Dear Mum – A letter to my mum

Dear Mum

3 July 1996.

The day we said our final goodbye to you when the disease that had gripped you for so long took you away to, what I hoped, was a happier place for you.

We sat beside your hospital bed when the doctors removed the tubes and unhooked the machines that were keeping you alive, wishing that things could have been different but knowing it was time to let you go. We were heartbroken, but, at the same time, relieved because you no longer had to suffer the intense sadness that had consumed you, and that you had tried so hard to overcome.

Life had become too painful for you, and you couldn’t do it anymore. Your heart could no longer take the battering that alcohol had given it and at the age of 51, you were gone.

For 13 years, we watched, feeling helpless and lonely, as you, our free spirited, kind-hearted, hot tempered, hardworking and loving Mum slipped into depression and alcohol addiction.

It started slowly. Dad left and you tried so hard to put on a brave face, but I would hear you sobbing in the night, when I couldn’t sleep, always pretending you were fine the next day.

But I could see you were struggling. You lost weight, became ill and depressed, and lost the job you loved and were so good at. You moved quickly through jobs, cleaning, housekeeping and working in pubs. You worked long hours, so we often had to fend for ourselves, until your drinking got so bad that you couldn’t work at all.

Your large circle of friends gradually disappeared, as your personality changed, with only a few sticking around, doing their best to support and understand you in your ever shrinking world. There were glimmers of the old you, but they became few and far between as you sank further into addiction.

Many times, over those years, we begged you to stop drinking and to get professional help. And a few times, you did, with a hospital stay and a couple of residentials. The sense of relief was huge. I saw light at the end of what had been a long, gloomy and scary tunnel and I clung on to a wish to have our Mum back from this awful disease.

But these times were short lived, and the desperate, misplaced hope faded as we saw you slip back into drinking heavily again. I questioned why I wasn’t enough to give you the strength you needed to overcome your addiction.

I wished more than anything in the world to have you back and better. We needed you to be our Mum and not the other way round.

The call I received at work from Colin to tell me you’d been taken into hospital is still clear in my mind. He did his best to protect me from the news, but I knew it was bad. That this was it. The day we dreaded and knew would come but just didn’t know when.

It’s hard to believe that we have spent 30 years living without you. Missing you and thinking about you every day. How it hurts so much to think of the things that you could have been a part of and shared with us, if you’d have stayed well.

You never got to see us get married or to meet your 4 lovely grandchildren, all now grown up, never to spend time with their fun, feisty grandma (or would you have been nanna?). You would have loved them all.

Despite your illness and addiction, there were good and fun times with you. The camping trips, and the day trips out, air shows, long walks and the bike rides as a family. I remember how it took us ages to get anywhere walking. You’d bump into friends and chat, because you knew so many people, everybody warmed to your friendly, open nature.

You gave us a good start in life, guided us, and instilled in us the importance of kindness, understanding and hard work and I like to think that lives on through us and in your grandchildren

My wish to have you better never came, but my wish for you, is for you to know that we are OK.

There have been bumps along the way, but we are doing well and are happy. I just wish you were here to see it.

I’m running this marathon for you Mum. The determination and resilience I gained from trying to support you through your illness and living through those dark, testing times, will get me round.

I will think of you and the better times we had with the caring, generous, quirky you. How I’d love to share a cuppa and a good chat with you at the end; we have so much to catch up on.

Alison

Alison is running the London Marathon on Sunday 26 April in aid of Nacoa. Find out more and donate on JustGiving.

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