But lately I've felt the need to write about losing my otherwise healthy mum prematurely to a nasty and very rare combination of cancers. Her death was a terrible one, and one that I would not wish on an enemy. It happened during 2020, which robbed her of life improving treatment, and those of us caring for her of the support that we so desperately needed. It was lonely and traumatising in so many ways. We buried her with ten of us present, scattered at distant intervals round a massive church.
Potentially, it makes horrible reading, and who needs that?
Her loss has left me with deep scars, and a fear of what might lie waiting in my genes for me. My way out is usually to write about it. For three years I've coped as best I can, and it is now time.
I'm facing demons and trying to speak up. I'm lucky enough to be able to test these words in supportive open mic nights, and it was lovely to have words of support from the brilliant Julia Webb, who is writing on some similar subjects, and who told me that it's so important to tackle these subjects, and that more needs to be said. Her affirmation was so valuable.
I've posted this extract from the latest poem before, but it has been let free now...
Day after day, while they came with
News that bloomed worse and worse,
I stood and trembled on my square of carpet,
Like a puppy about to pee.
How will I paint him,
When this ends?
Like me; enamelled on with the finest
Of brushes, only several hairs thick that paint
On a facsimile of a person that sits and
Stands and walks?
And even talks when it has to
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