1.
I don’t know how to start this and I don’t really know what to say, I only know that I want to say something. I’ve had parts of this post sitting in a draft for months now preparing for today. I had planned to get my thoughts out early, to say what I wanted to say but I should have known I’d drag it along because whenever I write about my mom I am ripping at a scab, I am digging into a wound. I know that it will hurt, and it does hurt. It always hurts, and it always will.
My sister sent me a screenshot of a tweet by FaizahFunmilola that said, “Someone once compared grief to carrying a needle in your pocket. Most of the time, you go about your day without noticing it. But then, out of nowhere, you get pricked, and all the pain comes rushing back.” That is what today feels like.
Ten years ago today, my mom died of inflammatory breast cancer. I think most people know this by now, if not I try to send them hints. I follow new friends or co-workers on social media and hope that they are curious enough to stalk my social media accounts or lurk through my Substack and find out that she’s died. When talking about my family or the holidays I’ll mention that it was spent with my dad and sister, let the person I’m talking to fill in the blanks about where my mom is, but I think too much about blanks. I don’t want anyone thinking my mom left us by her own decision. She wouldn’t have left. She didn’t want to leave. She stayed as long as she could. She wanted to stay. But I can’t avoid another person’s thought, I can’t predict what a person will think if I don’t give voice to it.
I am so afraid of giving people the wrong impression of my mom in my silence, of discrediting her memory. But how can anyone ever hope to know the wonderfulness that was her without actually knowing her? My words are insufficient in honouring my mom.
Sarah O'Connor 