My Mother has passed away: dealing with grief and death as an expat

My sister always told me she would tell me if it was time to come, and I knew and trusted that she would. So when her words said that Mammy was very weak and this would either be the new norm or the final days, I knew it was time to come. I have lived away all my life. From that day 40 years ago that I went to university, I’ve never really lived at home, but home it always will be, for it is family that binds us and draws us together in a way that surpasses words and all else.

My father died suddenly 19 years ago when I was working in England. My mother and sister had cared for him through illness, but his death was still a shock. He was an inspiration in my life, a force of greatness that I revered, admired and loved: a gentleman and a gentle man who was respected and loved by all who knew him. Getting that call from my sister and traveling home that day was one of the longest journeys of my life. Yet the passing of my mother last week was something very different; it was gut-wrenching, raw and visceral and at the same time, numbing and surreal. Its acceptance likely to be many months ahead and for certain, not in the here and the now. ?

My mother was a humble and easy person but a great and powerful woman; driven by a passion for the care of others in our community and her love of her family and her faith, she was a tour-de-force and a completeness of all that we are as a result. She was never meant to leave us. She was always the constant that bound us together. Three daughters, measured by her graciousness and her humility alongside her incredible fortitude and ferocity, we were her pride and joy alongside six grandchildren who she loved without exception. She was absolutely the matriarch and role model of our family and we loved her dearly.? So her death, despite its possibility, was still a shock and a moment shrouded in a feeling of the most unacceptable .

To be an expat is both exciting and exhilarating, but the downside is that it takes you away, not just in literal miles, but in connectivity and day to day life. My mothers last months were difficult and my sister held the fort, taking care of her in a way that I am sure I never could. But I never loved her less than my sisters who were at home with her. In fact, I loved her even more, for she enabled me and encouraged me to be the person I am today despite the cost that it was to us both. I know without doubt that she was proud of the woman that I am today. Whilst the easy definition would say that I am my fathers daughter, forthright, intuitive, an orator and leader, those with a greater depth of understanding would say that I grew even stronger in my mothers image as a woman who is compassionate, empathetic and considerate of others. I guess I got the best of them both.

Taking my mother home to sit with her for over 48 hours in an open coffin will seem obtuse to others, but to me, it signifies a final meeting point on a journey of life. An Irish wake is a coming of age. It allows us to grieve in a visible way that brings family and community together to celebrate and to mourn. We share a love and a life, we share stories and memories and we start on a road of acceptance that our loved one is no longer with us. Over cups of tea and a copious amount of sandwiches and food, local hotels, hostelries and friends from our town bring and send food to our house to feed the 100’s who come to give their condolences over those days. They expect nothing in return, which in today’s society seems almost unimaginable, but it is a kindness that will sometime be repaid in the future when they need our love and our friendship and we as a family promise that we will rise to that challenge.

There is a solemnity that is hard to describe as you sit vigil in your home over the open coffin of your mother. The sleepless nights and mournful days tear at your very soul when it is at its lowest ebb. It is a solemnity that encases and envelopes a formidable tangible grief which nurtures the soul and prepares it for the final parting that is inevitable. It is a final farewell that is incomprehensible and therapeutic all at the same time; a cluster of emotion that is both brutal and guttural. It is a privilege that is a tradition and a tribute to those who have gone before us. It is a right of passage that we all dread, but an Irish way that screams of love and duty and honour.

The closing of the coffin is of course a brutal inevitable necessity, and one that the undertaker shrouds in dignity. Into that coffin we place items that are both personal to us and to her, a ritual that might seem irrational to some and inconsequential to others, but one that gives us solace and adds a tangible normalcy to the absurd; the very notion that she is really gone.

You see, I have spent my whole life saying goodbye to her. Chipping away, several times a year when I left for the airport and boarded that flight for the last 35 years, I said goodbye never knowing if she would be there when I came back. And today as I leave, it’s just another goodbye. Except this time, when I return, she won’t be there. She won’t call me to make sure I am home safe and sound. I won’t be able to call her to tell her I am home and that all is okay. She won’t say “God bless” and I won’t say that I will speak to her soon. I won’t hear her voice and feel her warmth across those miles, and “home” will take on a whole new meaning without her.

I know that she is gone, but its acceptance is a million miles away. I was privileged to have sat by her side and to have held her hand as she took her last breath, counting the minutes, counting the seconds. I entrust her to the God that she revered and prayed to every day and most of all, I wish her peace in the knowledge that she is at the right hand of God reunited with my father.

The hundreds who came to pay their respects repeatedly said that she was “the end of an era”. She was an icon and a leader in our community; a part of the history of our town; a formidable woman in her service of others; an adventurer on our doorstep; a thinker, ahead of her times both emotionally and philosophically; but most of all, she was our mammy, our mother, a granny and our one and only. The pain of her loss is a physical pain unlike any other, but that grief is the price we pay for loving as intensely as we do. And so to my mammy, I say farewell. Slan. Aloha. Adios. Its not goodbye and it’s not goodbye forever. It just can’t be. For someday we will meet again in a life after this one. And as she would say, “See you tomorrow, please God”. x

#berevement #expatlife #livingabroad

#loss

#deathofalovedone

#expat

COBIS - Council of British International Schools

BSME - British Schools in the Middle East

WhichSchoolAdvisor.com

Hartland International School