Accidentally skipped last week. It was the anniversary of my Mum’s terminal diagnosis so my head was elsewhere. It was a day that’s hard to forget, that carried news which felt like having your chair kicked out from under you. The worst kind of universal prank.
Already a year on and she’s nearly been gone three months. Which is still entirely surreal. I cannot count the number of times I want to tell her something, particularly bound by the urge to call her. Sadly, long distance doesn’t go that far.
I’ve just realised I’m halfway through this and have hijacked my own post. It’s not actually supposed to be about feeling sad or missing someone. Quite the opposite. It was meant to be about taking the first steps to pulling things back together. Because it’s just time to do that.
Candlelit vigils do not pay the bills however. And like it or not, short of her celestial intervention, I’m unlikely to win the lottery any time soon. I’m willing to meet her halfway and buy a ticket though, just in case. But I am now going back to work. Because I need to.
Not strictly for financial reasons if I’m honest. It’s more about purpose and routine. Two things which largely evaporated since her death. But also two things that will bring the structure needed to move on with my own life. Naturally I’m feeling both apprehensive and excited to start working again. And although fifteen months has been a long enough time in limbo, I have still allowed myself a week of freedom left to build up to it. But then it’s… Stop the world, I want to get on!