TRIGGER WARNING: This poem discusses thoughts about death and is not intended to upset or offend anyone.The Death Café is held monthly in the back of an art shop in town. It’s not at all morbid; it isn’t a grief or support group, just a place to discuss the topic openly and ask questions. It isn’t about religion, or lack of it, It is open to anyone who wishes to know more and, perhaps, has some unanswered questions about death in a practical sense. This is about my first visit there.
I woke up early to a mackerel sky With rain afoot in the weather’s eye Thoughts turned to how I wanted to die You may be puzzled and wondering why
I went to a Death Café with my friend By writing this, I don’t mean to offend Each debated how we would like to end An honest discussion; no need to pretend
I hadn’t been to a Death Café before I was a bit nervous as I walked in the door Curious to know what was in store Eager to learn and keen to know more
Seated inside were six women, four men I listened intently; made notes with my pen Wondering whether to go there again It’s only monthly, so I’ll decide then
I spoke to my children last night; you see Asked them how they would remember me I told them I want to be laid by a tree* Said we should get together, us three
My daughter agreed; she was perfectly fine My son stayed silent and sipped his wine We all have to go at some unknown time But ultimately, the decision’s not mine.
*I’m passionate about trees and nature. I told my children I wanted to be buried close to a tree, preferably an oak. If you’d like to understand more about my passion for trees, you might like to read my post about a conversation between a special Tree and me Tree.
Driving down the alleyway, buildings either side looking out for strangers as there was nowhere to hide The sky was dusky pink as the sun began to set I should have gone the long way; now, full of regret.
I travelled further onward while I looked in all directions What a fool am I to set out without protection I reached into my pocket and grasped at my alarm At least I had a halfway chance of avoiding any harm
Looking up skywards, I could see the crescent moon Trying to be brave, I whistled out my loudest tune Shadows of my wheelchair from the strobing streetlight The bulb’s on the blink, don’t fail now; I cannot fight
Suddenly, a sound could be heard from up ahead Imagination at its worst, fearing I could soon be dead Should I turn and speed away back the way I came? My life could be in danger, with just myself to blame
My forehead was sweating; my heart banging like a drum Glancing up into the sky and hoping help would come It was my own stupid fault; I should have gone the other way I pictured my early death; what would the neighbours say?
As the shadow of the person was getting very near I was absolutely terrified and wished I wasn’t here He approached me with a beer can, knocking back the drink My mind in total panic mode, not knowing what to think
As he staggered towards me; my head was in a spin A waft of marijuana and, on his breath, the smell of gin His words left me surprised; “I’ve not come for a fight.” I’ve locked myself out, missus. Have you got a light?
Firstly, I want to say that I know this post is a long one because I wanted to share my experience in full. I hope you can manage to find the time to read it. It would be much appreciated.
Over the last six years, I’ve shared several posts about my dearly-loved late Mum. I wrote at the time she had her stroke, and then, a couple of years later, I wrote a post called THE MISSING MUM YEARS. It explained how, because of my disability, I could not access my Mum’s house, and Mum couldn’t leave there because of her severe agoraphobia, so we didn’t see each other for several years. It was heartbreaking.
It was only a few weeks after Mum’s stroke that she finally left the hospital and went to stay in a stroke rehabilitation unit, where she had her own room, daily physiotherapy and a television. There was wheelchair access to the unit, so I could finally see her regularly. She was, understandably, becoming depressed there because she’d always been so active and was mowing the lawn two weeks before her stroke. Now, she had no movement down her left side and became increasingly frustrated. It was awful to see my Mum like that. She spent three months there before my sisters and I had to decide whether Mum could return to her house as she wished. It was impossible. Mum had lived in a big Victorian terraced house with many stairs, which she just would have been able to manage.
We had many meetings with the hospital staff and the social workers there and finally concluded that Mum would need to go into a care home. It was decided that she would come to a home near me, given that my sisters all worked and lived too far away. I went on the search to find a suitable place, all the time knowing that Mum wasn’t happy about leaving her home after being there for decades. I spent several weeks visiting care homes, but none were suitable.
