What a year! I began it thinking about my age – the last year of my thirties - and as such, how I ought to be making the most of it so as not to have a midlife crisis at the start of the next. But, the universe and other unknown forces had alternative plans for me, consorting to make 2020 one giant ongoing crisis. A global pandemic would have sufficed but on top of that I was thrown the loss of my mum.
Admittedly, I was worried about her as the year began, but not so worried that I envisioned myself ending the year visiting her grave. The crisis began in earnest in April, at the height of the first wave of Covid19, when she ended up in hospital with breathing difficulties. We were unable to visit due to the restrictions and she ended up spending a week there, alone, getting the news (alone) that she had an advanced lung cancer. Over the weeks that followed, it was especially difficult to process the news, because, having been terrified by her consultant and told to shield, we couldn’t go into my parent’s house. The conversations we needed to have were far harder for being yelled twenty feet through barely open windows. There were times during those weeks I didn’t know what to do with myself and at those times, I picked up a pen. I wrote down the things I couldn’t say. I wasn’t sure if I would ever show anyone those pieces or even if they had literary merit, I just needed to write them. Later, after many more things had happened, I felt brave enough to send them out into the world. One is up-coming in Sidereal Magazine (‘1 in 10’) and another found a home in www.ellipsiszine.com/eight/ (‘Another Crossword’). Eventually, at the start of July, needs became such that I was finally able to cross the threshold. It wasn’t anyone’s intention for me to stay but when it came to leaving, I couldn’t. Both of my parents needed me and I knew by now that we were on borrowed time. There was nowhere else I could have been. So, for nine weeks, I didn’t live with my husband and my boys and I became a full-time, round the clock carer for my mum. That’s not something that is ever in anyone’s plan and is not something I necessarily thought I was capable of, but it turned out to be a privilege and something I would absolutely do again tomorrow if needed. When I turned up with my suitcase, I also dragged along my laptop and notebooks. Initially, this was naïve. Caring was a full-time, not really ever sitting down kind of pursuit. And when I did sit, my mum needed my full attention. Sometimes I read to her, and I did read some of my own stories (though I filtered them for darkness as, it turned out, I had somewhat of a leaning towards a sinister or disturbing tale and they wouldn’t provide the uplifting distraction we required.) Inevitably though, she began to sleep more. Generally, I didn’t want to leave her side, even when she was asleep, so I’d frequently sit beside her, writing micros or flash for competitions. I found that having a prompt took away some of the mental load for me, making it easier to get pen to paper. One such piece – ‘A Woman’s Guide To Breaking The Glass Ceiling’ – is upcoming with Storgy over the festive period. I also wrote the odd piece of CNF but I found that more difficult while actually at my parent’s. I think when I was there I was in an efficient survival mode. That didn’t allow for too much exploration of my emotions – that would happen much later when I eventually came home. And there was something about sitting beside my mum, writing about my experience of caring for her that felt weirdly disloyal. I made an exception for one piece though, about my relationship with their garden, as, alongside the writing, being out there for little breaks throughout the day was a huge factor in maintaining my sanity and calm. That piece is currently out on submission but I really want it to find a good home. It’s strange how some pieces are more important to you than others – like you may have actually sent out a chunk of your heart – and you really will them to settle somewhere where they’ll be appreciated. ‘Their Garden’ is one of them. As my available writing time increased, alongside my mum’s sleepiness, I realised that if I couldn’t finish my novel now, I never would. Prior to being at my parents, I had been unexpectedly full-time home-schooling my boys. I had surprised myself that despite the world, and my world, falling apart around me, I actually enjoyed the home-schooling. It was an opportunity to get a bit creative with the curriculum and maybe ignite that curiosity for learning my two had mislaid somewhere in the classrooms of their school. But despite enjoying it, I live in a very noisy and activity-filled household which is not in any way conducive to writing a novel. My brain had, for some time, been feeling like it was melting down with over-stimulation. It can be tiring being the quiet one in a noisy home. At my parent’s house, when we managed to get medications correctly balanced, the atmosphere was very peaceful. We didn’t want to disturb my mum when she was sleeping comfortably so we were quiet. My parent’s home is naturally a far quieter one than mine anyway. And I found that, despite the obvious challenges of my circumstances, the peace was restorative. So I fell into a pattern of reaching for my laptop during naps and set about untangling the awful knot in my novel that I had been wrangling with for some months. Once I found my way back into it, I discovered that I could use it to escape from one world into another. I didn’t have to face any difficult realities in there - I just focused on my characters and what they were up to. It was the best kind of crutch. As my untangling continued, my mum made the transition to being bedridden. Caring for someone solely in bed is initially a very steep learning curve. But nevertheless, we found our way and she slept even more. It was only when I finally finished the re-draft of my novel that I realised I had nowhere left to hide from the tragedy unfolding in front of me. I was quite lost without my imaginary world to escape to. I still didn’t want to leave my mum alone and obviously I held her hand and continued to care for her but the hours are surprisingly long when someone is mostly asleep. I found myself asking the question of what exactly you are supposed to do while your mother is dying. I found that the answer did still lie between the pages of a book. I read more but I still wrote. It would seem that I had to. I didn’t know what else to do. In her last days (and I knew them to be as such), I had a really strange urge to write a poem. It was strange because I had never written one and didn’t profess to understand poetry. In fact, most of the poems I read baffled me. I couldn’t figure out if there were rules on structure or grammar or layout. I didn’t get them. But, in the true spirit of my writing career to date, I figured one could just try. I still like to think there aren’t really any rules. Maybe a poem could be whatever you wanted a poem to be? So, I sat beside her, and I let one tumble out onto my notepad. It was CNF and I guess because I knew she was going, that somehow felt ok. Needless to say, that poem holds an extra big chunk of my heart, so I was very emotional to hear last week that it is going to have drawer in The Cabinet of Heed. My first drawer, for my first poem. For about 3 weeks after she left us, I couldn’t do anything. I did the things I had to do but I felt as though I was taking a concrete block everywhere with me. I was exhausted, numb, spent. But it wasn’t too long before I wanted to write again. I found it hard to concentrate and my brain wouldn’t really do what I wanted it to but I was pleased I could still write. I knew by now that I had to; that writing was going to get me through this. Because I still didn’t like getting upset in company, I still found it hard to verbalise all my feelings. And writing was going to be an outlet for all of that. I think writing and I continue to have a bit of a dysfunctional relationship. I know I need it and it has done so much for me. But, at the same time, it can be quite a thankless pursuit. You can give it everything, literally parts of your heart, and when you get rejection after rejection, your heart can feel a little stamped over. But I suppose that is the pay off. Actually, perhaps that isn’t fair. Maybe what I should say is that writing and I are just perfect together, it’s when publication comes into the frame that things get hard. Either way, the year draws towards its close. It certainly hasn’t been the one I hoped for but, somehow, we have survived and although writing has not featured in the way I might have hoped – a big break, a whole book publication, my front cover in Waterstones – its role has been more vital than I could have imagined.
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