps of whispering clouds wandering aimlessly across it. Beams of sunshine raining down on me. I could hear birds calling out to one another and the soporific song of the brook. Frozen in the moment, my mind absorbed as much of its surroundings as it could. I didn’t want to forget a single thing. I was forever changed.

A strangely comforting breeze embraced me. It felt silky soft as it wrapped its arms around me before gently wiping away the tears that were falling down my cheeks. There was something different about this breeze; indescribably different; it was unlike any other I had felt or would ever feel again. It was comforting. A robin hopped down from a branch, landing on the ground just a few feet away from me. I felt like it was trying to get my attention. I remember thinking that it was a sign from my Mum.

I took a long, slow, and deep breath, inhaling the fresh scents of Spring. A single silent moment. Bursting with quiet. Unnervingly calm. I exhaled softly. It would be a perfect day for millions of others but for me, it was the day my world crumbled. Lost in a nightmare I inhaled deeply once more. The air flowed into my lungs and soothed my soul as it enveloped me in its ethereal arms. It was all so surreal.

Laying on a bed no more than 20 metres behind me inside the respectfully built red-bricked building was my Mother’s body, waiting to be identified, in a picturesque area amid blankets of green. Three or four polished benches lined the chuckling brook that lazily meandered along the borders of the mortuary. Each one had a golden plaque engraved with the name of a lost loved one.

I sat down on the nearest one and with trembling hands, I pulled my cigarette packet out and proceeded to light one up. As the smoke circulated my lungs, my attention drifted to the trees. They were thin and spindly with corroding off-white bark. It reminded me of the cherry blossom tree that grew outside of my Mum’s flat. It still hadn’t begun to flower.

Only a few days ago, mum and I had sat in her living room, holding our freshly brewed cuppas in our hands, while the grumbles of the gas fire waking from its slumber, provided some ambience. We opened the blinds eagerly, hoping to see the cherry blossom tree show some signs of life. But the buds were still closed, and it was May. It was an oddity that baffled us both. The meaning alluded us. In hindsight, its meaning (to me at least) is clear. Its refusal to bloom was an omen. A sign. It was as if it knew the loss that was to come and was grieving in its own way.

The officer approached me, his voice awaking me from my daydream, pulling me back to a reality I didn’t want to face. Meaningless words drifted past me. Lib and I got up and slowly followed him into the building. As he guided me to the room my mind started to play tricks on me again, giving me false hope. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. Maybe it was someone else.” I wanted to believe it but the logic in me wouldn’t allow it.

The officer spoke again, “Are you ready?” I said yes even though I was far from it. I walked into the designated room and there she was. “Is this your Mum? Is this Jacqueline Allan?” I nodded my head. Tears streamed down my face. “Please can I have some time alone with her?” I asked. The door closed behind me leaving us alone.

I sat next to her and held her hand. I kissed her cheek, stroked her hair, and told her how much I loved her and how sorry I was for causing her so much stress and worry. I don’t know how much time passed before the door reopened. “Lorna, it’s time to go now”. I didn’t want to leave her. I didn’t want to let go of her hand. Lib gently touched my shoulder. “Come on hun,” she said, “we have to go”. As I looked at my Mum one last time, I noticed that she looked as if she was smiling. She looked as if she was finally at peace.

As I stepped out into the sunshine, I had this overwhelming feeling that this was what she wanted. She was finally free from the physical and psychological pain she had been living with for so many years. She wanted me to know that she was ok, and she’d been trying to communicate with me all day, through the weather, through the breeze, and through the robin. I looked up into the sky and smiled.

Goodbye Mum

Until we meet again.

Written by Lorna M Allan, 2012.