Finally, I found one called The Lodge. The lovely manager showed me around. I noticed many elderly and disabled residents, some asleep in chairs, some watching TV, and some happily participating in craft activities and bingo. The manager took me to the room that would be Mum’s. I really wanted her room to overlook the garden at the back, but because of the urgency of the situation, the only room they had had a view of the neighbouring house’s roof and a few weeds growing out of the paving down the side of the house.
Her room was almost bare, apart from a bed and a wardrobe. Some faded pictures hung on the walls, and some artificial flowers in a jug on the dressing table. The manager explained that Mum could bring any of her belongings, like pictures, photos, ornaments etc., to make the room more homely. I tried to imagine Mum there, knowing she would hate anywhere I could have found her. She wanted her independence back, but that couldn’t happen.
I felt so guilty because my disability and having no car meant that I was limited in choices of care homes. I would be the only member of my family who would be able to visit Mum regularly. This home had, at least, very kind and caring staff. I went back a couple more times to make sure I thought it would be suitable, knowing full well that Mum would hate being in any home. It was heartbreaking to have to make that choice on my own. A moving-in date was set for the 10th of January, 2017, one day after Mum’s birthday.
When I next visited the stroke unit, I told Mum all about it, ensuring I pointed out all the positive aspects and tried to help her come to terms with her upcoming move. She wasn’t happy, but I felt I had no choice. I would have loved her to come to live with me, but the practicalities made this impossible. She was so unhappy, and it broke my heart to see her this way. A couple of days later, she caught a cold that went to her chest and caused an infection. Then, it developed into pneumonia, meaning she had to return to the city’s main hospital. I saw her frequently, but she wasn’t at all well. My sisters and other family visited her; one sister flew over from Australia. She wasn’t really aware of what was going on, but now I imagine this is such a common scenario; families all flocking around their loved ones’ beds. I can’t help but wonder if she knew why we were there.
By the evening, the family had gone home, leaving just Mum and me. The ward sister allowed me to stay late, so I sat at Mum’s bedside, talking quietly and holding her hand. I sat with her for hours, talking to her and wondering if she could hear me as it wasn’t evident. A nurse came along to check Mum’s sats and said Mum’s oxygen levels were up a bit, and she seemed more alert. I was so relieved at the thought of Mum pulling through this horrible illness.
When I finally got home, feeling a bit more positive, I thought I would be able to see a lot of Mum now that she would live within my wheelchair-driving distance. I felt a little more reassured about the future.
And then, came the next morning and the phone rang very early. I hesitated before picking it up. As soon as I heard the sister’s voice, I knew it would be bad news. She spoke softly as she said my Mum had passed away about half an hour ago. I was devastated and put the phone down with tears streaming down my face. As the oldest daughter, I had the job of informing the rest of the family.
Looking back now, I’m almost sure that Mum had lost the will to live because of not being able to go back to her beloved home and having to go into a care facility. It was the 30th of December 2016, and only a few days before she was due to move to the home. I truly believe now that it was a blessing that she left us then rather than go into this care facility. She’d always been such a positive, independent woman, and this was her way of escaping the reality of her future.
My biggest regret that haunts me to this day is that Mum died alone in hospital with no one to hold her hand as she slipped away. I just can’t come to terms with this. Perhaps, I will do in time.
RIP, My precious and so much-loved Mum, 30/12/16
(I was prompted to write this piece after reading a post from Cindy Georgakas. Thanks, Cindy xx)
TRIGGER WARNING – mentions alcohol and drug abuse, suicide, eating disorder, self-harm, and emotional abuse.
My kind and excellent blogging friend and reader, Brian, published a post yesterday called ‘A Good Question‘ – it was about how other people cope with their feelings if they’re unable to write them on paper or screen. I’ve not always been able to write; I started after an awful experience working with an emotionally abusive therapist who had no boundaries. I became a wreck while I was with her, and she walked out on me the day my father died in April 2012. I thought I would never recover. From that moment, I began to write and wrote about that experience of what happened to me while I was, supposedly, having therapy with her. I wrote a poem at that time (one of my first posts on my new blog) called, ‘Killing Me Softly.‘ Please, could you take the time to read this, as it will help you make more sense of today’s poem? It’s only short (thank you).
