I am on the plane, going to my mother’s funeral. Last time I saw her was two years ago, and last time we spoke was 2 weeks ago. I am trying to remember what I said to her and how we ended our conversation.

There were three separations in the relationship with my mother: when she gave birth to me, when I moved to Australia, and when she died.

I remember the day I was moving from Croatia to Australia. It was 17 years ago and my mother was seeing us off to a cab. I remember what she was wearing. The image is printed in my memory – the cab door open, I’ve already put my kids inside, and Mum slightly slouched over to see in the cab. We said ‘bye’ to each other as if we were just going to another suburb, not another continent. She didn’t want to go to the airport. She said it would have been too painful for her to see the plane taking off with her daughter and two baby granddaughters. This is how my mother dealt with pain; she would just stop things happening at a certain point, from which she would create her own reality.

I couldn’t really understand Mum and how she made herself believe that we never went so far. At times I felt like re-assuring her that we were far away, and she had better face it. Then again I thought, if it worked for her and made her hurt less, that’s ok.

Now I am dealing with pain, and I can’t stop it from happening. The reality is that I am on the plane, going to my mother’s funeral. Last time I saw her was two years ago, and last time we spoke was 2 weeks ago. What did I say to her? I can’t remember. Something about cooking, weather and the kids… I know that I told her to take care of herself, and that I was already thinking of calling her for her birthday that was coming up. I also told her that I loved her. Over the past 17 years I did a lot of thinking about our separation, and at one point, not remembering exactly when, I decided that I will never hang up the phone without saying ‘I love you’, even though it’s not really something that in my culture parents and kids say to each other often.

It all started with a phone call. For years I dreaded THAT call. I knew living in a different time zone would definitely make it a night call. Eight hours later I am sitting on the plane, and I have nearly 24 hours to think. Think about the past 17 years that we lived on two different continents, and our relationship that depended on everything else but physical presence. My mind goes from motionless to chaotic. I notice that most people on the plane are happy. Most of them travel to or from a holiday. There is a lot of excitement and happiness around people who travel. I am trying not to get into a conversation, as I know that if they asked me about my reasons for travel I wouldn’t know what to say. Saying that I am going to burry my mother seems like a dialogue killer. People feel uncomfortable; they don’t know what to say and I would feel like I spoiled their fun. The other option is to make it up, but that feels like denying something about my mother.

People tend not to talk to you if you have your headphones on, so I keep them on most of my awake time. I am also glad I took my journal with me to write my experiences and reflections. I knew it would help me with getting stuff out that was coming from somewhere inside me, and I didn’t have where to place it.

Grieving the loss of my mother is a surreal experience. I can’t compare it to anything I ever experienced before. As a professional coach and a counsellor I know the theory about grief and loss, and how my clients experienced it, but this time I am the client. I am going through the four stages of grief in my head, trying to match myself to them. I now realized that I started grieving a separation from my mother 17 years ago; the day she saw me and the kids off to the cab.

Seventeen years of grieving, dealing with the loss of my parents, finding ways to cope with it, rationalizing the guilt I felt for leaving, for depriving them of enjoying their grandchildren, depriving my children from experiencing the love and care of the grandparents. For the past 17 years I was finding strategies on how to ease the pain of not being there when they needed me, and not being with them when I needed them.

Over the past two months good and bad days change places, and each one is rich in experiences, learnings and insights into a life of a migrant.

I write what I learnt in my journal:

It is important that I’ve made a decision to relocate and move my life elsewhere, no matter how difficult it turned out to be. I don’t regret the decision I’ve made to move, because it sure was the best decision I could have made at the time, and opened up so much opportunities for me and my children;

It is very important and possible to grow relationships with my parents even if we were geographically separated. There are so many things that I asked them about their life, their successes and regrets, that had we lived close to each other I wouldn’t think of;
In dealing with separation and loss nothing is silly. It wasn’t silly writing letters to mum every day in the first year, it’s not silly cheering her with a glass of red every evening; lighting a candle or any small ritual that makes me feel connected to my loved ones. Rituals are good as long as they don’t interfere with my daily life.
It is the moments like this that will make me aware of how many wonderful people I am surrounded with, family and friends, who care about me. I will let them care about me!

Two and a half months later. Today is a bad day. I miss Mum, and I wish I could call her and have a chat, and say ‘Hey, Mum, how are you?! Gee, you really tricked me with this death thing!’ I want to tell her about the kids, and ask what summer is like in the Northern part of the world, ask how her plants are growing from the seeds that I’ve sent her. Then I know the reality is different, and I am just in one of the grief stages, accepting my loss. On the intellectual level I know that our reunion is impossible, at least in this life. It is the emotional level that is hard, and dealing with the pain of grief. At times it is physical pain, but I know I have to go through it. It is impossible to lose someone I’ve been so profoundly attached to without experiencing pain.

I still have a long way to go and adjust to the world and reality in which I am mother-less. I know I will never replace Mum’s role, neither would I want to, and being physically away for so many years it’s not so much my every day routine that I have to adjust to. For me it is a void inside me, the sense of my self that I need to redefine. It is also about emotional relocation of my mother, finding an appropriate place for her in my emotional life, and continuing on living effectively in this world.

I know that I will come out of this experience stronger and as a human being richer for it. There will be more good days than bad days. The task of mourning is a long and painful one, and I am prepared to embrace it for many months to come. I will know I am at the end of it when I will be able to think about Mum without pain. What helps me get through it is the knowledge of what is happening to me, and support from people who care about me and support me through one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my life so far.

First published: www.expatexchange.com, 26 September 2005 ‘An Expat’s Diary of Loss and Grief’