I guess it’s a “getting old” thing when you start losing people in your life. The conveyor belt just keeps moving forward and generations drop off. Sometimes people who shouldn’t be near the front are shunted forward and before you know it, you are holding on for, and to, dear life.
In recent months, two people in my life have passed away. They were neither family (not that that is the criteria for immense sadness upon their loss) nor very close friends. They were not part of my day-to-day life, yet they were woven into the fabric of my story and their loss has affected me profoundly. I realise that it’s not the amount of involvement someone has in your life that makes the imprint on your soul but the way in which they touch your life, and the depth of their impact on you, however brief or sporadic the contact you had with them.
The first of these people was the mum of one of my dearest friends, someone I would go for years without seeing or talking to, yet her loss has turned a light off in my world. My first memory is of her standing at the end of the block of council houses, taking her Westie out for a last walk before bed. She was tall and slim, quite a striking woman with strong features and short hair. She would walk around smoking her cigarette, illuminated by the streetlight as her son and I said our goodnights.
She didn’t have the easiest life. She was a nurse who worked hard but seemed to love what she did. Later, a single mum, divorced, and managing on her own at a time when that was much more difficult than it is now. She was everything that Scottish people are to me – stoic in the face of adversity, warm, sincere, and caring. Her son, who adored her, once wept on telling me that, at times in her life, she hadn’t felt good enough. His sadness at her pain was tangible and I vividly remember not knowing what to say to comfort him in that moment. But she was more than good enough. She elicited more love from her son in that moment than she could ever have imagined. I hope that if she could have seen him then she would have, indeed, felt good enough.
When my son went through a difficult experience, my friend said, “why don’t you talk to Mum?” So, I did, and this lady who had not seen or talked to me for a very long time counselled me like a loving mum would her own daughter. I have never forgotten the comfort she gave me and how much less alone she made me feel. A generation apart but with a shared experience in motherhood that bonded me to her forever. And she never knew what comfort she brought me.
At a time when I thought I might lose her son’s friendship she assured me “you’ll always have a part of him.” It was the quiet reassurance I needed at the time. And she was right. In a mum, she was everything you would want her to be. I saw how her son adored her and she him. I used to watch them together, and how I envied that warmth between a mother and her adult child. She would travel a long way to stay with him then she wouldn’t go anywhere other than his home! She was visiting one of the most exciting cities in the world but, for her, it was enough just to be with him. Little did she know how she inspired me as a mother and how I hoped to replicate her relationships with her children in mine with my own.
He bought her a house when he could. A brand-new place of her own that was beyond her wildest dreams. So humble, she saw herself as a custodian who was looking after it for her son. I believe of all the things he achieved in his life, the one that brought him the most joy might have been seeing her face when he handed her the keys. I can’t presume to speak for him, and he has never told me that but I imagine that to be so.
Over the years, I had a few visits with her. She made me feel at home, fussing over me with homemade treats and making endless cups of tea. Our common roles as mothers and our love of her son were common bonds, and we seemed to find conversation easy. When my husband was ill and I poured my heart out to her, she became a nurse again after many years of retirement. Her face lit up as the subject of health care, so clearly her comfort zone, was discussed and her knowledge and passion for her subject stunned me.
On what was to be our last visit, I knew that she was becoming slightly frailer and more forgetful. She still had a twinkle in her eye though, especially when she found something funny or made a joke. Her eyes twinkled too when she talked about smoking, another little vice and act of rebellion on her part! I drove away enriched by our visit and in awe of this special woman. I wondered how my friend would be without her when the time came. If she had touched my life like that, what had she done for his life? How wonderful to have had such love and such an amazing role model.
I got a message from him some time later to tell me she had passed away. She had been in pain at times in her last years and he, despite his own pain at losing her, was glad she was no longer suffering. I wondered how he would be now. Would the enormity of her loss be more than he could bear? I wanted to take his pain away yet knew that I couldn’t, and any words of comfort would seem inadequate.
In the weeks that followed, he made enormous decisions. He moved into the house that was his mum’s (and that she had always maintained was his!). I held my breath wondering if it was right for him or if it would it be a decision made in haste that he would regret. Thankfully, I can see that is not the case and I see a man who is at peace. I know he misses her but, if anything, I think the completeness of that love sustains him. They were a source of great joy to each other and there is surely comfort in that.