This poem is the story of those years. I’ve never shared this part of my life, so it’s an extremely scary thing to do. I wanted to speak my truth, as I always do. I’m aware that I might be opening myself up for criticism and disgust here, but I now take responsibility and deeply regret my actions at that time and everything I put my family and friends through. Please, know that I’m not in this place anymore.
BACK IN THE DAYS
Back in the days when I couldn’t write and the pain lived deep down in my soul I had other methods to help me cope to fill up that vast, gaping hole
It was when I was seeing that counsellor when they all told me not to go I came out of there tearful and broken I’d never been so depressed and low
Back in the days when seeing her I found myself drowning in sorrow I got into debt with the landlord and more and I needed some money to borrow
I started each day with a bottle of gin kept it down by the side of my bed I couldn’t face coffee or breakfast just lay wanting death instead
Back in the days when I got into drugs and was out of my head every day I was literally living on benzos and weed and had totally lost my way
I stopped eating food; became so unwell I had anorexia; was all skin and bone I hated everything about myself I was down to under five stone
Back in the days, I’d knock back the pills I’d bought from the chemist as well and swallowed all my prescription drugs I thought I was living in hell
I woke up one day in intensive care all hooked up to tubes and wires It hadn’t occurred to me before that I was literally playing with fire
Back in the days when I started to cut I was trying to bleed out my pain I got treated like a timewaster and I tried to jump under a train
Today, I’ve totally moved on from that I’m grateful that I’m here at all I confess I caused so much trouble but now, I can stand straight and tall
Now, these days, I’m fit, happy and well Have been clean and sober ten years I’ve made my amends and changed my ways And I’ll continue to persevere.
I am writing this letter six years after you left this world. I hope you are in a better place now. I have written to you several times since your death as I buy a card for each birthday and Mother’s Day. I go to an old-fashioned teashop in town and order a pot of tea with toast, and marmalade, just like you had for breakfast every morning. I feel your presence as I write loving words to you. I imagine you are sitting on the other side of my table, and I talk to you, in my mind, about all the happy times we had together. I keep the cards in my bedside drawer along with the keepsakes that I chose from your belongings, including your pale blue and white checked shirt that you wore so often. It was worn thin and frayed at the cuffs and collar because you didn’t want to pay for a new one. You were raised to make do and mend like many of your generation.
I’ve written to you before about your moving but beautiful funeral. It was a celebration of your life as much as it was saying goodbye to you.
A couple of weeks later, in the middle of January, it was your interment. It was chilly and overcast, and a few spots of rain had begun to fall. I felt anxious that day, not knowing what to expect, not having attended an interment before. I had travelled the forty miles from home to Golders Green Cemetery and met Jill, a year younger than me, who was already there. She had flown over from Australia. We called in at the Reception Office to let them know we were there and waited for my other sisters, Lindsay, Anna, and your sister, Ellen, to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, they’d all arrived, with Anna and Lindsay carefully carrying a sturdy but pretty box with your ashes. It was painted with an image of a beautiful garden in summer – blue sky, lush green grass and pink and yellow flowers. We had chosen it carefully because you were always so passionate about your neat and tidy garden. It was where you loved to be at every opportunity. It seemed only fitting. You wouldn’t have wanted a dark, sombre urn to leave this world in.
Shortly, the graveyard attendant took us to the place where you were to be laid to rest. One by one, shedding quiet tears, we said our goodbyes to you as the box was gently lowered into the ground. As the last of the earth was thrown into the plot, what felt like a miracle or sign happened. Just as we were laying our carefully-chosen pebbles on your grave, as is the custom in Jewish cemeteries, the rain stopped, and the dark clouds in the sky cleared. We gazed upwards to see bright sunshine and a blue sky. Despite it being January, the sun was surprisingly warm. As we looked around, we saw lots of butterflies (a couple of Tortoiseshells, a Red Admiral and several Cabbage Whites). Then, we heard the buzzing of bumble bees and watched as they collected nectar from the daisies surrounding your place of rest.
