Sounds cold when you say it out loud. My mum has died. We had been estranged since 2014. The addition of a message, delivered through my own son one weekend, only cemented that. There was nothing left to do but accept it.
I probably drank that weekend. I can’t remember. So much of what has happened in my life, I’ve blanked out. Pushed to the recesses of this dusty head. It’s too much to keep front and center. But I do know that drink played a much larger role in my life after my dad passed away.
If you have little to no concept of what I’m talking about, I’m truly happy for you. I am. I admire that. I don’t envy it. I don’t wish for it. Not anymore.
I’ve never really known what makes a family, not in the way other people do. When I was a kid, my friends’ families were an enigma to me. They talked. They shouted, sure, but they talked. They almost certainly never hit each other—at least not in front of me. Granted, it’s hard to know what happens behind closed doors. But I wonder… would I have been allowed to stay with my family if people had known what went on behind ours?
Still, being estranged from family is hard. Like, really fucking hard. It was hard when it happened. The day after my dad died hard.
Losing a parent, no matter the history, is hard. Losing them twice? No wonder I hit the bottle.
We didn’t live close to each other. We were about 80 miles apart. As Alanis would say, “Isn’t it ironic.”
I remember leaving work on the 6th of June, 2015. My sister called as I was heading to the train station. Heading home from Birmingham. She sounded upset, but I had no concept of what was coming.
“He’s been diagnosed with cancer. A week ago,” she says, through gulps and what must be hard-fought tears.
A week prior?
I called my boss when I got home. I couldn’t do it before the train ride. Tears on a train? No thanks. Some well-meaning person would see them, lean in and ask, “You OK?” and I’d blart like a baby. Not for me, thanks.
Christ, my boss was wonderful. When I was barely stringing words together, she listened. She let me lose myself in that call.
After we spoke, I took myself to the family home. I remember there was a queue for the motorway. I saw a thistle in the middle of the road. A bit on the nose, considering my family is Scottish. I thought I took a photo. I’m sure I did. It’s probably long gone now, lost in some digital declutter.
The day after my dad died, I lost my mother too. Today, I lost her again.
But this time, I won’t drink.
This time, I choose me.
Not For Me, Thanks 
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