The Daughter of a Dying, Alcoholic Mother

Last summer, I asked my mum why she was so horrible.

“Because the more people hate me, the easier it will be for them when I’m dead.” That was her reply.

I said, “Tough, Mum. It doesn’t work that way. We’ll all still love you, and we’ll all still miss you. No matter how badly you treat us.”

Fast forward to today, and she has three to six months to live. And I realise she was right. I don’t want to think about her positively. I won’t let myself remember the good times. Because it is so much easier to cope when I only think about the pain she’s caused me. All the spitefulness. All the lies. All the unfairness. As long as I think about how horrible she is, the thought of losing her doesn’t hurt.

But that feeling comes with guilt. Because I wanted to prove her wrong. Because my mum hasn’t always been horrible. This "horrible" woman isn’t my real mum. My real mum worked six days a week but still came to every school play, even though I was a shy kid and only ever a tree or a sun in the background. My real mum took time off work to help out on school trips. My real mum played PlayStation with us on Sundays. My real mum took us on bike rides to the duck pond. My real mum watched horror films with me and taught me why I shouldn’t be scared. I loved my real mum. But my real mum has already died.

What I hate is that this "horrible" woman she’s become is the only mum my sisters will remember. That’s their real mum. I don’t know if they’re the lucky ones or if I am. I had two mums, they had one. But that means I lose two mums. They lose one.

I’m blocking out a lot of thoughts a lot of the time. I can easily focus on how all of this was caused by mum. Her health, the arguments, the separations, they are all a result of her actions. But sometimes I let in other thoughts, and sometimes I feel scared for my mum. I have lost eight people in my life so far, but I’ve never wondered where they are. I accept that I don’t know. I accept that I will probably never find out. I accept that they might be in Heaven. I accept that maybe they are nowhere, and maybe death really is nothingness. But I can’t accept that for mum. Where is she going to go? She must be so frightened. Mum feeling angry doesn’t bother me. Mum feeling sad doesn’t bother me, either. Partially because she’s caused a lot of those feelings herself, but mostly because they’re the only two feelings she’s expressed in the last 10 years. But my mum has never been frightened. My mum has always been brave, and to think of her feeling scared actually makes me want to cry. It becomes another thought I will not let cross my mind.