There was an old, battered wooden bench nearby. We sat side-by-side, gazing around at the signs of nature that had come to pay its respects and to say goodbye to you. As we left the cemetery, the sky clouded over again, the chill wind returned, and a few drops of rain fell onto the windscreen of Lindsay’s car as we left. I’m sure it was a higher power that had sent us those joyful moments amidst the sadness of our loss. I’m sure you would have felt the same had you still been with us.
I miss you very much, Mum, but I’ll never forget the special times we had together and the many, many conversations we had on the phone. You were always there for me through thick and thin, and I was always there for you, too. I am eternally grateful to you. You will be forever in my heart and my mind.
Yesterday would have been my father’s 93rd birthday. He has been gone for ten years now, and although it doesn’t sound very kind, I really don’t miss him. He was a cruel, mean and bitter man, who made our family life a misery for as long as I can remember. There was nothing charming about him at all ……
My Father was a formidable man; Mum called him difficult She was right; love was never on his radar, and we knew it He made sure we knew it, day in, day out, speaking cruel words Any self-esteem I may have had was smashed to smithereens
He earned very good money; yet kept us all short Our food was scarce while he dined like a king Our clothes from jumble sales; his, only the finest Holidays were non-existent; he jetted around the world
Meals were taken separately; us in the cold kitchen like servants Him in the comfort of the warm living room, waiting to be served “Are you coming down for dinner today, daddy”, I was sent to ask? “NO!! Go down in the kitchen with your mother,” he yelled
It was like we didn’t exist in his world; our company was not required He preferred the cricket while puffing on his stinking pipe Balkan Sobranie (only the best), drinking scotch and eating peanuts He stank of pipe ash and alcohol as he demanded I kiss him goodnight
I lay in bed alone in the room above the kitchen – filled with dread Waiting for the screaming and shouting to start, the bangs and thumps I clung on to my teddy, called Peter, and cried with fear, face in the pillow I knew Mum would make excuses for her bruises and cuts in the morning
She wanted to protect us from the worry, fear and distress It might have worked for the little ones – I knew better She told me she’d fallen off a chair changing a light bulb She had a cauliflower ear – lost her hearing in that ear
He died in 2012 – a grand funeral; kind words abounded His friends in high places said, “so sad, such a lovely man.” “His family will miss him greatly.” Feeling guilty, I felt nothing Who was this man these people spoke of?
I wrote this poem last night when I felt extremely low and depressed. It was honestly how I felt at the time. Today, not a lot has changed, but please be assured that I’ll be okay, Writing is my only way of releasing my pain and deepest feelings, as you all know, so I needed to express this. Love, Ellie Xxx 💗
Ellie Thompson
Jagged boulders tumbling down the mountainside on me I stand poised for the impact when I really ought to flee
~~~
The rocky ground below me trembles as they land missing me by inches that wasn’t what I’d planned
~~~
The malicious demon at the top starts throwing down his flame He’s thirsty for a death Should I play his little game?
~~~
I’m exhausted from the fighting with this dreadful, awful stuff I feel I can’t go on Because enough is enough
~~~
Suicide’s not painless And I can vouch for that For someone else is sitting In the seat where I once sat.
As a UK citizen, the death of our Queen came as quite a shock yesterday afternoon. Naïve, perhaps, given her age. I should have expected it, but somehow, because it was only three days ago, when she was pictured smiling whilst greeting and welcoming our new Prime Minister, Liz Truss, I was, for a while, lulled into a false sense of security. I’m not a fan of Liz Truss at all, but I didn’t envy her having to come up with a speech within two hours of the Queen’s death.
I’m not a staunch royalist, but I have a lot of respect for the royal family despite all the difficulties various family members have encountered over recent years. After all, they may be royals, but underneath the surface, they are just human beings and as fallible as the rest of us.
I have never known another King or Queen to be on the throne; it’s going to take some getting used to saying King Charles; I keep going to say Prince Charles. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels the same.
