Kirsten's Story: Remembering Mum

“My mother lost her fight with cancer.” I refuse to say that. She never ‘lost’ anything. Cancer never beat her - she beat it. In fact, she completely took her diagnosis and crushed it.

I laugh while typing this, at the mental image of my little mother beating up a tumour. Morag was our mother, but something to everyone. She passed away from metastatic breast cancer on February 26th, 2023.

I felt inspired to write this for Make 2nds Count on behalf of my mother. She found out about the charity through a friend and later became part of an online group. This group brought her great comfort, through being able to speak with and support other women going through the same situation as her. Through Make 2nds Count, she made new friends and would regularly speak on the phone. It gave her a community at a time where it felt like she didn’t have one. Within the charity, she attended multiple events, such as a charity fundraiser at Hilton Hotel in Belfast, where she got to meet various cast members of ‘Loose Women.’ We participated in dance challenges as well, videoing ourselves ‘dancing’ and uploading it as a way of fundraising. I remember one such video we have of her, alongside other members of the MSC community, holding a dance challenge of their own. Make 2nds Count is a brilliant charity, and the work that they do is very admirable. I was able to see the work through the friends my mother made, and the support she received through the messages and catch ups- giving off about treatments plans, side effects, etc. It made her feel seen, and not alone in a situation where she felt as such. She may never have had this form of support without the charity. 

When it came to writing my own feelings down, I did what any person does in times of strife - I spoke to a loved one. My father surprised me with a level of emotional understanding that I feel gave me an answer: just write everything down. The gritty, the grief, the pain, and annoyance at a problem for which you have no control over. My grief journey is still ongoing. I do not have all the answers - I have anger, and hatred, and an overwhelming sense that my life has been in court, and the dues were not paid, as we suffered the worst loss we will ever suffer as a family. The effect of a cancer diagnosis is like dropping a stone into a pond and watching the aftershocks ripple out. 

We lost a mother at 15 and 18. Our father should not have lost his wife of 20 years, when any newlywed goes to the altar expecting decades. We lost someone who was a monumental part of our lives - who was our lives, who gave two of us our lives. It should not have happened. I have my grievances. I can blame the doctors, the medical state of Northern Ireland. I can blame the cancer for daring to grow. Yet, I cannot blame anything. Some things are out of our control, and we cannot change what happened, and in our case, this was out of our control. But how we chose to deal with it, is within our control. We have the power to choose how we live and keep our loved one alive.

I have been too scared to ever talk to someone, or read anything on grief, and I have no shame in that. I am still scared - I fear having to remember, of having to feel it all over again. Scared of getting facts and memories wrong in my head. I feel like I do not have any real qualification to write on my experiences - yet I have a PhD in grieving, earned by seven years of living alongside cancer. It is ironic that cancer and death have become something which marks my life - an internal calendar system by which life is tracked in two parts: before Mummy, and after Mummy. You feel like an anomaly compared to peers. Not talking about the diagnosis or loss, but it is still there. It happened. People give you well wishes for the first few weeks but then move on to prevent risking the uncomfortable silence that occurs, or out of fear of not being able to say anything but “I’m sorry for your loss,” as if they were personally responsible. 

Grief is a terrible thing. I am aware that shoehorning grief and all that it entails as “terrible,” does not really do justice to the whole thing. I do not think one single word can ever encapsulate the full effects of grief. It is so easy to just allow death to overshadow the love and happiness experienced with the person - for that legal status of ‘deceased,’ to become the thing which stands for the person they once were. We are so much more than death - it does not become us. We overrule it through our memories, passed through generations. Names are known, stories, and thoughts are shared. Especially in a modern world, where we have a greater access to the past, and to be able to remember and know those who have since passed on. Grief tries to make those memories painful, and yes, they are painful. It hurts to feel left behind in a new world, to feel rooted in place by a grave. Yet we cannot let that became our sole purpose. 

I like to remember these words, that also came from my father: “You just need to learn to love her in a different way.” Your loved one may not be with you, but they are still around you. Think about them, challenge the mental burden of grief - it shall not overcome you. You shall overcome it. It may feel like the world is too heavy to cope with right now, but I can tell you, you adapt. Celebrate your loved one for who they were. Those we love never truly leave us, and they leave us reminders of that every day. They are in us - the colour of our eyes, the crinkle of lines around the lips, the tone of voice, or expression that crosses our face at a certain angle. In the people they leave - my sister, who harbours our mother’s inner fire, and is my best friend. 

This is not perfect scenario of what everyone’s experience will be like, because that is unrealistic. For those children, for example, whose lives changed in seconds, hiding behind the kitchen door when the oncologist called, who were not fully aware at the time of what had happened; for those parents who have years and years compared their child. You are not alone. It is hard, but you are doing so well. Getting up every day, and being able to slowly find meaning, and find the small pieces of them left in the world - old clothes which still carry their smell, a signature written in a birthday card, just being able to hear their voice in a recording, or in your head. Try and think about them, and not feel the sorrow, but instead know how loved you are. You are here - you are learning to live with grief. That, I find, is part of the process - learning how not to bury your emotions and instead confront them head on, despite the fear of doing so. Do not be afraid to look at the photo, watch that video, even if it scares you. That is normal, and it is not weak - it is so brave. Progress is slow, and it takes longer than you may think initially, but learning to live again is possible. 

To our mother, you have given us the world, and we will continue to live in honour of you. I hope that these words find their way to those who need them, and I do justice in honour of you, our Morag, whom we all love and miss every day of our lives. Always and forever.

Thank you so much to Kirsten for sharing her story with us.