Julia
"Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you, Julia." (McCartney/Lennon).
There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. Grief can be private, public or a hybrid of the two. Knowing Mum, or as I often called her, 'Ju', I’m certain that she would have given her unconditional approval to my sharing of this expression of loss.
She was kind, caring, forgiving, generous of spirit, hilarious and sometimes infuriating, but above all, she was 'Julia', and to say that I miss her is an understatement.
She demonstrated emotional strength throughout her entire life, while being challenged by an unfair share of difficulties - and then some. She also had to bear drawn-out stretches of ill health. Somehow - and I’ll never know how she managed - she dealt with it all with good grace, remaining as resilient as possible right into her final hours.
Her stoical catchphrase over the last six months of her life, when her journey was becoming particularly arduous, seemed to have been, 'Well, never mind', and I would invariably reply, ‘Well I do mind’.
She’d smile.
Radio 1 was the soundtrack to my pre-school days with Mum - a full five years of it - and so I have her to thank for my love of music. Pretty much all day, the transistor radio was on in the kitchen. I’d sing along, the two of us just happily bustling about the house together.
I have a vivid recollection of her nursing me through measles when I was around four years old, the memory of it perhaps being so clear and lucid because of my fever. In the middle of the night - when it was just me, Mum, and the multi-coloured Christmas tree lights - she said; "Oh love, if I could take the pain away and carry it myself, I would" - and she meant it.
There’s a rich flow of memories, a number of which occurred between the end of September 2024 and late March 2025. During that time, we grew much closer. There was a profound reconnection, as I was reminded that her insistence on just 'getting on with it' belied an incredible sensitivity, and a sense of wonderment.
In her hospital room, on Sunday 19th November at 19:15, we began a YouTube watching session on my laptop. Mum’s first request was 'Barcelona' by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. She asked for it to be played three times in succession. She was mesmerised. I had no idea that she loved it so much. She could still surprise me.
Her next request was for some Elvis - no surprise there - and so we chose a version of Are You Lonesome Tonight? - the one where Elvis couldn't stop laughing, and then neither could we.
Mum liked Leonard Cohen, and so I suggested we find a video of one of his performances. We settled upon a live version of Chelsea Hotel, from 1985. We watched it, but Mum concluded that it was ‘a bit too miserable’. Perhaps Leonard Cohen, in a hospital room on a Sunday evening in November, was just a little too much, even for a stoic.
Two days later, as we followed the path of a winter sun setting behind the tower of the Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral - through the hospital window - a remarkable feeling of peace descended upon the room.
Mum suggested I photograph the view, which I did, but with her permission I also took a couple of photos of her face reflecting the golden glow, as she sat calm and serene, enjoying a respite from discomfort.
I will treasure those long minutes spent with her, her eyes fixed on the slowly sinking sun.
Just as she was with me at my first breath, I was with her at her last. It came just one hundred and thirty days - to the hour - after that sunset.
Wherever she has now moved on to, I can only hope she's bathing in some kind of endless, gentle light, and is at peace.
She always wanted peace.
What will I miss? Well, although she’d not made one of her luscious apple pies for years, I’ll still miss them. Oh, what a sweet and homely aroma. I’ll miss how exacting she was about how her sandwiches should be made, i.e. buttered right up to the crust. I’ll miss her worrying about me being late to catch the 201 bus back to her house, even though I’m 62. I’ll miss doing The Independent crossword with her, and how good she was at it. I’ll miss combing her soft, grey/white hair, and her nagging me to dye my greys to dark brown. I’ll miss making her laugh, which wasn’t at all difficult, with that absurd sense of humour we shared. Yet most of all, I’ll miss seeing her number come up on my phone, the easy conversation, and then our call ending with;
‘Night, night, Ju. Love you.’
‘Night, Ju. Love you too…’
Over the past four weeks or so, I have been comforted by warm-hearted condolences. Some have come from friends - including some I’d lost touch with and with whom I’ve been glad to reconnect - some from neighbours old and new, and of course, some from family, including Mum's nephews and nieces, both here, in Ireland, and further afield. All who knew Mum have spoken of her with fondness.
As Nat King Cole sang; "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return."
Mum didn't ever need to learn that lesson - because to love was second nature to her - but she did teach it, and for that I will always be grateful.