Some of you may know (and perhaps, disapprove; not that I need approval), but I’m a member of Extinction Rebellion (XR), as I’m passionate about taking action against climate change and getting our government to act like it’s the emergency that it is. However, I’m not going into a political debate here. There was due to be an XR festival in London this weekend. I was going to go, which would have been a real challenge as it meant a journey to Hyde Park via one overground train, one underground train and two buses – all in my wheelchair, Alfie. I was determined to take part, though. Obviously, under the sad circumstances, it would not have been respectful for this to continue to take place; apart from which, Hyde Park is one of the royal parks, so that deemed it even more inappropriate. Of course, rebels were disappointed as an awful lot of work had gone into the planning and organising the event. I’m sure it will be rescheduled for a later date.
Anyhow, that’s all I wanted to say. I very much feel for the royal family in their grief as the UK enters a period of mourning. Naturally, not everyone feels the same; some people on a local neighbourhood website have been downright disrespectful. Is that really necessary, I ask myself? No, I think not. If they don’t have anything kind to say, then I believe, under the circumstances, they should keep quiet. Why is it necessary to be so rude, albeit everyone is entitled to their opinions? So, now the UK has entered a new era. I wonder what changes will be made now that Charles is King.
My deepest condolences and respect to the royal family. RIP Queen Elizabeth II.
This is my dear late Mum’s house as it stands now. It was my childhood home until I married at twenty years of age and moved out. I’ve been reminiscing about this house over the last couple of days. One of my sisters had been back to visit there recently. Although she advised me against it, I asked her to share her photo with me. Big mistake! Huge mistake, in fact. It’s no longer how I remember it. Gone is the beautiful orange door (not that it’s visible in this picture) – it’s been replaced by a dull grey. The window frames have all been painted stark white over the original orange. Orange was Mum’s favourite colour. The steps outside are also not visible in this photo. The neat box hedge has completely overgrown, as has the glorious pink azalea shrub. I feel so sad. I shouldn’t have asked to see this photo. I should have known it would be different now, six years after losing my Mum. I still miss her so much. I always will.
The steps at the front of the house were a barrier for me for the last four years before Mum passed away. Being a wheelchair user now, there was no way I could climb them to get into the house. To make matters worse, Mum was severely agoraphobic, which meant she couldn’t leave there. It meant that we didn’t see each other for all that time. It broke my heart (and hers). We spoke on the phone a lot, especially towards the end. I would call two or three times a day to check she was okay. She mainly was as fit as a fiddle … until she had her stroke. Before that happened, she would vigorously mow the grass, raking it up, digging and planting flowers and tomatoes.
Those last four years were so painful. I didn’t feel sorry myself; I never did, but I felt angry and frustrated about my disability stopping me from seeing her. It was hard to come to terms with, and we missed each other terribly. The only time I got to see her in those last years was when, towards the end, she was admitted to hospital after her stroke. Hospitals are nearly always accessible. She was never the same after that happened. I wrote a post about this at the time. You can read about it at https://elliethompson.uk/2016/11/26/grief-without-death/.
I’m glad I can’t see the inside of the house; it must be so different now, and it would only upset me further. The kitchen was always my favourite room. The kitchen units were orange, as was her one-person teapot, which sat permanently on the side waiting to be filled. She loved her cups of tea and her toast and marmalade, which she’d have for breakfast every morning. After we lost Mum, there were all the usual formalities to arrange; the funeral, the interment, the house to sort out etc. My sisters came from various parts of the country to deal with all this, but I had no choice, being unable to go up those damn steps. My sisters were very kindly involving me as much as possible by taking pictures of everything, so I could decide what I’d like to have. I chose Mum’s little orange teapot. It reminded me so much of her.
Mum’s orange teapot sitting comfortably on my kitchen windowsill
I have a tradition now. Every year, on Mum’s birthday and on Mother’s Day, I take myself off to a quaint tea shop in my city. I order myself a pot of tea (I usually drink coffee) and some toast and marmalade. Sometimes, I order a slice of cake – Mum always enjoyed her cake. Having recently bought the loveliest card I could find in John Lewis, I sit for a couple of hours and write to her. I write it as a conversation between us, just as if she were there with me, drinking tea and eating toast or cake. It makes me feel closer to her at those times. I wish she were still here to join me. But, however much I write, it’ll never make up for those four years when I couldn’t see her. I missed so much of her later life. I think I’ll always miss her – the pain doesn’t lessen. Perhaps, it will in time.
Essentially Ellie 