I Swear You Will Be Fine

So much hurts and so often. 

Initially, it was a visceral pain, tearing inside of us. And dealing with the shock of it all. I still don’t know how we survived those first few days. I was watching a video recently which said when a loved one passes, they are most intensely around you for the first few days, knowing how difficult it will be. You must have been right beside us, from the moment I walked into the house, and for all the incredibly difficult moments that followed the next few days.

But now, what hurts most are the regular routine stuff you did. And you had the strictest routines I knew.

I rarely saw you in the mornings as I would leave before you woke up. On those days, I would send you a message at about 9am to check if you were up and if all was ok. It was a daily thing. Your reply was usually “All fine”. If it wasn’t, and was just “ok”, I would worry. I look back now to that morning. You didn’t reply to my “Are you up?”.

On days you had to be up early for Uni, I would look forward to hearing your bathroom door open. (I guess every night was a constant fear if something had happened, even on your good days). You would take the dogs down for their walk, rain or shine, give them their food, and hope that I was still around to wash their dog bowls. Even when I wasn’t around, you were so precise in washing their bowls and drying them.

Throughout the day, there would be several “catch-ups”. Letting us know when you were returning home from Uni. And if there were any other Uni activities. And when Sha started coming over, you would be informing me on your schedules too.

When I came back from work, there would be a 5 second catch up. “Hi Mum, how was work?”. And then you and Sha would go back to doing what you were doing, whether it was a movie, dinner or studying.

But what I miss most is a simple routine you would regularly do. You would come into my room on Sunday afternoons or after you dropped Sha off in the nights. You would say “Give me a second Mum”. You would first change and microwave your ice cream for a few seconds. You would lie down on your tummy (a position you were strangely fond of), sprawled diagonally across my bed without your shirt on and in your comfy shorts. And we would catch up, between the small spoons of ice cream. It would be about everything and nothing. How my day went. How your day went. What the plans were for the next day. How Sha was. How Jess was. How Ammamma and Patta were. Anything I was annoyed about at work. It usually wouldn’t last more than 10 minutes. You would soon look agitated and I would ask you if you wanted to go back to your room to enjoy your ice cream. And you would sheepishly say, “Can I?”. And I would say “Go, go”, but not without our “love you more” routine.

How I wish I could have those 10 minute sessions again. But I am also grateful. I know many teenage sons and Mums don’t have relationships like ours. We were blessed to have these, as short as they sometimes were. 

Now, I go into your room as soon as I wake up, and before I go to sleep, to say good morning and good night. Your picture sits right next to my bed. And recently a flameless candle right next to your picture is switched on throughout the night. So even when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can see your smiling face. We still have conversations. You still give me your opinions.

There will never be a day that we don’t miss you. We just have to find ways to not let it crush us and continue to survive.

Love you darling,

Mum