Please, no more euphemisms. My mother died | GoodWeekendMag
I have come to dread these five words. Partly because of what they signify – that
I never say anything. I feel bad that it makes me feel bad. Some of my loveliest friends say it, and their equally lovely children, and I recognise with immense gratitude that it is spoken with nothing but kindness and care.I understand, too, the human instinct to avoid speaking directly of death, the superstitious compulsion to smooth over and skitter around its dreadful and inescapable void, even if you believe in an afterlife.
My mother hasn’t passed, or passed on, or gone to a better place. She is not lost; we know exactly where she is. Under a camellia bush.The Magic Faraway Tree, then helping with homework. He was 10 and she 78 when she first got cancer, two years ago; recovery was slow but she seemed to be improving. None of us had the slightest notion she would die so suddenly, when a different cancer stormed in from left field, taking her out within a week.
So she hasn’t passed, or passed on, or gone to a better place. She is not lost; we know exactly where she is. Under a camellia bush at the house she and Dad built and shared for more than 50 of their 60 years together. Where my sister and I grew up, and my son as a toddler drove his scooter madly up and down the hallway. Her ashes have joined those of her parents, scattered in the same spot.“I’m sorry for your loss.” I wince because I feel my mother wincing, too.
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