Personally, I wish she had known how she touched my life. She will have touched many people during her career with her empathy and compassion. She will have touched the lives of her other children and grandchildren, friends and family. I was just part of the tapestry of her life, interwoven with her son’s relationship with me, and she will never know how thankful she made me feel at times when I needed a confidante. I am so grateful to have known her and I am changed for the better for having done so.
The other person was my friend’s husband, who recently passed away after a long period of poor health. Where to begin to describe this man……. a mass of complexities, stubborn, strong-minded, challenging. There are so many ways in which I could describe him. Despite these less than complimentary adjectives, I think his family would agree! However, I look at all the comments people have made to his family on his passing, and they include many more things that he also was – kind, a gentleman, wise, funny, a character. I have seen people comment on how he gave good advice. I have been told of how he comforted a nephew on the passing of his brother. I have seen the words he wrote to his beloved daughter, a poem that meant so much to her she had it tattooed on her body and that made him so angry he didn’t speak to her for twenty-four hours! I have heard of the honours he received for bravery to his country. I knew him for more twenty-five years, yet I never heard him talk about those things. I would not have listed humility as one of the adjectives to describe him with, yet aren’t the humblest people the ones who give no indication of their achievements?
A military man with a strong sense of what was right and wrong, someone who had stood on his own feet from a very young age before he became the husband, and family man, that I knew. His wife is my dear friend. She has not been a girl’s girl until our friendship (or so she tells me!) but her beloved tolerated my presence in her life, rolling his eyes at our antics and welcoming our family into theirs. We shared laughter and drinks round their kitchen table, and I will always picture him leaning in his dining room chair, one shoulder back, the other leaning forward as he rested his arm on the table. Given to strong views, he would narrow his eyes and shake his head at things he disagreed with. A clever man who knew a lot about a lot of things. He took a keen interest in young people and could spot potential in people that he would then mentor, remembering and asking about their progress. He loved dogs and golf, classic cars, his daughters and his wife. There will be so much more but, again, although he was part of the tapestry of my life, I can’t say I knew him intimately. I suspect many people didn’t and that it was a chosen few who got close. One such moment I was privileged to have was when my husband was ill. He asked, with his typical bluntness, what his prognosis was. At the time it wasn’t good and, when I told him, he cried. I have never forgotten that moment and the fact that he cared enough to share in our pain so deeply.
I do know that he loved music and I can picture him driving through our village, windows open, music blasting and him singing and playing imaginary drums with great gusto! It is a happy image that I’ll never forget. We spent happy nights as a group talking about music and bands and songs that we loved. We always planned to have a music night where we would all choose tracks and play everyone’s choices. It never happened. Life got in the way, we took separate paths as families for a long time and the years went by. By the time we were more in each other’s lives again, his health was poor. I sensed the urgency of the music night but always felt there would be time to do it.
Last week his daughter asked if I had any suggestions for the playlist for her dad’s funeral. I had a vague memory that the Eagles and Take it to the Limit would feature, that he liked Queen but that was all I could remember. If we had had the music night I would have known. What songs would he have chosen for his Desert Island Discs? The reason for its success being the insight it gives into people’s souls. I wish I had taken the time to get that insight into his.
My friend and he had a long, loving marriage. They drove each other crazy at times and their bickering reflected that. Two very different people, she longed to travel, he didn’t. She loved to exercise and keep fit. He didn’t! She was open to exploring and new experiences that he wasn’t! She got so frustrated with him and he with her at times. Yet now he is gone, and she is broken. On his passing, I didn’t have the words. So, she clung to me and sobbed, and I held her and told her I had no words. I have tried to help her, comfort her, be a presence and give her space and none of it feels right or like it is enough.
I am absolutely honoured to have been asked to read at his funeral. I don’t know how I will get through it as I will be seeing their immense pain reflected as I read. I will hopefully do him, and them, proud. And in the time after the funeral when all goes quiet and she needs me the most, I hope I can be there for her. He once thanked me for being such a good friend to her. He may not have thought that in the years when life took us in different directions but, Major, if you are watching me now, I will do my best.
In connecting these scenarios, what strikes me is the importance of telling these people how much they have meant to you. Perhaps we focus on telling the people closes to us how much we love them, the husbands, wives, siblings, children and close friends but we neglect to tell the people who are woven into our lives that, in being there, they have greatly enriched and influenced ours. So, tell them. Even if it’s something small they have done that has changed how we think, helped us make a decision or given us reassurance in a moment of doubt. Those small things are monumental. Have the music night. Listen to the songs that touch their soul and play them when they have gone so you never forget that their presence meant something to you.
Just tell them.
Baggage 